spookyevilone: (bruegel-death)
CAVEAT: I loves me the hells out of Pizza Luce. When looking at new domiciles, I specifically looked for one within their delivery zone. Their pizzas are heaven, love, rainbows, and all things good - baked on a pizza crust. They even have gluten free pizza crust and pasta options, which is where our story begins. I normally do not do food reviews on this site but this.. this needs to be done. For the good of mankind.

One of their gluten free offerings is a dessert called a "Molly Bar", which is described as, "Our delicious gluten free and dairy free chocolate brownie."

"Ok, that's possible," thought I, "if they used cocoa butter instead of regular butter and dark chocolate, which isn't adulterated by milk.. Ok. I can see it. How bad can it be?"

Thankfully, right on the heels of that, the cautious side of my brain went, "Bitch, you are ordering one of their regular brownies, just to be safe. Just in case." The Molly Bar is $3.39, a regular brownie is $2.49. While the prices might seem high, let me inform you that by "brownie", they mean "a slab of frosted, baked chocolate heaven roughly 8"x4"." The Molly Bar was slightly smaller but denser. This turned out to be a good thing.

The super perky delivery dude showed up in a short amount of time. Taking bounty in hand, I quickly began divesting the bags of the goods. The first thing I noticed was that the brownie was frosted and the Molly Bar was not. Then I imagined a dairy-free version of frosting and realized why. It looked like a decadent, moist brick of chocolatey goodness. Eager to try this new treat, I unwrapped the cling foil and inhaled as though sampling a fine wine. It smelled of chocolate. Thus encouraged, I took a bite. My teeth met some odd resistance, a chewy texture that was distinctly at odds with "brownie" and more akin to "mochi". "A'ight, they used them some tapioca starch in this bad boy. A'ight, that's ok, that's common for GF foods. I can muscle through this."

I closed my mouth and gave a chew, savoring the bite. Attempting to savor. Only without any actual savoring taking place. At all.

My very first thought was, "If I bite my tongue off at the root and spit the entire mass out, will it stop? Will the taste of horror.. stop?" It is almost impossible to describe the sensation of creeping disgust that overwhelmed my senses.

But I'm going to try!

The texture.. Imagine a bunch of black tapioca bubble tea pearls, cooked past the point of goodness and into gelatinous mass, but properly soaked in a mix of brown and regular sugars. Then, imagine a very confused termite mistaking this mass for wood and chowing down, and for dessert, finding some cacao and carob nibs to nom on. Replete with pulp, our termite wanders down into the very bowels of Hell and finds there a baking pan. Imagine our termite puking up his bounty into the pan and wandering off, leaving it to steam and congeal.

I am used to mochi. I am used to all sorts of random Asian seafood-or-tapioca goo gels/puddings/food. The Molly Bar is a whole new level of "Jesus Christmas, what the /fuck/ is this?!"

The taste.. So, you've gotten as far as imagining a steaming pile of tapioca-cocoa termite puke, right? Now add brown rice syrup. Add to that the most horrificly bitter aftertaste heretofore unknown by the tongue of mortal man. I had to check the label, but apparently the FDA does not require "hate" to be a listed ingredient, nor "the bile of a thousand evil serpents". The entire inside of my mouth was trying to cringe away from this substance, while everything it touched was being coated with some sort of oily, waxy, bitter film. The chocolate was a lie. There was a vague, tantalizing hint of it, but it was totally smothered by the rest of it.

"Well, this is as bad as it gets. Might as well swallow it and get it over with. 1, 2, 3: Down the hatch!" Because clearly, I was so overwhelmed with abject disgust that I was beyond rational, coherent thought. I attempted to swallow it. My throat closed up around it as though to deny passage to this hellspawned, Satanic goo. It took the chugging of an entire glass of water to force it down. I could feel it, sitting there in an oily, waxy, gelatinous lump in my stomach, repudiating the attempts of my stomach acids to turn it into something digestable.

Brushing my teeth and using mouthwash did not get rid of the oily, waxy feel or the taste.

Garling with hydrogen peroxide, followed by salt water, did nothing except add a piquant salted flavour to the horror that had overtaken my mouth.

At that point, there was nothing left to do except injest copious amounts of alcohol until the nasty taste died or my tongue became so numb that I no longer noticed it. A third option was death by alcohol poisoning, and that was preferable to having this taste in my mouth one moment longer.

Eventually, alcohol-fueled ennui overtook me and the sense of loathing slowly faded. I wound up in a conversation with Kel over whether I should call a priest, a HAZMAT team, those nice people who clean up after really messy crime scenes, Mythbusters, in an attempt to rid myself of the remaining foulness - and whether any of that was preferable to cutting it into tiny pieces and freezing it to have on hand when people didn't believe me about the awfulness of this thing.

I threw it in the trash, because lo, I am lazy.

That's not the end of the story.

Something got into my trash and ate it, leaving behind the tattered remains of the cello wrap and product ingredient sticker.

There was a dead, bloated raccoon in the alley the next morning.

It could be a coincidence.

Right?

Right??



TL;DR - even if you are suicidally depressed and your life is made of tragedy and woe, you do not hate yourself enough to eat this goddamn thing! Don't do it. Really. Truly. Avoid at all costs.
spookyevilone: (Default)
is sometimes such an exercise in futility.

Our company office is at the end of a hallway. If you imagine an "L" shape, our company's on the long leg and another company is on the short leg. Their office door is 5' from ours. All of the people that work in that office are boorish, loud bastards.

One of them is a particularly heavy guy who frequently comes to work in stained clothing, reeking of BO, with filthy tennis shoes and is not in any way representative of how I'd want someone to look if they were managing my money. "Unprofessional" does not begin to describe it.

He has a habit of ripping loud farts as soon as he walks out his office door and then shouting jokes about it back and forth with their receptionist and his officemate as he walks toward the bathrooms down the hall. Not only is this gross and happening right in front of our office door, but he's so loud with both effluence and voice that he can clearly be heard by people on the other end of my work telephone.

I've politely asked him to stop. I had building management step in and ask him to stop. He says he will, apologizes, and then continues the behaviour the next day. Yesterday, I was on the phone with clients when he pulled his stunt. That was the straw that broke the camel. I caught him on the way back from the bathroom and chewed him out. He said "What are you going to do about it, whine to the building supervisor again?" in this whiny, sneery tone.

So I glared at him and snapped, "No. We have video of our front office for security reason and it has audio. I'm going to take the tape, capture every time you do it for a week, and upload it to YouTube as 'fat fucker can't stop farting'. With your company name attached. Then I'm going to make sure it's a Google #1 ranked video for at least six months."

He turned grey. "You can't do that! That's illegal!"

"No, it isn't. You're in a public hallway in a public building being an asshole. You have no right to privacy or rights to whatever images or audio clips can be made from that."

Today, he's kept his butt from making noise as he goes past my office.

Don't mess with me. I have the internet and I know how to exploit it.
spookyevilone: (Default)
After re-watching Jurassic Park and Lost World for about the billionth time, and going to IMDB and looking at what Spielberg has done since then, I am forced to conclude that Spielberg has either:

1) Suffered a traumatic brain injury;
2) Suffered a stroke;
3) Developed dementia

since then. Because those movies, even this many years later, make me go "GUH!" Admittedly, Lost World less so than Jurassic Park but at least it had different dinos. The use of CGI and the seamless meshing with the puppets always makes me point at the screen and go, "This?? THIS IS HOW YOU USE CGI!" Nobody does that anymore. You can now tell which parts of a movie are CGI because .. it's like the effects company made it slightly sloppier just so you can TELL. I don't want to be able to tell. If I can tell, it's failing its purpose in the movie.

Jurassic Park 3 doesn't exist in my world.

I also just found out that he's the person doing the TV version of Stephen King's 'The Talisman' - and I suspect that he's going to put me into a frothing rage with it. Brought to you by the same screenwriter who did Transformers 2 and is writing Transformers 3.

Yes, folks, after Transformers 2.. Spielberg and Ehren gave each other high fives and decided to make a third movie. See what I mean about brain damage?
spookyevilone: (Default)
Drink copious amounts of Mt. Dew throughout high school / college / etc = no noticeable affect on colour of urine. Quantity, yes. Colour, no.

Deliberately drink MASSIVE quantities of Mt. Dew Code Red all at once, when it first came out, specifically to see if it would change the colour of urine = no noticeable effect.

Mix one little packet of 'Once A Day' vitamin powder stuff with 20 oz of water and WHAM! Neon green urine.

That shouldn't be cool, but it so totally is. Even if it did freak me right the hell out this morning.



And lest anyone think I'm some whacko with a pee fetish, I have acute intermittent porphyria. I keep an eye on urine colour as a matter of habit, because if it turns pumpkin orange, I have very little time to load up on glucose and potassium and carbs before I wind up in the hospital with debilitating abdominal pain. Though this habit leads to some panicky WTF moments.. like if I eat too many beets .. or apparently if I start using Once A Day vitamin powder in an effort to be healthier.
spookyevilone: (Default)
After a fairly ugly bout with ulcer foo and food poisoning this weekend, I decided to take today off to recover, rehydrate, and relax. I wasn't sure if there'd be a visit to the emergency room or not - thankfully, I came down on the 'not' side of that.

Searched Craigslist for clothing, since my business wardrobe is all in storage. Found someone offering a large lot of pants/slacks in my size, so I went to pick them up. They were handed to me by a guy, so I asked "Just to clarify - these are women's pants, yes?"

"Yes. They were my sister's. She bought them right before her bariatric surgery, and thought she'd be able to wear them afterward. She died due to complications of the surgery."

Awkward! I thanked him and told him I'd put them to good use. Got into the truck (YAY I HAVE MY TRUCK BACK! Oh, how do I love thee, truck, let me count the ways!) and promptly blinked, "I'm going to be wearing a dead woman's clothing. That's.. kind of cool, actually!"

I rampaged through several thrift stores and completed my wardrobe with blouses, blazers, and dress pants - most of the pants need to be hemmed severely because I am short and stout and apparently designers think if you are as stout as I happen to be, you should be at LEAST 6'4". No, seriously - these pants are 9" to 12" too long. It's ridiculous. Ivetta sent me the name of a tailor in my area, so I shall drop them all off and have that remedied.

Got my hair did, chopped off and highlighted, because since I was expressing my double-x-chromasomedness, I figured I might as well go whole hog. That seemed to set off some sort of primal female urges that I have not previously been subject to.

No, seriously. I bought makeup and a purse. Also a real wallet, finally. The purse is .. well, now it's too warm to wear a jacket and dress pants pockets aren't deep enough for my wallet and keys and phone, so I need somewhere to store that shit.

While in Makeup Store The Firste, the nice aesthetician was trying to talk me into eyebrow powder, which is like eyebrow pencils only.. powder. I have a thin spot on a brow that's recovering from a very bad wax job followed by me experimenting with this whole eyebrow plucking thing. I explained that and she perked up, "Oh! Can I show you how to do that? I learned how to do that in beauty school and I haven't ever gotten to show anyone!" By all means, have at! She managed to explain in a way that made sense and that I will be able to duplicate without unfortunate Marilyn Manson-esque results from now on.

See, I have two x-chromasomes - and have the DNA profile to prove it, damnit - but I'm also a perfect example of nature vs. nurture. Nobody ever showed me how to be a girl, so for things that are well within girly paradigm, I am at a major loss. Like eyebrow plucking. Also nail polish - I cannot colour within the lines to save my life. It doesn't matter when the only nail colour you wear is black but black is kind of a no-no in the professional business world.

After all that, I decided to get some sort of over the shoulder boulder holder that wasn't a gym bra. This lead to the annoying realization that my boobs are clearly bent on world domination, since they're once again a full cup size larger than they were a year ago. I've lost weight. The boobs should be shrinking, but no, they clearly want to expand enough that there's a defensive perimeter in front of me at all times. Now if I could only graft some sort of laser weapon into my body, that'd be damn useful. Since I can't, it's mostly just annoying and expensive. I spent as much on three bras as I did on pretty much everything else total that I bought today. Grr.

In Makeup Store the Seconde, I found this product called 'lip stain'. It's a permanent marker.. for your lips. Oh hells yes, sign me right up for that shit! I bought two and I may go back and buy more. Man, if this stuff came in black, blue, and green, I would be in seventh heaven. Sadly, it only comes in reds, oranges and browns. I need to find a really good, bright, hooker red. Every woman who wears lipstick needs at least one hooker red lipstick. It's in the manual.. somewhere.

That was my adventure today. I'm now going to go regress to age five and begin playing with makeup.
spookyevilone: (Default)
I always have adventures when I buy things off Craigslist, and tonight was no exception. Due to loan officer fubar, I won't be purchasing the house for at least another 90 days, so I got an apartment across from work. This required furniture, since my life is still in storage pods and I don't have the mental energy to go through the pods to unpack the stuff I want and re-pack everything else.

Tonight: Acquired keys, got permission to destroy bedroom carpet if there was hardwood underneath. Promptly went upstairs, established that there was hardwood under the carpet - and immediately yanked up the ugly, cheap carpet that had no padding and was just stapled to the floor. Stapled. Into hardwood. I COULD CRY! But, now it's gone. The glue ick from the back of the carpeting left residue on the floor, not sure if that can be cleaned off without stripping the floor or sanding. I'm not sure if I want to just see if it can be cleaned, slap another coat of poly on it and call it good, or if I want to have it sanded and finished. Probably should go with just the stripping. Of the flooring, dirtymind.

Left the apartment, went to pick up Big Beanbag Chair that unzips into a bed. Arrived, checked mailboxes - none of them matched the name on the email. Sent an email to person to let them know I was there. Waited. Sent another email saying that if they weren't there in five minutes, I was leaving. Five minutes passed and I was pulling out of the space when another car pulled up and flagged me down. Little Hispanic guy (trust me, this is relevant later) apologizes profusely in his cute Mexican accent because he was held late at work and takes me up to see the chair. He tries to down-sell himself, telling me that if the price was too high, he'd take less. It was in great condition so I said the price was fine. I inspected it to make sure there were no illicit drugs or dead hookers wrapped up inside it. (SOP for EVERYTHING I buy from CList) He carried it down to my car for me, then apologized some more and offered me free Aveda products. I don't use products of any kind, really, but he insisted, so I went back up to the apartment with him thinking, "Aha! This is where I get murdered by a crazy Craigslist person!"

You'll notice that thought didn't stop me from going up to the apartment with him.

So he gathers up a mega crapload of really expensive Aveda stuff. Body cream, hand lotion, oils, stuff for cracked hands, bath gel goo, chapstick.. All in all, probably $200 worth of stuff. I try to protest but he insisted. Then he offered me his phone number, in case there was anything wrong with the chair when I got it home or I didn't like it or it didn't match my decor and I wanted to return it. I said sure and put his number and email in the cellphone and asked for his name.

"George Jablowski." (real last name changed but phonetically similar)

I stared at him and blurted, "Ok, you're from Mexico, you're Hispanic.. how the hell are you George Jablowski?"

"Oh.. My mom is Mexican but my Dad is white. Everyone asks that - they think I'm Jorge (hor-hay), but it's just George."

I said goodbye and headed to Appointment 2. This was a vacuum.

I arrive at destination and knock. The door is answered by a GIANT MOUNTAIN OF A MAN wearing biker leathers, long hair, facial tattoos (so, y'know, I was busy staring at the pretty ink..) and he's on the phone and crying his eyes out. He's trying to find a vet because his dog is sick and he thinks she's been poisoned. She's a pit bull and people think they're mean but she's just a baby - and her name is Baby - and she's just a puppy, so why would anyone poison her.. and he goes on and on like this after inviting me in. I ask if I can see the dog because I work with animals and might be able to do something fast to help. He says sure and gestures me into the back dining room area while he continues to dial the number of veterinary numbers. I go look at the puppy.

After one look and a gentle prodding to confirm what my eyes were telling me, I called back, "Brian? She's not poisoned. You're gonna have to change her name, though."

"What?"

"Her name. You're going to have to change it to 'Mommy'."

"She CAN'T be pregnant! She's only 8 months old!"

"Uh.. well, she's having puppies RIGHT NOW, so.."

"But the breeder said she had been neutered! I have papers that say that she's fixed!"

"I'd get your money back, then, because in about 10 minutes, you're going to be a grandfather."

He was worried about his dog ("dawg") and kept asking me if she'd really be alright. I reassured him she'd probably be fine. He'd only had her for three weeks, so I knew she hadn't gotten pregnant while he had owned her. He was also royally pissed, "She's just a puppy herself! She shouldn't be having puppies!" Yeah. I agree. I stayed with him until she was done delivering four little wriggling bundles of puppy love and made sure they were eating and breathing, then collected my vacuum and left. Mother and puppies were fine. He's going to take them to the vet in the morning to get them all checked out.

This shit only happens to me.
spookyevilone: (Default)
I'm not going to link to it, because the song title is "Pussy" and the music video is pornography.

No, really. They made mediocre porn and put it in the video. Complete with moneyshots and things I never wanted to know about the state of Rammstein's members..er.. members.

Trent Reznor does better by alluding to graphic sex in his videos than this band did with their actual attempt at hardcore. No wonder they can't get laid in Germany. They wouldn't be able to get laid here, either, if it wasn't legal to pay for it in Nevada.

I think what disturbs me most about this is the lyrics. "You have a pussy. I have a dick-uh!" Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina. Congratulations, asshat, you've got a basic grasp of anatomy complete with gradeschool schoolyard slang!

Seriously?

Seriously?

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spookyevilone

February 2014

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