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The Corned Beef Conspiracy: Ireland Doesn’t Exist And St. Patrick Is The Meaty Equivalent Of Mrs. Butterworth
Corned beef.
Just as Hallmark created Valentine’s Day so they could sell cards and De Beers invented the concept of marriage in order to give false value to diamonds, March seventeenth has forever become entwined with this strange salted meat, despite said meat having no basis in traditional Irish cuisine, because there is no such thing as Ireland, and therefore no such thing as traditional Irish cuisine, as we will soon see.
Why?
Because.
Oh, and also this: Colorado Premium, a company specializing in meat processing solutions, created Ireland and the myth of St. Patrick in order to sell corned beef. It’s not crazy at all. Think real hard. Do you know anyone who’s been to Ireland? Do you know anyone who’s met St. Patrick? Didn’t think so. Let’s have a look.
Colorado Premium happens to be one of the world’s largest producers of corned beef, and they also happen to have a picture of a guy wearing a hard hat on their ‘About Us’ page.
Why in the name of fictional St. Patrick’s sheleighleigh would anyone dealing with meat need a hard hat? Meat, and generally any solutions pertaining to it, involve softness. A hard hat seems like something someone who is anticipating a visit to a construction site would wear. Since construction sites aren’t necessary to meat, that means this whole thing is an Illuminati conspiracy. You see, Colorado Premium is run by Kevin LaFluer. LaFluer is a French name. France touches Germany. The Illuminati was founded in 1776 in………….Germany.
Moving right along: a quick scan of Colorado Premium’s ‘Partners‘ page shows standard industry meat alliances—Tyson Foods, Cargill Meat Solutions, Smithfield Beef Group, etc.—except for one: Tapatio Hot Sauce?
What are Tapatio Hot Sauce and a prolific corned beef producer doing in bed together?
Why, they are both shadowy victual fronts veiling the sinister plot intended to further screw the clueless herd of sheep that is the American people, of course.
In what way? Well the guy in the hard hat is obviously building something, and Tapatio Hot Sauce just isn’t that good. So we have an industrious producer of corned beef partnering with a company that makes inferior salsa picante. That means something. Corned beef. Hot sauce. Hot sauce. Corned beef. Corned sauce. Hot beef. Corned hot beef sauce.
Colorado Premium is taking that salsa picante partnership cash and using it to build a moat filled with disgusting Tapatio Hot Sauce around the United States in order to keep us
she’s cheating on mr. butterworh with a fake saint
from leaving. Why do ‘They’ (Colorado Premium, Tapatio, and the Illuminati) want to keep us in? It’s pretty obvious. If the lie about Ireland is exposed, the corned beef gravy train comes grinding to a halt. Since the Earth is flat, you should be able to look out from the east coast and see the Emerald Isle. One glance and you’ll notice it’s simply not there. ‘St. Patrick’ is just the meaty equivalent of Mrs. Butterworth. Guinness is Michelob Golden tinted with discarded beef drippings.
So there you go. Hallmark, De Beers, Colorado Premium, Taptio, and the Illuminati all want you to keep buying things because they created a way for you to buy them.
Wake up America.
Plasmapheresis—The Silent Savior
Image from http://www.inc.com
I just went through plasmapheresis. Somebody owes me big time. I technically own another human’s life force now. Big responsibility there. The only trouble is, with all the bureaucratic buffoonery and red tape down at the donation center, they won’t even let you behind the counter to see where something that used to be in your body is going to be shipped, let alone who they’re going to put it into.
Is anybody reading this a detective? I want to hunt down whoever has my plasma. But not in a mean way. All I want is a sincere thanks, and for them to buy me a sandwich every week for the rest of their life. Pretty reasonable, because I know I could demand much more than that.
I could have people, pumped up to their eyelids with my plasma, washing my car, fetching my groceries, naming their children after me. Children that have a piece of me in their veins. But I don’t think of stuff like that.
I am however, in the preliminary stages of having my testicles, kidneys, liver, and even unused parts of my brain tested. In the world of medicine, sick people are so grateful to receive these body parts that donating them guarantees you a rent free existence on Easy Street at least until you are old, and then I think the government pays for you to stay alive after that.
Sautéing Mushrooms
Hey everyone, listen up: I genuinely enjoy sautéing mushrooms. The activity is exciting to me. I could do it for 3-5 hours a day if I really wanted to. Late last night, I even brought up the ‘General Settings’ page on WordPress, clicked into the ‘Site Title’ bar, and typed The Mushroom Sautéing Blog, erased it, then punched in The #1 Blog For Everything Involving Sautéing Mushrooms.
I paused there.
Then I thought, ‘Wait, I recently sautéed some other vegetable, which I can’t quite think of right now, and that was also enjoyable. Not as fun as mushrooms, though.’
This opened up a veritable Pandora’s Box of sauté-related issues for me—if I enjoy sautéing mushrooms this much, then there must exist a vast amount of other items that I would also enjoy dousing in olive/soybean/peanut oil—the strain of oil to be used as sautéing agent could be a topic for another post—and poking around on a hot surface as caramelization occurs.
I can tell right now that I would enjoy garlic.
Carrots too, though probably not as much as garlic.
Why stop at vegetables? Beef…..chicken….the pop of meat in a skillet is gratifying, no matter what delicious animal it comes from.
That’s all I’ve got.
APRIL FOOLS!!!!!!!!
It’s onions that I really enjoy sautéing, not mushrooms. Mushrooms are my second favorite.
Yeah, that’s the stuff
What If The Beatles Weren’t The Beatles?
Free will vs. destiny. Nature vs. nurture. Anarchy vs. order. Is the ‘real’ world actually a dream, and the dream world ‘real’ life? Could an all-powerful deity create a rock too heavy for itself to lift? If Joseph Swan had not invented the modern incandescent light bulb, would someone else have figured it out, or would you be reading this blog by candlelight, or whatever illuminating device had been invented (or not) in lieu of the candle? Would you rather be beaten to dead, bloody shards in front of everyone you know by a pansexual street tough named Rocco in the alley behind a skin bar, or be eaten and digested by a wildebeest horde in deepest Africa, while your fate forever remains a mystery to your loved ones?
Volumes have been written by history’s most probing thinkers on these subjects. And now, another great question to heap up onto the proverbial philosophical pile (an interesting side note regarding piles: when does a pile cease to become a pile? If you remove one thing from it, is it still a pile? How about two things? At what point does ‘some stuff gathered together’ transform into what we know as a pile?) that will leave you awake at 3am, wondering why you have to be out of bed in three hours to go to a job (which, unless you produce sustenance, is virtually pointless), to earn money (which, as a manmade creation, makes it no more meaningful than say, a high score in Tetris), so you can buy food (which, if you are resourceful, is available for free in nature):
This is what the ‘White Album’ could have looked like.
Here goes. Imagine The Beatles, widely regarded as one of, if not the, greatest and most influential rock bands of all time, had not been known as The Beatles.
Envision this: everything about them stays the same—the look, the musical evolution, the album titles (excluding 1968’s The Beatles), song names, etc.—only at their outset they chose an incredibly immature or offensive name, like ‘The Fart Men,’ or even better, ‘F(censored)k.’
Would music scholars and fans and snobs and critics openly argue that The Fart Men are the greatest thing ever to happen in modern music?
‘The Fart Men are waaay better than the Rolling Stones!’ Would you say that to someone?
Would they have gotten radio play? Radio DJ: ‘It’s 3 degrees here in the Twin Cities, let’s heat things up with a little ‘Norwegian Wood’ by F(censored)k!’
Would George Martin have relished being known as the ‘fifth Fart Man?’
Would millions of screaming girls have bought into ‘Fart Men Mania’ in the ’60s?
There’s no way we’ll ever know.
A Few Random Things
—this happened one time in a restaurant:
servant: “would you like soup or salad with that?”
me: “a super salad, eh? yes, yes that sounds good. i’ll have that.”
servant: “well, which one?”
me: “there’s more than one super salad?!”
it was kind of like one of those ‘who’s on first’ things
—every time one of my friends starts dating a new person, my first question for that friend is always, “what, is she blind and deaf?”
—why does the orkin man wear a helmet? they’re bugs.
—that’s all i’ve got.
—no it isn’t. i have a coworker with the last name Jass (i really do). not once have I asked if he has a relative with the name hugh. am i losing my wit, or finally showing signs of maturity?
Of Course The Baby Looks Like Its Parents
“OMG, he looks just like you!”
“She’s got your eyes!”
Just a couple typical Facebook baby picture/video comments there.
From a biology standpoint, it’s pretty common for offspring to look like their parents.
We all really need to start leaving comments if the baby doesn’t look like the mother or father. It could be a great help to some couples, because I don’t want to see the wrong person duped into paying for a kid that they think they made.
“You know, he kind of has the same nose as that personal trainer that was at your Memorial Day party last year. Do you still go to that gym?”
“It’s good that Stephan has learned to walk. I noticed he’s got the same awkward waddle as your milk man, isn’t that weird?”
A lot of strife could be avoided this way.
A Letter To The Perverted Deadbeat Whose Credit Card Got Declined At The Dollar Store
Dear guy:
You ought to be ashamed. The ridiculous scene you caused last Thursday at the Dollar Store tells me you need serious help. And I’m not even talking monetary help. Go see one of them head doctors, because you sir, are a pervert. All of us in line saw it—the deer-in-the-headlights look when the cashier swiped your card and was all like “Oooh haaaaay-uuul no! Don’t be bringin’ that trash in here!” You even resorted to lies. “But I just put money in that account today.” Of course you did. That’s why your card didn’t work. Because the account had money in it. For a moment, I even thought of picking up the tab for your two items, until I saw what they were, exposing you as the dastardly mountebank that you are.
What kind of two-bit rapscallion buys baby food and diapers for himself? At some vulnerable point in your childhood, the ease of eating liquified spinach and the comfort of wearing a diaper must have imprinted themselves in some twisted sexual way on your brain, leaving the adult version of you as a walking case study of depravity.
You were probably filling your diaper with creamed corn at that very moment, when the realization hit that you wouldn’t be getting your fix.
Your childish ways were even more evident as I saw you sitting out in the parking lot, crying, looking up at the sky and saying “How is my baby going to eat?” Like anyone would have a kid with someone who still wears diapers, for Pete’s sake. Textbook case of an addict—the heroin isn’t for me, officer, it’s for my baby. How low can you stoop? We’re all supposed to believe you have a kid waiting at home? Of course, and all four of my girlfriends want me to get a penis reduction, but you don’t see me crying at the hospital when the doctors tell me it just isn’t a reasonable procedure.
If I ever see you near that Dollar Store again I will kick you in your bankrupt crotch and then shave your head.
For real,
Me
Columbus Day
In honor of Christopher Columbus, I went exploring the other day. I drove south and discovered Minneapolis. Though I did forget to demand gold from the natives and cut off their hands when they didn’t bring me enough. Next time.
The Philosophunculist 