Tag Archives: Humor

Kitty Cocoa Puffs

21 Jan

Those look like Cocoa Puffs. I wish my cat barfed Cocoa Puffs.

 

Of all the days to barf on my coat, why did my cat have to choose today?  It snowed, for Pete’s sake.

I suppose I brought it on myself.  I should have hung it up.  Inevitably, when my jet black peacoat is left out on any flat surface, my obese felines only have two options: 1) take up residence on it, leaving a thick fur trail as evidence of their shifting during their nap  2) barf on it.

This morning, it was the latter.

You know, for a moment I had some kind of a sick satisfaction about it.  Because about a week ago, I bought a Groupon for drycleaning services and today’s event proved it was a wise investment.  

But it’s the gatling gun effect that really gets me.  You know, the gatling gun effect: walk-stop-barf, walk-stop-barf.  The first pile of kitty krunch an owner finds is seldom alone.  It’s joined by a series of other unfortunate incidents which are scattered around the house  and must be carefully and thoroughly sought out for fear of the dreaded puke-in-the-toes.  Sometimes this is a result of a hard-to-reach hairball in the deep recesses of their kitten throats.  Sometimes, they just like to take a leisurely stroll while they puke.  Like it’s no big deal.

And so I suffered in the harsh, cold winter air of the city today.  Let it be known that when faced with the choice between barf-stained coat or no coat at all, I will take the high road.  

I just wish that my cats had a little more consideration for me.  After all I do for them, this is how they repay me.

I sound like a wounded mother.

And you know what? Maybe I am.  I can name without effort numerous occasions where my cats have shown a blatant lack of respect for me.

Like the time I came home from a weekend vacation and found that the bamboo jar on the entertainment center had been knocked over and onto our new television, sending it into a poltergeist-like flurry of unstoppable channel flipping, volume adjusting madness.  A chunk of fur was found in the vase and submitted to the court as the incriminating evidence. 

And then there are the times that they dash into the refrigerator when I’m thinking about what to eat and absolutely refuse to come out unless by brute force.

Or last night, even.  Hobbes claimed the coffee table as his own and systematically began pushing everything out of his way: magazines, coasters, cups, controls…  As a final act of defiance, he pushed the candy dish off. It fell to the ground, spilling a pool of foil-wrapped wonders all over the carpet, which my other cat, Lola, proceeded to spastically bat around the living room. They’re an unrelenting tag team of terror.

But there are little things they do on occasion that make them absolutely irresistable.  The belly-up pose in the living room, the taking-up-residence-in-the-bathroom-sink, the frequent visits to my lap and assault on my hands as I curl up to relax, and (my favorite) the adorable cat nap that inspires a human nap.   Surely, the ultimate win for my crazy cat lady antics is being able to curl up to a warm kitten, forget all my worries, and drift off to sleep.

Until I wake to the sound of its regurgitation. ♣

 

So some of you were grossed out by yesterday’s post.  And understandably so. U.U.S.S. is an unfortunate and unpleasant reality for millions of suffering Americans.  And I promised you the hope of a more pleasant post today.  …But it has just now occured to me that I posted about cat barf.  I’m deeply sorry for this oversight.  Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write about freshly laundered linens and rainbow sprinkles.

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U.U.S.S.

20 Jan

My battle with underarm unpleasantries runs my life.

In fact, I would almost call it dehabilitating.  Really.  If I could make one of those terrible pharmaceutical commericals, I would show people from all age brackets beyond puberty dealing with the heavy, personal burden of underarm skunk, barred up in their bedrooms out of fear.  After a montage of these folks being suddenly accosted by the sweat storm brewing in their greasy pits, I would offer solace – a golden beacon of light behind a perfect antiperspirant, one offering both salvation from wetness and odor.

Unfortunately, this product does not actually exist.

Really – it can’t.  It can’t possibly exist.  Because I’m pretty darn sure I’ve tried everything – women’s, men’s, spray on, rub on, powder, prescription, clinical strength-and I still trust no product enough to be able to shop for blouses in confidence.

You know what I’m talking about.   There are certain materials that are not underarm friendly and as a result cannot be purchased by sufferers of U.U.S.S. (Unavoidable Underarm Skunk and Swamp).    Thin cotton? Forget it.  Fine Silk? Ruined in 30 minutes.  My pits are an unstoppable sweaty stinky force to be reckoned with.

I once knew a girl who had a procedure to remove the sweat glands from her underarms.  It sounded to me like absolute euphoria.   I could imagine no greater aspiration than my freedom from the cold, lonley cage of pit perils.

I later found out that a natural side effect of removing underarm sweat glands is increased perspiration in other areas of the body.  Gross.

Once, last year, I thought I would try the complete opposite and see if it helped my cause.  Yes, that’s correct; I went an entire day with absolutely no underarm aid whatsoever.  Just fresh, clean, Jackie dew.  And you know what? I was actually all right.  For some reason I sweated less, and the sweat that I had didn’t even stink.   I was startled and confused.

Of course, I dropped the practice the very next day for fear that I had finally flung over the full-fledged hippie fence and I haven’t looked back since.

Next thing you know, I’d stop shaving my underarms and start a nice set of dreds.  My family would undoubtedly disown me.  I’m toeing the line as it is.

And so I must trudge on with my personal burden.  It is mine to carry and so I shall.  Long gone are the days when I could slather on “Teen Spirit” and a smile to face my day.   I’ve reached a new chapter in my life.   And until I turn on the T.V. to a sincere female voice describing my social inhibitions and everyday struggles as a result of U.U.S.S., followed by a brilliant beam of light and a life-saving product, it appears this new chapter will be a damp one.  ♣

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Starbucks Pastries: Little Dough Devils

19 Jan

The Den of Sin

Starbucks pastries get me every single time.

I’d like this think it’s not my fault.   After all – I’m pretty convinced that nearly anything can look divine on a white pedestal behind a clean glass case.   Mere humans are helpless against its mysterious power.  But I’ve done this too many times.   I should know by now.

I walk into Starbucks chanting to myself inside my head “Venti Soy No Whip Mocha. Venti Soy No Whip Mocha.”   If I don’t focus on this phrase intently, I will inevitably blurt out something ridiculous when the barista confronts me.  Like “piggly wiggly” or “boobface.”  The pressure of high-speed food service takes a very serious toll on me.

Halfway into my inner Gregorian chant, it happens: my eyes lock with the pastry case.   Cinnamon scones with more calories than a quarter pounder, muffins the size of my face, and danishes that put waddle on my arms with a mere glance.  Every single time I fall for it.  And every single time I throw it away after two bites.  Because Starbucks pastries are just big doughy wads of disappointment.  They parade themselves like beautiful sinful indulgences, but deep down they’re empty, tasteless soul-crushers. 

I thought I had a brilliant solution to this the other day.  I was going to write Starbucks and tell them to outsource their pastry cases to local bakeries.   Local bakers get more business, Starbucks streamlines its cost of goods sold, and Starbucks customers everywhere can pick from the case without fear.

But then I stumbled upon this site and read that  John Moore, who was a corporate marketing manager at Starbucks in 2002 and now writes the Brand Autopsy blog says, “If taken solely as a retailer of pastries, it would be the largest in the U.S.”

Apparently I’m the only one who’s unimpressed.

You know what? I don’t even like coffee.  I drink coffee when I’m faced with the reality of my head hitting the keyboard while I’m at work.  I drink coffee because sometimes it’s the only thing that will kill the images of oversized plush surfaces inside my brain as I long for the sweet nectar of sleep.   I drink coffee only out of a very deep and very sad reality that the night before, I thought it was a better idea to watch 18 episodes of Arrested Development than to go to bed like a responsible adult.

And so I will have to say goodbye to Starbucks.  I can no longer bear the weight of the disappointing pastry case.  And unless all of America is under the same trance as I that accounts for my constant patronage of their sweets and treats, it appears that my suggestion for outsourcing to local bakeries is unnecessary.

I have nothing to offer you, Starbucks, and I can see clearly enough now to know that you have nothing to offer me.  This is clearly an emotionally abusive relationship and I will no longer take part in it.

Here’s to 5 Hour Energy: Bottoms up. ♣

 

P.S.  Thanks so much for your support through Freshly Pressed, guys – I feel all your warm squishy love.  Hiya to my new subscribers – thanks for checking me out.  Now the pressure to post every day is seriously, seriously on.

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Craft Fail 101: Fat, Lumpy Sock Bunny

18 Jan

Ladies and Gentlemen, Happy Lollipop Tuesday.

If you’re new to the beauty that is the Lollipop Tuesday series, check out a brief explanation here.  Otherwise, onward!

Today’s new attempt: Completing a craft tutorial.   Task:  A bunny made out of a sock.

Before I post my pathetic account and my failure of a bunny sock, I should submit a disclaimer.   I attempted the “Quick Little Bunny Tutorial”  featured on Elsie Marley’s Blog (linkity link) without 3 important things –  a baby sock, sewing skills, and patience.   Because after all, the joy of Lollipop Tuesday is in how much I absolutely suck at new things.   I will learn to embrace it.  You will be inspired.

Okay! To start, I had no baby sock.  Thus, I found the smallest sock in my drawer and went with it.  Let the record show that I am a big girl with big feet.  Size 10 feet, to be exact.  Thus, my bunny is… fatter… than the originally intended design. 

Since my sock was a grown-up sock, it was white and dirty and gross.  So to start, I dyed it black.   In honor of Martin Luther King’s birthday.

Those are my good kitchen tongs.

 I was presented with a rather large problem after this dyeing session.  Namely – where to put the dye.   An attempt at rinsing it down the tub dyed the tub black, a security deposit blunder that I’m still trying to undo with a good old fashioned bottle of Clorox even as I write this.

I freaked out, ran to Dave, and asked him what to do with the evidence.    Without hesitation, he replied that I should flush it down the toilet.  And you know what? It worked.

All right – sock is dyed, dye is down toilet, bathtub is soaking.

I have absolutely no patience for anything in life, and didn’t feel like waiting for the sock to dry… so I stuffed it and sewed it while it was dripping wet.   Besides a bad case of granny fingers, I saw no negative repercussions to this.

For some reason, the logo "Hue," which was green before the dye job, turned bright yellow. Chemistry is a bewildering magic.

I feel as if I should reiterate that I have absolutely no sewing skills.  So every time Elsie’s tutorial said “make a running stitch,” I just ignored it and ran the thread around, through, up, and down every which way until it kind of looked like it was supposed to. 

Behold the Big, Fat, Lumpy Bunny

And voila: A big, fat, lumpy bunny made out of an old sock.  I think it speaks volumes about the clarity of Elsie’s tutorial that I did not pursue this project with any degree of passion and had absolutely no sewing skills and yet somehow my end result actually resembles an adorable bunny.  Minus the adorable.

 End result: Down one security deposit, up one useless sock bunny.  Bids start at a penny. ♣

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Regis Philbin Ruined My Brain

17 Jan

 

 

 

 

Regis Philbin: Ruiner of Brains and Dreams. Image: "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire"

 

I have wasted an incredible amount of brain storage for useless pop culture trivia and I fear I will never get it back.

As I approach my quarter-of-a-century life celebration, I’m forced to again wonder how much I can possibly fit inside my brain before other material is pushed out.

Of course, I wondered the same thing in 4th grade and I’ve managed to make room for a decent amount of information since then.

But I can’t help but consider the useless knowledge I’ve racked up in the dusty attic of my cerebrum.  2nd edition rules for Dungeons and Dragons, the proper execution of raids in World of Warcraft, the names, titles, and prior affiliations of bands and artists from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s, the entire plotline of Battlestar Galactica…  these are all fine details that have proven to be of absolutely no worth in real life.

Unless we are attacked by cylons.  Or wizards.  Then I’m President, no question.

The unfortunate reality of the situation is that these are all areas of study that were self-chosen.  And I’ve decided that there is only one thing to blame: Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.  Well, my incredible affinity for geeky hobbies and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Long before people were just handed a million dollars at the beginning of the show only to waste it away, people actually had to work their way up a frightening ladder of trivia in order to have that beautiful, dirty money rain from the sky like confetti. 

Regis would pull the check out after every ladder rung was successfully climbed, just to show the contestant a taste of what could be theirs if only they would walk away.

I watched at home on the edge of my seat.  All the answers up to the $32,000 mark were pop culture questions!  I only had to watch the most recent shows, listen to the most popular music, and watch the most popular videos to successfully work my way up the ladder to being a millionaire.  I spent time committing strange and random facts to memory, like who invented the lava lamp (for your information, it was Edward Craven Walker).  I even prepared for the possibility that a friend would need me when they were in the hot seat and practiced strategies for looking up the answer to a random question in less than 30 seconds. 

My 8th grade math teacher compounded the problem, by reviewing homework and approaching critical thinking questions with the same rules as the popular game show.  He had actually entered to be a contestant and in anticipation of winning a place in the hot seat, he practiced strategies in the classroom.  If I didn’t know something, I could phone a friend,  try 50/50, or poll the entire class.

That turned out to be a policy other teachers were really not okay with.

Somewhere within the deep, dark crawlspaces of my subconcious, I truly believed that someday I would be called upon to represent the human race and be tested with a vast array of pop culture trivia, after which I would undoubtedly win and sprinkle my friends and family with greasy one dollar bills. 

No one ever called.

The popularity of Millionaire began to decline and Regis Philbin bid adeiu.  New game shows were introduced that had nothing to do with knowledge.  America didn’t want to learn things, it wanted to watch people do ridiculous, degrading tasks for money in one minute or less.  They wanted to see beautiful women open suitcases full of cash.  They wanted to hook people up to lie detectors and see how much they can be humiliated before their friends and family before they step off the stage.

The Internet boasted information overload, Americans became dumber, and I became obselete.

I have no idea who is on the top 10 list for music or videos right now.  I don’t know even one song by Justin Bieber, and I had to google his last name just now to make sure I spelled it correctly.   I’m not entirely sure what’s on T.V. these days and I only browse Netflix’s Instant Queu long after popular shows have gone to DVD.

I have become old and oblivious.

If Meredith Viera called me today and asked me if I wanted to be a millionaire, I would admit in the affirmative and then immediately tell her I’m unworthy out of humiliation.   I am no match for today’s game show quizzes.

I wish I could do something with that space in my brain.  I wish I could go back and fill it with another language or Calc 3 or origami, but I can’t.

I can, however, embrace the new path of T.V. game shows.  I can attempt to move three eggs across my kitchen floor only by fanning them with an empty pizza box.  I can practice pulling tissues out of a box one by one as fast as possible and by only using one hand.   I can speed sort M&Ms by color and place them into separate cups one at a time until I am the grand master of the world at M&M speed sorting.

And so I shall.

Guy Fieri and the producers of Minute to Win It: I’ll be expecting your call. ♣

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Behold, the Power of the Pizza Spatula

16 Jan

 

Last night I took a pizza out of the oven with a genuine, certifiable pizza spatula and it made me feel powerful.

I’ve always ignored the part on the package where it says to cook it directly on the oven rack, thinking that whoever writes theses pizza box directions must be out of their minds.  How could they possibly expect me to be able to retrieve the pizza once I’ve sent it into the depths of the oven’s firey belly?

The answer, my friends, is a pizza spatula.  And it will change the way you look at frozen pizzas forever.

I would never buy a pizza spatula.  I don’t think it occurs to many people that this is something they will need to invest in if they want to make only the most delicious frozen pizzas possible.  I only happened upon this particular kitchen utensil thanks to Dave.

See, Dave is always pulling wacky things out of his bedroom,  closets, and pants.  At any given time of day, regardless of his location I can express to him a need for an item that he either has readily on his person or can make available to me given a pacifier, a rubber band, and a paper clip. 

He recently got a winter coat with a grand total of 14 pockets.  Watching him find the keys at the front door has never been such a delight.

Sometimes tire of the wacky items game and attempt to convince him to throw them out.  Case in point: a food processor from the 1950’s that sits in a tote in our closet.  He hangs on to this treasure in hopes that someday I will up my game in the kitchen to include its use.   Perfectly cut potatoes, from-scratch tomato sauce, and perfectly blended creams and icings are all cooking and baking gems trapped with good intention inside that tote. But every once in a while, Dave stumbles out of the abyss of his bedroom and hands me something I think is the absolute coolest thing I will ever see in my life.   And yesterday, it was the pizza spatula.

Try it: go to the store and get yourself a frozen pizza.  Go to Dave’s room and get yourself a pizza spatula.  And then feel the absolute power of retrieving your full-fired pie from the belly of the beast. 

… maybe I really do need to get out m0re. ♣

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Jackie’s Cat Cafe

15 Jan

Today I was informed that in Tokyo people pay money to enter cafes solely based on the activitiy of cat-petting.

Actually, I was told this piece of information a long time ago but I’m so soaked, wringed out, and soaked again in cynicism that you couldn’t have actually expected me to believe it.

But yesterday I was at work and amongst the filthy ruins of my corporate emails was a gem- a precious gemstone in the wastelands: a YouTube video featuring a Japanese “cat cafe” where visitors pay up to $16 for unlimited petting privileges of a variety of felines.  The Cafe was lined wall to wall with perch stands, where cats were lined up like items on a shelf for the picking.

Do you understand what this means?

All this time I’ve just been trying to figure out a way to do theater, pay my bills, and absolutely nothing else.   I’ve come up with clever inventions, hoping they would be my one-time payoff to fame.  Like Oscar the Elephant, a children’s cartoon about an elephant who was unpopular because he was overweight. 

A lot of my ideas seem to revolve around the creation of a children’s cartoon featuring an animal with a glaring physical challenge that accounts for its being ostricized from the rest of animal society, e.g. Larry the Lump-Necked Giraffe.

But it turns out that all I’ve had to do all along is open the door of my apartment to vagabonds and prostitute my cats. 

Hey.  Don’t judge me.  One of my cats is antisocial and the visits could do him some good.  My other cat is absolutely insatiable.  I can pet her for an hour and she will still ram her head into my hand like a black rhino.   This will be good for them both.

Except this could seriously  interrupt my constant watching of Arrested Development and my playing of Fat Princess.  So I’m going to have to divide the apartment into people I would be okay hanging out with all the time while they pet my cats and people that I really don’t want in my house at all but need money from.

The only thing stopping me is my questionable neighbor down the hall.  She, like all crazy ladies, is incredibly fond of cats – present company inluded.  In fact, upon spotting my cat in the window of my apartment, she has since requested to visit simply to pet them.

What a brilliant marketing tactic:  I’ll be like Subway and Starbucks and stick my merchandise right in the window.  And I’ll have Questionable Neighbor there, demonstrating proper petting techniques.

No.  …No I can’t possibly play Fat Princess and watch Arrested Development with crazy cat lady in my window.  It would be super weird.

I guess it’s Oscar the Elephant and Larry the Lump-Necked Giraffe: a children’s cartoon about love, friendship and above all, acceptance. *cue music* ♣

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The Underground Bathroom Society

14 Jan

I haven’t ever seen anyone at work on my floor go into the restroom.

I have scoured the entire top floor in an attempt to find the secret restroom and I can’t.  I can’t find it anywhere.

Where do these people put their pee?

The restroom I utilize at least twice every day is right outside my office door.  I could probably chuck my stapler from my desk hard enough and make the door to the bathroom push in ever so slightly.  In theory, I have every ability to make an accurate calculation of how many office citizens use that particular restroom on any given day. 

But no one ever comes. 

I can only deduce the following options:

1) There is a secret tunnel entrance to the bathroom of which I am not yet aware and it is only coincidence to blame for the fact that I never see anyone whilst inside. 

2) Everyone else on my floor is a robot.

3) Corporate issued an “Executive Cup” that everyone keeps in their drawers under lock and key and uses it to relieve themselves in an attempt to increase efficiency in the workplace.

4) People are using Potions of Invisibility to play an unbelievably intricate and petty prank on me.

5) There is a curse or evil spirit haunting the bathroom that I am using and everyone goes to another floor to use the restroom out of sheer terror.

6) The floor I work on is only a figment of my imagination in which my brain can comprehend my need to pee but cannot deduce the same need for others, thus accounting for its oversight in my constructed reality. 

I don’t think it’s any of those.

I sometimes wonder if this is part of a very intense, very specific test aimed at discerning my willingness to thoroughly wash my hands on a consistent basis.   The only clues I really have to go on are the fact that the bathroom soap only seems to deplete on (and not between) my visits and the fact that there are a ridiculous number of posters of all shapes and sizes surrounding the inside of the bathroom that emphasize proper handwashing procedures.

Let’s be honest here – do you sing Row Row Row Your Boat all the way through before you stop rubbing?   Do you?  

Because I can tell you that I don’t and I think they’re on to me. ♣

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Baby Bunny Face for the Win.

13 Jan

I know I’ve officially emerged from the muck and mire of sickness when it all comes out of my face at the same time.

You know what I’m talking about.  That day after a sinus infection when you blow your nose for five minutes straight, wondering where it’s all coming from and whether blowing harder will mean pulling your brain out through your nostrils. Yesterday was my day.

It started out as a simple, ordinary nose-blowing session and once I realized the depth of the situation, I nonchalantly made my way to the bathroom so that I could complete the disgusting task in peace.   Dave, (King of the Man Purse Tribe) sensing what was about to happen, proceeded to follow me and begged to see the tissue when I was done.   Actually, “followed” is not an accurate term.  He proceeded to chase me. 

There is little in this world I hate more than being chased.  It doesn’t matter if it’s playful and it doesn’t matter if it’s someone I know won’t harm me.   It could be Mr. Snuffleupagus behind me and I would still sprint into the far horizon screaming bloody murder.  There is something about running with something intentionally running after you that scares the living daylights out of me instantly and without fail.  Dave knows this and will often accompany the chase with raised eyebrows and cold, murdering eyes, darting like a fierce mongoose through the jungle of furniture in our apartment.  He chased me through the dining room, around the living room, and past the hall to the bathroom where I found my refuge and begged for release. 

I absolutely cannot stand being interrupted while I’m in the bathroom.  In fact, if there’s one thing I hate more than being chased, it’s probably being interrupted in the bathroom.  It’s the only place in the world that I can be alone without having to answer anyone, listening to my phone beep at me, or being responsible for missing out on the goings-on of the world.  

Showers offer me a rare and golden moment of solitude in life.  

 Dave also knows this about me and sometimes tests me while in the bathroom, shouting out ridiculous questions that I clearly cannot answer in my current state,  like where the remote control is.

The beauty of his method is that he does everything that makes me crazy all at once so that he only has to suffer the repercussions of one incident when he’s actually managed to commit several major crimes.   And I can’t blame him because it really is a brilliant methodology.

Unfortunately, our bathroom door is old and complicated and doesn’t lock and since Dave clearly knew that I wasn’t using the restroom for naked purposes, he barged into my fortress of solitude and waited until I had to bring the tissue down from my nose.  I stood there, unyielding and still wide-eyed from the chase.   Like a frightened baby bunny, I coiled in the corner, heart racing with fear, waiting for him to sink his sharp teeth into my tender neck for the kill.    He relented and exited the bathroom so that I could finish my business in peace.  

I’m pretty sure it was my baby bunny face that did him in.

And so I have regaled you with my nose-blowing adventures.  It is the final chapter in my blogging about my sickness.  Because on this, the 13th day of January in the 2011th year of our Lord, after a high-speed chase and a little bit of my brain pulled through my nostrils, I declare myself officially cured. ♣

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Excuse Me Sir, Do You Have Any Bangers?

11 Jan

Hey guess what? It’s Lollipop Tuesday! In case you missed the first installment of the Lollipop Tuesday series, you can catch up on the deal here.

So today’s new adventure?  Bangers ‘n’ Mash.  That’s right: Bangers ‘n’ Mash – a classy dish for a classy dame.  With pictures!

Last night, trapped indoors by an incredibly inconvenient bacterial infection monster (let’s call him Gary), I resorted to my two brand spankin’ new cookbooks I got for Christmas.  I handed them over to Dave and told him to pick something ridiculous.  For some reason, he kept picking things that had “Big Beef” in the title.  Like I said… he’s a man’s man.

  After repeating the recipe for “Big Beef Balls” with Something-or-Other and giggling, he finally pointed out the winner: Rachael Ray’s recipe for “Fancypants Bangers ‘n’ Mash” from her “365: No Repeats” book (I couldn’t help myself). It just so happens that yesterday at noon, the teaser was released for the short film I directed this summer, Code Monkey.  Given that it features a song called “Fancypants,” I couldn’t help but make the big sausage and potato mess in celebration.  (Check out the teaser here if you just can’t live with the curiosity).

I sent Dave to the store for the necessitites and prepped the kitchen.   In the duration of his absence, he managed to call me 3 separate times with very specific questions regarding my needs.  Turns out “bangers” isn’t really an American term.  Apparently it’s not the kind of thing you can just walk into a grocery store and ask for.  Not even the butcher knew what the hell he was talking about.

I googled it and found that “bangers” is a term for “British bangers” and is just a type of white sausage. 

Mmm... Bubbling Pork Butt

After telling Dave I had no idea and just get something that had pig butt in it, he came home to find that Rachael Ray had made a note in the side comments that any sort of sausage would do.

Let it be known: there are times in this world when reading a book is actually more efficient than googling something.

And so Dave returned with the goods I began my journey into the sloppy world of onions, mashed potatoes, and pig butt.  Delicious.

Gary, the bacterial infection monster, kept me lightheaded the entire time and zapped my sense of taste and smell.  I had to enlist two hungry boys for their expert opinions and actually got some pretty rave reviews.

Final Analysis:  Fancypants Bangers ‘n’ Mash: a stupid name for a recipe that tastes far better than it looks. ♣

 

Thanks to this cool cat taking the time to lay it out on her recipesfromkari blog,  you can check out Rachael Ray’s Bangers ‘n’ Mash here and give it a go yourself.   I recommend playing with the pig butt before cooking it.  It’s mushy and mysterious and will occupy at least three solid minutes of your time.

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