King Macklemore And The Game Of Thrones
The #poop tag comes back with a vengeance. –Ed.
You just can’t invent stuff like this. King, a county in Washington state, released a music video imploring the public to not put anything in the toilet except “human waste.” Swoon. I may have found a new home. Their song is a parody of Macklemore’s smash hit Thrift Shop.
I admit I’d never heard the song Thrift Shop. I admit I’d never heard of anyone named Macklemore. Is that his first or last name? Or is this a single-name-situation like Madonna, Prince, Sting and Digit?
In an urge to write a post about this parody song, I turned to Google to find a suitable image to adorn my writings. What? Macklemore also did a song about toilets?
Holy shitcans! Sometimes life can be funny. Behold, Simba, the circle of life! Everything goes full circle. Like water swirling down a drain.
But wait. The circle doesn’t end there. This circle has got levels replete with layers, yo.
As far as I can tell, Macklemore is turd. Turds go in toilets. That’s exactly what King County wants you to know. Further, their parody song riffs on the word “fucking” by replacing it with “flushing.” Yes, a government did this. And, finally, to bring it all back home, in his spare time, Macklemore raps about toilets.
Circle. Full. Flush. Repeat.
No crap about it, this could amuse me all day long. And, in an ironic twist of fate, some have criticized the $123,000 spent on the music video as governmental waste. Cover Oregon had their own famous example of this. Has the King of Waste finally been dethroned? (Reportedly $2.9 million was spent on the Cover Oregon TV and radio spots.) Rocky King, the former executive director of Cover Oregon, said that urgent time frames drove the need for the expensive campaigns. They didn’t have a lot of time to get the word out. Yes, King. (No relation to the county.) I told you this was all connected.
You can’t spell “crap” without R-A-P. Kick it! It’s time to tell you busters all about it!
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Bung is a word, and more
Why am I always the last to know?
Fred Armisen, of SNL and Portlandia fame, was recently announced as a 2014 James Beard award winner. It seems that way back on Jan. 11, 2013, the podcast This American Life had Armisen on board as a guest host (because he does an impression of Ira Glass) and that episode entitled Doppelgängers included a segment (heh) by Ben Calhoun that theorized about pork bung being used as “imitation calamari.”
Listen here: This American Life – Doppelgängers
I know! You people are supposed to bring things like this to my attention. Stop sitting down on the job. (Heh.)
Sadly, the podcast ultimately wasn’t able to prove that this sort of switcheroo has actually happened. The piece pretty much relegates the idea to an urban food legend. But it did quite convincingly prove that it is possible. They threw some real calamari and some bung in the deep frier and did some blind taste tests and some of their tasters picked the decoy as the real McCoy.
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Strip Maul
What has been porcine cannot be unporcine.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but bacon on a hamburger has been a thing for quite some time, right? Now fast food outlets are running advertising on steroids acting like it’s something utterly new.
Somebody better get this burger a little fedora. I smell a trend.
“Get bacon in your burger” a bulbous clown-head thing boisterously sings on TV.
Why? Is there anything even remotely new about combining hamburgers and bacon? Just how significant is the difference between bacon on a burger and bacon in a burger? On vs. in. That’s the eternal question, isn’t it? If the researchers at a fast food restaurant are to be believed, it’s certainly something to crow about. (Coming soon.)
First they demonstrate a freak of nature they’ve developed in their labs. It’s called “Bork.” Yes, he’s half beef, half pork. He’s a cute little critter that mostly looks like a pig, but has the markings of a cow and even horns. Talk about DNA recombinations and GMO!
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Foods With Benefits
Food has been sleeping around with your stomach and no condoms have ever been involved. It’s like a 60’s love fest in your belly. Groovy, baby.
It turns out that the human stomach isn’t that discriminating. It’s a go-with-the-flow kind of hipster dufus (probably wearing a fedora) who blindly trusts decisions made by the brain and mouth. Ha ha ha! Like they give a shit about downstream organs!
Tom’s Law #42
As one becomes less involved in the production and preparing of one’s own food, the odds of unwanted contaminants, unknown ingredients, lessened nutrition, deception and malice are exponentially increased.
Chew on that!
For example, the average fast food patron eats an average of 12 public hairs per year. And probably in a public place! Some things are meant to be handled in pubic.
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401 Pork Belly Crude Efficient Market Theories
I’ve often talked about the “three-legged stool” on this blog. No, you don’t have to leave. This post won’t qualify for a certain tag that shall remain nameless. I’m going to keep this post on a higher, more sophisticated plane.
So often, in fact, that I should probably elevate the topic to the level of a category so you can ignore all the posts equally at the same time. But that would be convenient therefore I won’t do it.
The future is something which “occupies” my thoughts from time to time. (Yes, my brain has little protesters in it.)
To refresh your memory, the “three-legged stool” is a metaphor rolled out around the time that piece of sassafras Ida May Fuller clutched her first Social Security benefits check in her kung fu death grip. I remember it well because I was there. On the floor. Licking her ankles. Whispering hotly, “Be my sugar momma? Mommy? M to the O to the M M Y.”
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Survivor: Abyss Island – Splurge and Reward
Abyss Island: S1E9 – Splurge for Super Bowels Into Reward Darkness
Day 27
Dear Diary: I’m shaken by a vision of a well-protected note safely ensconced in the loving embrace of a pristine bottle and sealed with a cork. A note that contains my innermost thoughts protected against the ravages of time for all humanity to benefit.
Such luxury! Bottle? Pfffft! Cork? Pffft! Note? Pfffft!
For 27 days I have been lampooned marooned on this above-sea-level pile of sharp rocks. I barely have the energy to scratch this message using my own blood with the tip of a seagull quill on the back of a crab shell. Urgency compels me onward even in the face of certain defeat. It’s not like I have anything better to do.
I’m still exhausted from what felt like near rescue at the time. I did the You Can’t Touch This dance on the beach for a passing ship. Hopes quickly dashed to nopes as the ship failed to take notice of my Herculean gyrations. No, I don’t think I can dance.
If I ever get out of this mess I swear to you that I will enact a law that requires all ships on horizons to carefully observe the islands they pass within shouting distance. Seems like only good form.
I just had another vision, this time one of terrible darkness. That reminds me. It’s time to watch the Super Bowel.
Shouts from the Abyss 
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