If you are a dreamer, come in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . . If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire, For we have some flax golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!
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From a very early age the concept of safety and being safe is drilled repeatedly into each of us. From the habitual behaviors associated with the yearly fire drills and bus safety presentation to the root metaphors underlying a simple game of Red-light Green-light. As we mature, the ability to effectively communicate, through myriad means, our desires to move or stop, be touched or left alone, tickled or soothed, supported or challenged becomes integral to all our relationships—even our survival.
Complex multisyllabic messages so often just don't meet the challenge. Thank god for bedroom eyes (and "Out to Lunch" signs)!
With plans for family well in the works for the upcoming holidays and pagan ritual soon upon us, I offer the following recipe and great thanks to all for all your kindness and giving...
1. Go buy a Turkey. 2. Take a drink of Whiskey. 3. Put Turkey in the oven. 4. Take another two drinks of Whiskey. 5. Set the degree at 375 ovens. 6. Take three more Whiskeys of drink. 7. Turn oven on. 8. Take four Whisks of drinkey. 9. Turk the bastey. 10. Whiskey another bottle of get. 11. Stick a turkey in the thermometer. 12. Glass yourself another pour of Whiskey. 13. Bake the Whiskey for four hours. 14. Take the oven out of the turkey. 15. take the oven out of the turkey. 16. Floor the turkey up off the pick. 17. Turk the carvey. 18. Get yourself another Scottle of botch. 19. Tet the sable and pour yourself a glass of turkey. 20. Bless the saying, pass and eat out.
It was a balmy summer’s evening. The zero was below. Outside it was a blizzard, ‘twas raining hail and snow. Cohen’s barroom it was crowded. There were not so many there. When in came Jake the plumber, and they all began to swear.
“What will you have”, the bartender asked, “for I know your thirst is great.”
“Oh, I never get thirsty ‘till someone treats me to a drink.”
They gave him one. They gave him two. They gave him three and four. They gave him so much water, it only made him sore.
“Bartender, I was once a plumber. I plumbed by day and I plumbed by night, and that was plumbing some. When into my life came a girl. When she came, I went. Give me a pickled herring and upon the floor I’ll draw a picture of a girl we all once knew.”
He drew and drew and drew, and what he was drewing nobody was knewing. Her eyes were… “yes”, her lips were… “no”, her neck was true to life! He drew the picture so funny, everyone knew it was his wife. Until he drew the last stroke and fell across the barroom floor… dead.
First of all, thank you Dalcini for bringing to mind this most bizarre and freakish example of pornographic edible(?) kinkery.
Set aside, for a moment, that the Turducken looks like a transporter accident from the next Fly movie; that even the recipe is far too explicit to pass FC’s censors; and that exposure to the beast without a hazmat suit is likely to result in genetic damage. At its heart, the Turducken is, through a variety of peculiar and perverted means, a turkey stuffed with a duck, stuffed with a chicken.
I must say, for a long time, I wondered how they got the turkey to eat the duck that ate the chicken. I now understand that the actual assembly is not so much a process of ingestion, ingurgitation or reanimation, as compound dissection. Better? You tell me. (Personally, I’m a fan of roaster reanimation but then, I digress.)
The actual 57 step embodiment, beginning with “Rinse the birds” and ending with “Serve the Turducken”, reads like some sort of Martha Stewart Forum fantasy—“When Good Hostesses Go Bad on Thanksgiving.” Step 12, sub-section 10, is of particular concern. It reads, “Fold the chicken, fold the duck, then fold the turkey so that the skin of the back comes together.” Like relationship advice that ends with, “Dispose of the body”, it seems to me that any recipe that instructs you to “fold” fowl should be very well considered.
As we all continue to fully explore our world, and ourselves, the lines between erotica and pornography are sometimes redefined. I’ve often wondered whether this stems from changes in understanding or a continued development of our moral value systems?
I few nights ago I was padding around the house with the munchies. One of those people who shops daily for what tempts me (definitely fodder for another post), I had not yet given any thought to dinner. As I mentally meandered up and down the isles of my local market, while staring lost into the depths of the shelves of my fridge, I lamented the fact that I had not yet taken an opportunity to enjoy the absolutely beautiful day that had been tugging at me all afternoon.
At about seven-thirty I got on my bike and rode down to the beach. Alas, it was low tide—my favorite! Shoes off, walking by the water, my rumbling tummy was finally tempted by a small hole in the sand at my feet. Digging down into the wet non-Newtonian mush, I followed the hole through the waterline and then, with faith, blindly into the wet ooze. Just then, the tips of my fingers felt the rubbery neck of treasure. With another scoop and a gentle wiggle, out popped a beautiful clam dinner! Okay, part of dinner.
With nowhere else to put my serendipitous meal, and following what I would discover was too short a moment of diligence, I slid the clam in my pocket. No, I was never a boy scout. Another few steps, another hole, another pocket. It was only as I carefully jammed about the fourteenth clam into my pants, I truly realized that I had become the crazy clam guy on the beach. No doubt there is some law or ordinance regarding the transportation of seafood in your pants.
Now boys and girls, let me tell you, for future reference, that riding your bike with your pants full of clams is not easy and most definitely not a good idea to do on a date. It is, however, a most fabulous, albeit fashionably questionable, solution for a delicious impromptu clam feast!
Is it just me or does anyone else have a problem with Fudgems, the brown gooey mascot and freak child of the ever escalating pizza delivery wars. Or, if Fudgems doesn't get your freak on, how about the Burger King?
Fudgems oozes brown syrup and leaves brown footprints on the path as he walks to your door. Boy, I hope that isn’t just something he stepped in. The King breaks into your home and crawls into your bed while you're sleeping! I won't even walk past a Bugger King anymore. I'm simply terrified that the King might jump out.
Needless to say, I stopped eating pizza at their first attempts to actually hide things in the crust.
"But I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of denouncing pleasure and praising pain was born and I will give you a complete account of the system, and expound the actual teachings of the great explorer of the truth, the master-builder of human happiness. No one rejects, dislikes, or avoids pleasure itself, because it is pleasure, but because those who do not know how to pursue pleasure rationally encounter consequences that are extremely painful. Nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but because occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure. To take a trivial example, which of us ever undertakes laborious physical exercise, except to obtain some advantage from it? But who has any right to find fault with a man who chooses to enjoy a pleasure that has no annoying consequences, or one who avoids a pain that produces no resultant pleasure?"
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