The Best Tuscan Chicken Recipe

Don’t you hate when you click on a recipe, only to find not a recipe, but some blowhard going on and on about their Italian grandmother’s journey to the United States, and how all she had was two Sicilian dollars and her recipe book to get through the boat ride? And how the boat sank and she swam to shore, now broke, and the only recipe that survived was one for Tuscan Chicken? Fast forward a few years, and now the grandmother (who wasn’t a grandmother at this point in the story) is slangin’ hash for 25 cents a week, while at night she climbs to the roof of her tenement, gazing east towards home, trying to recall all those lost recipes, but still taking comfort in the fact that she at least still has her Tuscan Chicken. Then one day after work, a Wednesday to be exact, because she cooks Tuscan Chicken every Wednesday, a really hot guy follows the scent up the the grandmother’s door and knocks. People were still really sexist back then, so the guy is like “Hey, you’re gonna be my wife and cook that for me.” She says ‘yes’ and they get married. The guy’s misogynist patterns only continue. The years pass, and she begins to resent Tuscan Chicken, because it has now become a symbol of her oppression. She vows to make a change. Next Wednesday, she makes the Tuscan Chicken, true to the recipe, as always. Except for one minor addition—-POISON(and also some of her pee)!!!! They sit down for dinner, and she secretly pulls out a piece of pee-and-poison-free chicken for herself so she can eat without her husband becoming suspicious. Fifteen minutes later, the guy is barfing and crapping everywhere. Next thing you know, he’s dead, and the grandmother ends up in jail. Ten years into her sentence, she finally gets a job in the prison kitchen for 25 cents per month. She still remembers Tuscan Chicken. The prison kitchen doesn’t have the ingredients for it. The head of the prison says it’s not in the budget. So she sleeps with him. It turns out he was lying when he told her that if she slept with him he would have the ingredients brought in. So she poisons him and escapes. I think this is how she became pregnant. Anyways, now she’s an ex-convict single mother who has killed two people. Tuscan Chicken helps her forget all that.

It’s usually about this point in the story that the person actually gives you the recipe, and it’s really annoying that they could have just put it right at the top. It’s rather vexing. Now, you came here for a Tuscan Chicken recipe, didn’t you? Cook some chicken and pour Italian seasoning on it.

Life Objective: Land A Spot On The Writing Staff Of Dr. Oz

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.

To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.

If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.

So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:

Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”

Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”

Everyone raises their hand.

Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”

Everyone looks around in disbelief.

Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”

The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”

Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.

Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”

Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….

Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.

The unstoppable Oz cash cow continues to feast upon itself.

Ouroboros.

 

 

 

First Look: Harry Potter And The Cursed Child

Here is a review of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Spoilers? Sure.

Now, from what I gather, sometime during the original series, Voldemort managed to impregnate Draco Malfoy, and is the true father of Scorpius. Due to the fact that Harry Potter was somewhat telepathically connected to Voldemort at that time, he’s kind of the dad too.

It is now the year 3030. Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Severus, Harry’s other son, are dating. And not just casually—they’ve both thought about who would be their groomsmen. Meanwhile, another one of Harry’s sons, James Sirius, is battling a pretty heavy heroin addiction. It is hinted that this has caused Ginny, Harry’s alcoholic wife, to elope with Dudley Dursley.

Then, in a breaking of the fourth wall, all of the characters suddenly realize that they are in a play, which itself has been novelized by two dudes who did not create the series which was the basis for the play that was turned into this book.

A Very Short Story

A man is in a situation where another man produces a smooth object.

Man #1: “That’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Man #2: “What.”

Man 1: “That object you handed me is as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Man 2: “How could you possibly know how smooth a baby’s bottom is.”

Man 1: “I…….just do.”

Man 2: “You shouldn’t know what a baby’s ass feels like. You don’t have kids.”

Man 1: “So?”

Man 2: “Yet you know what the buttocks of an infant feels like.”

Man 1: “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Man 2: (Producing a badge) “Freeze, buttwipe. I’m an undercover constable. You’re under arrest.”

Later on, in court, Man 1 was unable to produce a believable explanation as to why he possessed so much knowledge about the topography of baby rumps, and went to jail for a very, very long time. The end.

If #AllLivesMatter, That Means I Can Do Whatever I Want With This Dead Guy, Right?

I recently read on the internet that all lives matter. Read: since only things with lives matter, that automatically means that anything without life, any object lacking that essential élan vital, is second class scum and not worthy of our time. All of this pleases me, ‘cuz I’ve got this dead guy.

This dead guy does not matter one bit. It’s right there in the hashtag. That gives me the go-ahead to really go to town on this corpse. Sex. I didn’t say it. You were thinking it. Anyways, there are a lot of non-sexual things you can do with a worthless body that just wouldn’t fly with a live person. I plan to stab it first. After that, I’m going to throw it off my balcony and see if it explodes on the concrete below.

That’s it. That’s all I want to do with the dead guy.

 

The Democratic Convention Will End With Surgery Or Conception

I think it’s pretty obvious how the Democratic National Convention is going to end: tomorrow night, right during primetime, expect Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders to be sown together, legally making them one person, something called Billary Slinton or Hernie Clanders, who will become the new nominee.

Or they’ll conceive a baby.

Then they’ll pump Hillary full of age-accelerating pills—something the government has been hiding from us—in order for the love child to be born and advance to an electable age by November.

Either way, I don’t care anymore.

I Like To Keep My Personal Opinions And Beliefs Off Of The Internet

*caution: the following post mentions bodily functions. why? i don’t know. perhaps they are being used symbolically as a way to say that we all need to find some sort of common denominator in these divided times. or they’re a metaphor shining light on the crumbling infrastructure of…..something. but maybe, just maybe, if you highlight every fourth letter of this post, it will reveal a hidden message.

We all have annoying Facebook friends that shellac us with political posts, gym selfies, and pics of their butt-ugly babies—nothing new to talk about there.

Personally, I like to stay away from ‘putting myself out there’ on the internet. I have boundaries. I don’t need people to know everything about me.

When it comes to social media, my movements are few and far between. Every now and then, I guess, I’ll crowdsource a question that seems important to me. Like lately, for instance, I’ve had this thing going on with my bowels. Without getting too deep into the problem, here’s the gist: I will go about three days without defecating, and then BOOYA—like a warm and cold front colliding, a frenzied twelve hour period ensues in which a torrential downpour produces up to twenty four inches of excrement (to put that in scale: one inch of excrement is equivalent to 36 inches of snow, and 72 inches of rain). If someone knows what would cause this, by all means, pipe up. Yes, you there. What’s that? Who am I going to vote for in the upcoming election? Your mom. Did you not just hear, a moment ago, that I prefer not to share those things on the internet?

Anyways, after this purge, my intestines will lay dormant for another 72 hours. Sure, they’ll bubble, they’ll gurgle, and sometimes even squeak, but there will be absolutely no productive action. Nada. Pardon? Where do I stand on people using the pubic bathroom that they identify with? I’m not going to comment on that, but if I happen to be in one of my violent defecation cycles and a women’s restroom is the only one available, let’s just say I’m going to start feeling very womanish for a brief period of time. I’m not going to sit over here and apologize if some little girl has to listen to that.

This brings us to the color of my pee. For example, I drink a lot of water, so normally my urine is pretty clear, like a mountain creek, or saran wrap. In the morning though, it’s more yellow, probably because I am not able to take in as much water while I am asleep, which results in a deeper urinary shade. Hmmm? Repeat that please. Ah yes, the Confederate flag and free speech. This is similar to the restroom situation above. If I were in dire need of bath tissue and a Confederate flag were the only thing lying around, I suppose I would use it to wipe. I would use any flag to clean myself if that was all that was available.

So back to my pee. Sometimes I have trouble going, and OH GOD WHAT NOW? Fine. You want me to share something personal? Here goes. I’m going to hand you a filthy, dirty secret. I try to use public bathrooms as much as possible. I do. It’s gross, and it’s part of my life. It slashes my toilet paper budget, and if the thing clogs, hey, not my problem. Some teenager named Ashton or Aiden or Sean’Trell gets to clean it up, and it’ll probably learn some sort of valuable life lesson in the process, like the fact that a guy with a spinach-rich diet who only poops every three days will produce thick tubes of green feces capable of clogging a jet-flush public toilet. That’s something you just don’t learn sitting in a government-funded classroom. There. I said something about the government. Now I suppose you want me to click ‘love’ on the picture of your fat, stupid baby. Not gonna happen.

And by the way, sometimes, when I’m in the public restroom, I’ll unwind a little extra toilet paper and take it home with me. Is that a crime? It is a public bathroom. The things inside belong to the public. I am part of the public. Now you probably think I’m some uber-liberal Hillary supporter. Yes, I’m going to vote for her, provided she delivers a solution to my mysterious bowel thing. If Trump can figure it out, then I’m in his corner. Maybe I’ll be in the Dollar Tree bathroom one day and a friendly woman dressed like a man will recognize my symptoms and help me out. There’s no way of knowing.

I Could Have Been Named What?!

Did you know that my nom de plume for this blog, Michael Cedarwood, was concocted by using the classic porn formula of (middle name) + (street you grew up on)?

But did you also know that like NBA legend Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo, I have more than one middle name? And that I grew up on more than one street? With all those names and all those streets under my belt, the identity of my blogging alter-ego had the potential to swing in many different directions.

I have compiled a list of my other middle names and streets that I grew up on. Let us now take a look at what could have been.

Girth McThickness

Cratch Sacknard

Barb Marbly

Veiny Von Opulent

Hoagie Flundlecrode

Baldy Waxmas

Hairy Crinkleheimer

Crusty Gustaffson

Squirt Terdhurdle

Caspian Vanderhoot

Blimpy Slipplenip

Whiffle Gristlesniff

Squizz Stinkelsteen

Firt Girdle

Berf Girkin

Lactose Jackson (not to be confused with Catfish Jackson)

 

Here is a List of the Books I Read in 2015

Here is a list of the books I read in 2015.

Armstrong, Karen—Muhammad: A Prophet For Our Time (2006)

Barrett, Deirdre—The Committee of Sleep: How Artists, Scientists, And Athletes Use Dreams For Creative Problem-Solving—And How You Can Too (2001)

Bonnett, Alastair—Unruly Places: Lost Spaces, Secret Cities, and Other Inscrutable Geographies (2014)

Bowden, Mark—Killing Pablo: The Hunt for the World’s Greatest Outlaw (2001)

Bradbury, Ray—The Illustrated Man (1951)

Bryson, Bill—Notes From a Small Island (1995)

Bulgakov, Mikhail—The Master and Margarita (written from 1928-40, not published until 1967)

Chamovitz, Daniel—What A Plant Knows: A Field Guide To The Senses (2012)

Christie, Agatha—And Then There Were None (1939)

Cooper, Douglas—The Cubist Epoch (1970)

Danielewski, Mark Z.—House of Leaves (2000)

Didion, Joan—Play It As It Lays (1970)

Fernandez, Oscar—Everyday Calculus: Discovering the Hidden Math All Around Us (2014)

Funke, Cornelia—Inkheart (2003)

Gaiman, Neil—The Graveyard Book (2008)

Heath, Chip and Dan—Switch: How to Change Things When Change is Hard (2010)

Heinlein, Robert A.—The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (1966)

Kaku, Michio—Hyperspace: A Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps, and the 10th Dimension (1994)

Moore, Alan, and Lloyd, David—V For Vendetta (1988)

Ohle, David—Motorman (1972)

Percy, Walker—Lost in the Cosmos: The Last Self-Help Book (1983)

Powers, Tim—On Stranger Tides (1988)

Pratchett, Terry—Thud! (2005)

Pynchon, Thomas—Inherent Vice (2009)

Stoker, Bram—Dracula (1897)

VanderMeer, Jeff—Annihilation (2014), Authority (2014), Acceptance (2014)

Walker, Barbara G.—The Secrets of the Tarot: Origins, History, and Symbolism (1994)

Watts, Peter—Echopraxia (2014)

Fun With Pharmaceuticals

There are perks to being a blogger. We have this unique platform that enables us to let our voices be heard, and sometimes a guy in suit from something called Big Medicine approaches you with a sack covered in dollar signs saying that he’d like you to talk about the greatest drug for high blood pressure ever created, and you tell him you’ll never sell out, and then he shows you that there’s actually money in the sack, so you say you’ll take the offer.

Even though that happened, it had no influence over my decision to talk to you today about Fluvalipitorbrate™, the best boner medicine to hit the market in years.

You see, sometimes in order to lower your cholesterol, or whatever this stuff does, you need to make sacrifices, like only having one functioning kidney. You have two for a reason, so it’s not much of a sacrifice anyways. And—this is according to Big Medicine—comas brought on by Fluvalipitorbrate™ are actually healthy, because it gives your body a chance to rest and recover from the ulcers and painful full-body burning sensations that led to the coma in the first place. Plus, you won’t be conscious for the bloody diarrhea. Sounds like Fluvalipitorbrate™ is doing you a solid there.

When you come out of the coma, which 65% of people do, you’re going to have some suicidal thoughts. But that’s only because you’re mad at yourself for not taking Fluvalipitorbrate™ years ago, when it was still causing men to grow massive breasts. You’ll cheer up when they give you a jar full of your teeth and then find that all the hair on your body has fallen off, which will help you swim very fast, once your muscles grow back.

Then you’re on the home stretch to a major testosterone boost, which is what this drug is all about. After you fight off the minor bouts with bi-polar disorder, diabetes, necrotizing fasciitis, and halitosis, you can tell all your friends (through sign language, if you still have lockjaw) about Fluvalipitorbrate™ and how it changed your life.

For more info, ads for Fluvalipitorbrate™ can be found in Men’s Health magazine, or on our infomercial that airs from 3-4 every Thursday morning (it’s the one with happy men golfing and a voiceover talking extremely fast about internal bleeding and bones turning to dust).