Cannibal Crops

What if plants have feelings?

We already know they grow better if you talk to them - who's to say they don't have emotions or can feel pain? Maybe that plant doesn't want water right now it just wants someone to listen - why can't you ever listen? I have tulips and they were made for talking, mister.

As soon as science catches up to realize that plants are like really lazy dogs (or really active cats), it is going to throw vegetarians for a loop.

They've spent so much time trying not to be cruel to animals - all the while kicking this hell out of some asparagus. Suddenly their diet would be high in fiber AND murder.

Think about the holocaust that happens every year around harvest for farmers! Think about your disgusting compost pile! Think about the lawn mowers, the tree limb cutters, the weed wackers.

Think about the baby carrots.

But before you feel too bad, think, also, about the the fact that these plants grow in dirt. Dirt that is made up of their dead relatives and friends. The compost of their fallen breathren.

Plants are cannibals.

Which is kinda gross, if you think about it.

I'll stick to cleaner food.

Like pork.

Gotta Prescription For More Ciao Bella

I've finally returned from my belated Italian honeymoon - leaving a trail of broken hearts through southern Italy. I think Italy's main export is curves. It is like the entire country is a C cup. America's obsession with skinny blonde girls seems silly after being there. Girls in America look like someone put a wig on the number 1; in Italy it is like someone drew arms and legs on the number 8.

But that's not why we are here today - we are here today to laugh at my misfortune.

As part of the honeymoon, we visited my wife's family in Sicily*. They live in a town of about 11,000 - which is similar to the size of my hometown. I wish I could say it was the equivalent of Italian Rednecks, but they have style and don't kiss their cousins - which means they are missing out on all the fun.

We arrived on Saturday, just in time for a big town festival. I had just met her family for the first time (I'm using "meet" loosely here - since I don't speak Italian there was mostly polite nodding and confused giggling), and we were thrown into crowded streets of celebrating Italians. Almost immediately my wife and I were separated, leaving me wandering the streets with nothing but a beard and a positive attitude.

My saving grace was a kind Uncle and the friendly boyfriend of a cousin. In this instance, "saving grace" actually means grappa - which is more or less Italian Moonshine.

The Uncle and Boyfriend fed me shot after shot of the stuff. And that was before noon.

After a few rounds of grappa, some lunch beers, some lunch wine and more confused giggling, the Boyfriend convinced me we should go ring the bell of the church.

Now, this is an old city. We were going to climb to the top of the "new" church, which was 300 years old and next door to the "old" church - which was 500 years old.

We climbed up the winding staircase to find a bell roughly the size of my ego with some ropes hanging to the side. He grabbed a robe and started ringing this giant, 300 yr old bell.

I thought it looked fun so I grabbed the other rope and started to help ring the bell.

Of course, I had never rang a bell the size of a car before, so when the bell swung the other way, I didn't let go of the rope. Unfortunately, the rope also didn't let go of me, and threw me across the bell tower Macho Man Randy Savage style (too soon?).

I stood up with bloody knuckles, an untucked shirt and an awesome story. And became instantly the most popular guy in town (popular kids are the ones that everyone makes fun of, right?)

So while I have made my triumphant return to the States, my heart, and knuckles, remain in Italy.

*My wife is 100% Italian which is how I got away with writing everything in that first paragraph without having to sleep on the couch.

What's For Dinner? Groundhog

“If you’re not qualified to talk about anything, then talk about everything” says Narm. Okay, I’ll give this a whirl.

But I think I’m pretty qualified to talk about dinner, I’ve probably had: 11,483 dinners in my lifetime. Give or take the nights where I had two dinners or more. I’m not a master chef or anything just a guy that likes to eat tasty animals.

For some reason, the little woman and I have the same conversation at about the same time everyday. It goes something like this:

Me: What should we have for dinner?
Her: I dunno what do you want for dinner?
Me: Pizza, Chinese, Burritos? (notice I’ve covered all the major food groups)
Her: I don’t really have a taste for any of those...
Me: Okay, well I really don’t have a taste for anything, and I’m open to whatever so you pick. Chicken maybe?
Her: ... (I assume she’s thinking here, or just plotting new ways to drive me crazy about dinner)
Me: So what do you have a taste for?
Her: I don’t really have a taste for anything either.

This normally continues on in the same circular fashion until we get to a food that we’re both okay with. It’s not really “what’s for dinner?” it’s more of a game of “what’s not for dinner”.

If you majored in English/have a degree in English/done a lot of reading you might have come across: Waiting for Godot (classing this blog up a little) and this whole thing is a lot like that- infuriating. Or if movies are more your thing, this is my personal Groundhog Day.

From this point forward, that’s going to be answer: Groundhog. I might finally be able to follow in Bill Murray’s footsteps and break out of the “what’s for dinner” loop.

So dear reader, the next time your significant other, boyfriend, girlfriend, live-in howler monkey or spouse says “what’s for dinner?” answer, Groundhog. Joion me and break the cycle- stop the insanity!

(Note: Not tested in and not designed to work in parts of Appalachia)

tortorici, italy

So Narm has been gone now, what five, six days? By this time he has grown fatter on some of the best food in the world, drunker on some exceptional wines, and awash in the progressive, sunsplashed, and naked atmosphere of Italy with his darling/hummingbird wife.

What this really means is that he is stumbling down a topless beach, arms outstretched to gain balance. And the all of the onlookers are screaming bloody murder about some fuzzy American bear terrorizing all of the naked chicks, offering to apply suntan lotion. And the “Polizia” are definitely on their way.

So there's that.

But what really matters is this blog. This blog that he so tenderly tends to/occasionally neglects. It's like the bonsai tree that Mr. Myagi would have had if they ever made a “Karate Kid VIII”. You know, the sequel they would have already made if they would just listen my idea of JUST KEEP MAKING SEQUELS.

Ahem.

But they let a few original scripts get through (uh, duh, “Thor”) and so now there's no “Karate Kid VI: Karate Kid Goes to Sri Lanka” and there's no Bonsai tree, and there's nothing good, and Narm left this blog in my hands. Which is kinda like leaving a piece of cake in the hands of a fat kid, right before dinner.

Omnarmnarm?

But like a fat kid after Bariatric surgery, I'm stuck feasting on lemon rinds and raisin skins. Fats McGee has no room left at the inn for this slice of Internet pie. So I'm going to wait till nobody is looking, slide this thing back under the cake server, (and by that I mean his iBook, which he left on his coffee table, which is in his living room, which is at 1405 Westwood Ave, Lakewood, OH, 44107).

(You know, for the fans, And if...if you wanna check out his place. Ummm, keep an eye on it. While he's gone.)

And I'm just going to wait till he comes/is deported home to take care of this little pet pine tree. Because then you'll hear about what an amazing time he had.

And how he got an European sprinkler system stuck between his legs.

p.s.- I just said a lot of something by saying nothing

p.p.s.- Made you look! Pfffftttt!

What You Think About Vat?

I'm busy trying to convince my wife we should go check out the topless beaches instead of the Vatican right now, so I've lined up a few guest blogs to satisfy the hunger that is you, Reader.

But not just any guest blogs...

CELEBRITY GUEST BLOGS!

Wait, that just means the posts were written by people who are celibate, right?

Please enjoy the posts this Tuesday and next, the first written by @buildingjason and the second by @jasonperkowski

But I bet they aren't as much fun as topless beaches.

Not that I would know.

Coming, Dear...

Happy Bidet To You, Happy Bidet To You

As I mentioned before, the wife and I are finally taking our honeymoon this spring. We're heading to Italy for two weeks of relaxation, great culture and better food.

Or at least that's what I told her.

The real reason I am going?

I want to try out a bidet.

Why don't we have these in America? This is a country of excess and comfort - where 50 yr old housewives drive Hummers and 6 yr olds have cell phones. We couldn't take the next step and add in a bidet?

Never having used a bidet, I am also a bit nervous. I mean, I've done what any rational person would do and watched as many Youtube videos about them as possible, but I didn't realize how complicated the entire process would be.

I pictured it as a Sprite commercial - like a big splash of cold mountain water hitting you in the face. But in this case your face is your butt.

But after some research, there are temperature controls and speed controls - it is just like a shower - except you don't pee in it.

With this new information, I have to admit I'm less excited about the prospect of using a bidet. In my mind it was like those water fountains at the mall that shoot water out of the ground and little kids always sit on. But now it just seems like a really cruel trick. Like if your VCR shot water out of it when you were trying to set the time.

But I'll still try it out. I just can't promise I'll put it on Youtube.

Sick Of It All

I've officially been sick for a full week - which makes me assume I'm going to die.

I checked all my symptoms on WebMD and am pretty sure I have whatever Osama Bin Laden just caught.

I can't decide which is worse - feeling like I've been blowing my nose into thumb tacks all week, or my throat feeling like I chugged a full bottle of Nickelodeon Gak.

But the absolute worst part about being sick is that it ruins all the joys in life.

First, my beloved beard has turned into snotcicles.

Second, it is really hard to make fun of someone when it takes you 13 seconds to swallow the plegm in your throat before saying, "Your Mom is a birther."

And finally, no matter how hard I have tried, my wife remains unconvinced that me putting on Vick's Vapor Rub is considered foreplay.