I saw this stuff in the supermarket today and it really pissed me off. I mean, "Ready to Serve!" has come to mean something special in the U. S. It means, "I'm a proud American and I'm ready, willing, and able to defend our country against evildoers."
It doesn't mean, "Hey, this rice be cooked!" It doesn't mean, "Slap me on a plate and douse me in gravy!"
This rice, then, is not ready to serve. This rice will not be parachuting into Iran to attack Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's camp. This rice won't even be throwing itself on a grenade to save a platter of egg fu yung.
If they had half a brain, the Minute folks could have been avoided this offensive confusion. Isn't it obvious that they should label the box with whatever a person is most likely to do with the rice? They wouldn't write, "Ready to Fill Balloons!" or "Ready to Smother Pigeons!" Obviously most people are going to eat this shit, so "Ready to Eat!" makes sense. "Ready to Serve"? Only if housewives put this crap on the table and then sigh and say, "Okay, now what'll we eat?"
Once again a baby-wipe user has informed me that I'm a total moron for using toilet paper. Okay, okay, I get it: you love your baby wipes. They're soft. They make you feel clean. Now your bum is all moisturized, and it smells like autumn spring. Glad things are working out so well in your bum-centric world! But now you're all disgusted -- simply disgusted -- that the rest of us still use toilet paper, and you're lecturing us about our simply unbearable habit.
"I don't get it," one of you said to me recently. "If you had crap on your arm, would you just wipe it off?"
Dear Baby Wipe User:
There's a difference between assholes and arms.
One, arms aren't usually sheltered under three layers of clothes.
Two, arms don't reside at the bottom of a six-inch deep crack.
And three, assholes don't need to be as clean as arms, because very rarely does one say to their partner, "Oh, this is so romantic. Please, take my anus."
Yes, when Maya Angelou was talking about being at home wherever she was, she wasn't talking about feeling comfortable in the world, or within her own skin. Surely she was thinking of a luxury cosmopolitan hotel that offers a personal suite experience to their international celebrity guests. "I know why the caged bird sings," Maya wrote, and we do too. It loved the sophisticated ease and cosmopolitan vibe of The London NYC!
One glance at our ultramodern lobby and you'll know that Maya's march for freedom would end in one of our overstuffed chairs. All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes, and what better place to find them than this hotspot of pulsing urban energy mere steps from Christian Louboutin on Fifth Avenue.
And who needs A Song Flung Up to Heaven when The London NYC's intuitive yet discreet service knows what Maya wants even before she does? Forget freeing Nelson Mandela -- she'll get free wi-fi, even in our split-level health spa. After dark, the author of Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'fore I Diiie would swoon over the London Bar's Diablo Gordon Ramsay. Unlike the tempestuous chef, she wouldn't call it "fucking awful."
So next time you're in town, don't miss The London NYC. We'll even give you our special discounted Martin Luther King Jr. rate if you tell the reservation clerk, "Brother, I have a dream of unparalleled luxury!" America's greatest poet famously said, "While one may encounter many defeats, one must not be defeated," and we wholeheartedly agree.
An investment banking and securities firm packages trillions of dollars worth of securities that, due to the financial downturn, become worthless. While most of the firm's Ferrari-driving, multi-millionaire employees express dismay as the securities are dumped onto an unsuspecting market, potentially throwing the world economy into chaos, one is concerned and apologetic.
Good friends are all alike; every miserable friend is miserable in its own way.
They borrow your car. They screw your boyfriends. They're convinced you won't miss all that E.
My miserable friend Gary had no boundaries. "I really, really like John," I tell Gary the last time we go barhopping. "He could be the one, so I want to take it slow. I want to take the time to develop a relationship."
Gary nods frantically in agreement. Half an hour later he's still nodding, but this time he's in his car and John's dick is in his mouth.
My miserable friend Honey wants to do me. Which, you know, is kind of understandable. I summarize all the relevant facts: she's supposedly a lesbian, I could not be more gay. When we go barhopping and I meet a man, I don't want her standing there with her fingers crossed saying, "Don't work out. Don't work out. Please God don't let it work out!" Still, I'm patient. "I'm not interested," I repeat. "There's no way."
"That's fine," she says. "I can handle it." And the next time we go out she "accidentally" leaves a razor blade in my car.
Me, I'm a miserable friend because I'm logical. I don't console. I don't comfort. When I hear about problems, I offer logic. I offer cold, hard answers.
See, there's far too many people dealing in fantasy, and I'm firmly rooted in the real world. If my friends build a castle in the air and then complain about the plumbing, I'm not going to play along. I'm not going to suggest using the powder room on an upper floor.
My friend Michael likes hot young Hispanics. Which, you know, isn't a problem if you're George Clooney, but Michael is fifty and poor. He watches Teen Mom to see what nice apartments look like. "What can I do to catch a hot Latin stud?" he asks me.
A good friend will say, "Just be yourself!" A good friend will say, "Don't look for him and he'll come to you!" Maybe that'll segue into thoughts about volunteer work, or exercise, or tips on how to dress well. Me, I'm not mincing words. I say, "Can you get a rope and chloroform?"
Luckily, being a good friend is no longer a good thing, at least in my neighborhood. "You're such a good friend!" always has undertones of, "I can't believe you actually picked up my dry cleaning!" and "Can you take my dog for a walk before you head home?" Everyone really wishes they could be a good friend, but they're making money and getting laid.
Still, I'm nostalgic. I've seen the ideal, and I'm aiming for it. I'm compromising. Now I meet misery with a few minutes of comfort -- but if the person keeps complaining, I'll swing straight back to the advice.
"I'm going to die single, aren't I?" says Maryanne.
"No!" I comfort. "Never." Pause. "You own a dog, right?"
Dave Mustaine, lead singer of heavy metal band Megadeth, has endorsed Rick Santorum for president.
The man who wrote the lyrics "Prince of darkness, your satanic highness/Prince of darkness, the most beautiful angel" said he was impressed by the former Pennsylvania senator's decision to cancel campaign events and visit his sick 3-year-old daughter in the hospital.
"I think Santorum has some presidential qualities," said the writer of "As the demons take their fill/An orgy's taking place/Human blood will spill." "And I'm hoping that if it does come down to it, we'll see a Republican in the White House . . . and that it's Rick Santorum."
Santorum is rather controversial in some circles, due to his suggestion that homosexuals should be regulated like child molesters, that legalizing gay marriage would pave the way for people to marry home appliances, and that children would be better off having jailed parents than gay ones.
Still, that doesn't bother Dave Mustaine. Taxes and regulations regarding "what you can say and what you can't say" have stifled creativity, and only Rick Santorum can help, declares the writer of Headcrusher, which goes "Death from Head crusher! Head crusher! Death from Head crusher! Wow!"
I loved loved loved last night's Grammy Awards. Never before has the vast constellation of American musical stars sparkled quite as much, from the Giants' Mario Manningham and Victor Cruz to Neil Patrick Harris and Jack Black. Ordinarily I don't like Mr. Black, but at least he didn't make us pray.
Not that I'm against an event's emcee leading the audience in some random activity: I'd just like it to be the Hokey-Pokey for a change.
I know I took notes when the star of Kung Fu Panda, Year One and iCarly gave a Master Class on the difficulties of retaining one's indie cred. The Foo Fighters obviously listened, abandoning their repertoire to play a grunge remake of Ca Plan Pour Moi all three times they came up to bat.
Naturally I was brought to tears by the many tributes. The Band Perry saluted Glen Campbell by singing Gentle On My Mind, a tune written by John Hartford. Which is a little like paying tribute to Ashton Kutcher by reading old scripts from Two and a Half Men, but whatever.
Though the telecast seemed to proceed without incident, Lady Gaga watched from behind a police barricade.
I hope I don't sound "hipper than thou," but I live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is where all the hot new music comes from. Naturally I was thrilled when Best New Artist went to Bonnie Bear.
Another highlight, of course, was Adele. What a gem! And I say this as someone who still thinks "Rolling in the Deep" is about mudwrestling. It seems like just weeks ago the music industry's modus operandi was notorious: rich white men would take some skinny chick and manufacture a singer out of her. No, judging by the the sea of white male faces behind Adele, now they're doing it with fat chicks too.
It's like she's speaking for an entire generation when she sings, "You had my heart inside your hand, and you played it to the beat."
Still, one dark blotch marked otherwise pristine proceedings. Outside the Staples Center, Hispanic musicians protested the elimination of an award for Latin jazz. "The Grammy Awards are not what it used to be," said Bobby Sanabria, a Latin percussionist. "It used to be about excellence in music."
Bravo to Mr. Sanabria! I totally agree. Now let's give 1978's Best New Artist the last word.
I remember the first time I used Mitchum deodorant. It was incredible. I think I was more impressed than when I first heard about landing on the moon, or heart transplants. I mean, Buzz Aldrin never helped me with underarm wetness.
Mitchum didn't exactly work for days at a time, like the ads said, but it worked pretty damn well. Gone were the yellow pit stains. I didn't smell like I collected bottles for a living. It was a miracle!
After a week or so, though, the bubble deflated slightly. In the shower I discovered that I'd created a layer of the stuff in my armpit, and it just did not wash off.
It kind of freaked me out. I'd never had anything on my body that it wasn't possible to remove. I thought switching to Mitchum was a spontaneous, easily reversible thing. I didn't realize it was a commitment, like getting a tattoo.
I scrubbed. I went from Dial to Comet. I used washclothes. I scrubbed myself raw, but it still didn't come off. It felt slick, unlike skin, and it had hermetically sealed my armpits shut.
Can they do that? I wondered. Sell deodorant that you can't remove with lighter fluid?
I put up with it for, oh, maybe twenty years. Got used to it. I didn't sweat, didn't smell. So what if a significant part of my body didn't feel like skin, and repelled soap and water? But eventually my conscience got to me. Aluminum has been known to cause Alzheimer's, and Mitchum has so much aluminum in it I was slowly turning into a cookie sheet.
I went to the drugstore and bought lemongrass-scented deodorant by Tom's of Maine.
I noticed an immediate difference as I applied the soapy substance to my pits: Tom's didn't go on dry. In fact, as I sat there fanning my pits thirty minutes later, it appeared to be immune to that technological breakthrough known as EVAPORATION. Their deodorant wasn't some bizarre, unnameable substance that spread like a liquid but coated like a metal: no, it appeared to be part of the Rice Pudding family. In fact, I thought, they should sell their hydration secrets to Little Debbie, because whatever they put in that deodorant kept my pits moist for weeks. Every time I lifted my arms it sounded like somebody was yanking Rosie O'Donnell out of quicksand.
Rather than hermetically sealing my armpits, they covered the B. O. with the scent of lemongrass. Which, you know, makes sense, because when I play basketball I want everybody to stop and say, "Hey, you smell Pad Thai?"
After a week of having a Saigon rice paddy in each armpit, I switched back. And, though I recycle and reuse and watch what I eat, I realized something:
I like my superchemicals. I don't particularly care if manufacturers dump petrochemicals in major rivers in Mongolia, and I don't particularly care what they do to me. I like the way two weeks after I've brushed with Crest Butt-Crammed With Scope Effluvia somebody asks if I just ate a mint. I like having shields in my armpits that rival the ones surrounding the Starship Enterprise.
So, I'm back. My Mitchum is back; my pit shields are back. I forget that I have little muffin pans coursing through my bloodstream. I know petrochemicals aren't for everybody, but they're just right for me.
If you want deodorant that's safe to eat, get Tom's.
"Ms. Borden, bring me that list of locations where cinematic serial killers have struck," barks Harlan Wilkes, imperious CEO of Screwdriver Films.
The prim Miss Borden shoots Mr. Wilkes a curious look. "Why, sir, it's right there on your desk."
"What?" asks Mr. Wilkes. "I looked and looked, and -- no. I thought that was a list of placid locations of bottling plants." Mr. Wilkes goes white as a sheet. "Ohmigod! I just booked our family vacation!"
Could you make a similar mistake? Can you tell which of the following are the sites of crazed celluloid killings, and which are the brand names of bottled water?
1. Clover Valley 2. Eden Lake 3. Harrogate Spa 4. Archer Farms 5. Camp Arawak 6. Wolf Creek 7. Deer Park 8. Placid Pines 9. Pocono Springs 10. Crystal Lake
ANSWERS: 1. Dollar General's brand of bottled water 2. Site of 2004 British slasher film Eden Lake 3. British brand of bottled water 4. Target's brand of bottled water 5. Site of 1983 film Sleepaway Camp 6. Site of 2005 film Wolf Creek 7. Bottled water 8. Site of 2000 film Bloody Murder 9. Bottled water 10. Camp in the Friday the 13th movies, also Rite Aid's brand of bottled water