Freshmaker, my ass

Here I am, eating Mentos, a.k.a. “The Freshmaker!!” when I find myself declaring shananigans on the Mentos Company.  Their product is all wrong.  False advertising is the game these folks are playing and I’m not about to stand for it.

Enter into evidence Exhibit A:

See below the word “fruit”, in tiny letters, it says “The Chewy Mint”.  Now look at the flavors–cherry, lemon, orange….how on earth can these fruits be considered “mint”?  Oh, that’s right.  They can’t.  It is physically impossible for fruit flavors to attain a mint undertone.  Try it for yourself.  Go brush your teeth, then take a big old bite out of an orange.  See what I mean?  It’s disgusting.  I am not refreshed after I do this. 

Second, I think Mentos are trying to ride the coattails of Skittles.  Mentos are like the retarded cousin of Skittles, all big, fat, and slow.  “Look, we’re Skittles!”  No Mentons,  you are not Skittles.  You are the Downs Syndrome Skittles.  I am still not refreshed.

Bonus points and mad props to you however, Mentos for:

 A) reacting so awesomely against Coke and making Coke spill it’s fizzy load all over the place

2) being the inspiration for that one Foo Fighters music video, “Big Me.”

 

So as you can see, Mentos are dumb, lazy, and are not acutally mints when in flavors other than “mint” or “spearmint” or “peppermint”.  Good try, though.  Extra credit for gaining street cred with science nerds and bored kids worldwide for your ability to make a Coke literally soil itself and for Dave Grohl wearing pigtails in the “Big Me” video. 

Hi, I’m nine years old and already, I’m an a-hole!

I am enraged.  Incensed.  I just read an article about some bratty little 9-year-old Chinese kid complaining that his first day of college at Hong Kong Baptist University was “very easy.”

Uh, you know what I find very easy, March Boedihardjo?  Staying up late, eating ice cream whenever I want, and driving my own car.  Man, being an adult is soooo freaking easy that I just want to go somewhere, unattended, no parental supervision, and go play in a toy store.  By myself.  And come home whenever I want to. 

There’s a word for your kind, mister, and it’s “showboat.”  Nobody likes a showboat.  I bet even your parents hate you and wish that you were their second born son so that they could give you up for adoption. 

Excuse me, I’m going to go play with puppies and then go to a candy store.

Sucka!!!

A theory, by E.E. Zulkoski

                                                                          

The “Essence of Emeril” is really his dirty laundry soaked in a large stock pot, over medium high heat, until brought to a boil.  Then, it is reduced to medium low heat, covered, and simmered for 20 minutes.  Next, it is drained, tossed with grey sea salt from the south of France, some red peppercorns, and a smack of ham. 

BAAAMMM!!!

Look at my lovely hat….AND MY CREEPY FACE!!!

Here I was, la la la, looking online for some knitting patterns because yes, I am actually 67 years old, and I came across THIS:

                                                           

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the sheer horror of it.  I swear this is the EXACT picture of every chi-mo alive.  Look at the dull, expressionless eyes.  The thin, yet refined molestache.  The thick, yet oddly well-groomed eyebrows.  The full, pouty lips…….?  Terrifying, yet mildy attractive.  Wait a minute!  I know who this looks like!!:

 Uncanny!

                                                             

                                                                                

                 

*author’s note:  the picture of Justin Timberlake has been altered.  Badly.  This is not a real picture of Justin Timberlake.  Good day.*

The jerky cowboy hurt my feelings.

Make fun of me all you want:  I go to karaoke bars and sing.  Terribly. 

The bar me and my hip karaoke friends go to sing is a small, hole-in-the-wall joint that features $2.50 pitchers of Old Style every Thursday night.  So in a word–sweetness.  As with any bar anywhere in America, The Roadhouse (how awesome of a name is that?!  Just like the Patrick Swayze movie!!) has it’s regulars.  Ours is a kindly old cowboy named Chick.  Chick is seriously 85 years old and dresses up in the finest cowboy garb available.  10-gallon hat, sweet Western shirt, Wranglers, osterich skin boots, and the huge belt buckle.  Chick’s a real ladies man….correction; he’s a ladies man to all the ladies except for me.  Whenever a country song is being sung, Mr. Chick picks out a lady from the crowd and proudly Tw0-Steps with them.  He has danced with every woman in the bar except for me.  Why?  Because Chick is an asshole. 

I used to think it was because I am chubby and Chick has a “no fatties” clause, but last week, he asked one of the regular karaoke singers to dance and she’s bigger than I am.  And one other time, his song was playing and he was scanning the room looking for a dance partner, but there weren’t any other women in the room except for me and the bartender.  The old son of a bitch was standing up, looking around, met my gaze, held it for a few seconds, then sat his wrinkly old cowboy butt back down in his chair and pouted.  So I got to thinking; either Chick is scared of tall girls, with he being a rather short man and I’m roughly 5′11″, or Chick is so mesmerized by me that he is too nervous to ask me to dance. 

It is my goal to get him to ask me to dance, then rudely deny him.  See how it feels?  Not so good, Chick.  Not so good.

Angry: A story of forgiveness

That is how I feel right now:  angry. 

Long story short–went out last night, had some Colorado Kool-Aid, woke up this morning wanting to quench the demons from last night and nothing does this better than a nice greasy sausage McMuffin and hash browns from McDonald’s.  I used to love Mickey D’s as a tot and who knew that my love would grow with me?  I don’t usually eat there because who craves McDonald’s on a regular basis?  Only when I’m drunk, thanks.  I mean, I have my boundaries. 

ANYHOO, I woke up this morning and I knew where I had to go before school.  I got into the car and made my way to my friendly neighborhood McDonald’s.  I should have known some sort of shenanigans would arise.

First of all, the drive thru is split into 2 lanes.  I hate that.  How do they know if they’re giving you the right order?  Oh, don’t worry.  They don’t. 

As I was driving up, I saw an employee outside, just chilling out, holding a tray of something.  I slowed down and she said something, I kept going until I realized she spoke to me, so than I kind of hit my brakes, but I was too far past her so I kept going.  I felt like an ass.  She had samples of some sort.  Free food, people.  You never miss an opportunity for free food.  Dammit, if I could do it all over again, I would.  So I drive up to the speaker box thinger and there is someone in the next lane, also.  In my past experiences, the drive thru operator does orders one at a time.  Not today; I heard the lady next to me giving her order and then at the same time I was giving my order.  This gave me a slight panic moment inside, but I got done first, so I pulled up to give my money.  The amount was correct, so I prematurely expected great things from this trip.

I drove up to get my food.  Keep in mind that I had ordered a #2 (sausage egg mcmuffin), orange juice, and a 42 oz soda because they are only 89 cents.  I drove up and was immediately alarmed to see that being handed to me was a medium soft drink and then my food bag.  I was all, “Uh, I had an orange juice and a 42 oz Diet Coke.”  The girl behind the glass looked at me.  “Oh, this isn’t yours?”  Noooo…..that’s kind of what I had implied when I said “I had an orange juice and Diet Coke.”  Gosh. 

I handed my drink back to her and waited as she got my right drinks ready.  Now, having said this, any normal, cognitive thinking person would then have an alarm go off inside the cranium, alerting them to maybe check the contents of the food bag.  As you all know, I am not a normal person, so I did not.  And I’ll be damned if i didn’t get the right food!!

Is there something wrong with me?  And Jason, too, because it seems that McDonald’s has some sort of hidden agenda against us.  I am constantly not getting the right food, which if you think about it, is retarded because you would think that I would be very cautious about my checking my food to make sure it’s correct.  But I don’t.  Because I’m too trusting of the McDonald’s corporation.  How can you not trust a company whose mascot is a friendly, bright red headed clownman?  Look at his giant red shoes!!  And his wacky yellow speed suit/equestrian outfit!!  He just begs to be loved!!  And I do.  Foolishly, I do…  And Jason’s had terrible luck too.  I remember fondly the time he ordered a sandwich and asked for extra pickles and when he got home to eat said sandwich, all there was on the bun was a very naked hamburger patty.  I guess in McDonald’s land “extra pickles” means “don’t’ put anything on my sandwich except for your hard work and sweat.”  Just outrageous. 

I get to school, get situated, and open my sandwich.  Now keep in mind, the drunken tummy is very adamant about the foods it has in it, which is why mine prefers the sausage egg mcmuffin.  Nothing else works.  Nothing else soothes me like my mothers soft touch than a sausage egg mcmuffin.  I took a bite. 

First of all, I get slapped in the face by an old tasting mcmuffin.  There was nothing “mc” about it.  So my taste buds were assaulted by that.  Then, I realized with great horror that I was not savoring a delicious sausage patty, but instead a leathery, bland slab of ham.  WTF?!  Now you’re just mocking me.  Ham?  Really?  I guess I should feel kind of like a hero because I saved some other person from getting slapped in the face with this trash, but on the other hand, that means someone is enjoying MY sausage egg mcmuffin right now and thriving on the benefits it produces!!  Son of a bitch!!

I am in shock.  Again.  They did it again.  This is the point where I belittle the employees of McDonald’s:  Fast food isn’t rocket science.  Sure, I can appreciate the fact that times get a little hectic and crazy in the biz, but for corn’s sake, how difficult is it to make sure the public is getting fed?  It’s not difficult at all.  Really.  You obviously wouldn’t have been hired if you didn’t possess some sort of problem-solving skills and can form complete sentences.  Just think, people.  Think.  My god…

My whole day is off kilter and ruined.  I was depending on my sausage egg mcmuffin.  I needed it to live.  Now, I’m just an empty shell of a person, wandering aimlessly through life, devoid of all the pleasures I once found comport and solace in.  My days blend together like dripping paint on a wet canvas that I call my life.  The nipples of Mother Hope have run dry. 

Having said that, I will take my leave of you.  I’m weak right now.  I don’t have the life force of 600 calories of greasy sausage and egg food product coursing my veins.  I hope you all learn something from this tale:  If we go to McDonald’s, make sure I get the right food.

Peace,

E

Death by roller shoes…

1,600 ER visits and one death have been reported last year due to a growing new menace amongst our children, grandchildren, cousins, nephews, nieces, illegitimate bastards, and crack babies:

Roller shoes.

These “shoes” or as I like to call them, “Lucifer’s Footwear”, have a skateboard-like wheel embedded into the soles and souls of these shoes, making it possible for children of all ages to seemingly hover over the ground like so many devil freaks are often wont to do.  I personally, am scared for our younger generations.  Wheels on the bottoms of shoes?  What’s next?  Indoor plumbing?!  Mass transportation?!  Mobile cordless telephones?!  When will the madness and carnage end?  How many more will have to suffer the little children before the massacre comes to an end?

It is here and now that I say we all ban together to try to stop these atrocities against our youth.  I hereby call to order the first meeting of S.H.O.E.S:  Stop Hurting Our Endangered kidS.  Our mission is to get all forms of extracurricular entertainment off the streets and out of our homes, schools, mosques, and Dairy Queens.  This has to end!  Will another retarded child DIE because of our ignorance to this issue? 

 Meetings will be every 3rd Tuesday at 7:15 p.m. at Chik-Fil-A on Bradshaw Street. 

We will be victorious!!

You’re playing….PLINKO!!!!

Bob Barker is retiring from The Price Is Right after 185 years as the host of the wildly popular game show. 

I think this show is the key to world peace.  If the baby kitties and Snak-Pak puddings running the country would show reruns of The Price Is Right over in the Middle East, all the fighting will stop.  No questions asked.  Darfur?  Done.  No more.  North Korea?  Forget about it!  All the disputes of the world will be solved by one, single, solitary viewing of Bob Barker giving away a Foosball table to an overly excited contestant.  A euphoric, eutopian society will result from all the nations of all the worlds watching Bob work his magic.  You mark my word. 

Letters to my pen pal

I used to have a Korean pen pal named Naru.  I don’t remember how we started our correspondense, but all I know is that one day out of the blue, she stopped writing to me.  Perhaps it’s because she grew restless of me and our budding friendship or perhaps Kim Jong Ill had her entire family kidnapped, but whatever the reason, I am still distraught over the whole ordeal.  Over the years, I’ve kept her letters, and oddly enough, copies of letters I wrote to her.  I’d like to share then with you all now.

January 12, 1991

Dear Erin!  Hello!  My name is Kang Naru and I am 11 years old.  How many are you?  I live in Seoul, South Korea.  Do you know where that is?  I do not know where you live, only that it is in the United States of America.  I would very much like to visit one day, but my family is poor.  In fact, I am writing this letter to you on the back of a cereal box and using a charred stick from our campfire to write out my thoughts to you.  Life is very hard for me and my family.  My father was taken away from us, so it is just me, my baby brother Steve, and my mother.  We live with my grandparents in their one bedroom apartment in downtown Seoul.  It is very hard sometimes because my grandparents are very fat and since we share the same bed, I almost suffocate at night when they roll over.  But enough about me, please, share with me of your family!  I would very much like to hear of you and of America.  Well, that is all for now–it is supper time and it’s my turn to look for wild mushrooms and berries.  Please write back, Erin.  We will be best friends!  Your new friend, Naru.

Feburary 1, 1991

Dear “Kangaroo”.  Ha ha!  That’s a silly name.  All Asian people have really silly names.  My grandpa told me a joke that all Asian people name their kids by throwing silverwear down a staircase and they name the kids after the weird sounds the forks make!  Ching Chong Ping Pong Wang!  My grandpa is the funniest man I know.  It really sucks about YOUR grandparents almost killing you by being so fat.  How can you live like that?!   My grandparents live like, 100 miles away and even my mom says thats not far enough.  My mom hates her parents.  Are you really that poor?  What’s that like?  My family isn’t poor–we have a Nintendo.  Do you have a Nintendo?  I bet so, because I’m pretty sure you guys make all that stuff for us over here in America.  Speaking of America, living here is EXCELLENT!  We have cable tv, so I get to watch all the best new shows; my mom and dad are rich, so my brother and I get all the coolest new toys and games and the best new clothes, too!  Do you ever watch Alf?  I love ALF!!  He’s from Melmac.  I want to go to Melmac one day and get my own Alf so he can be my best friend.  Well, gotta run–my pony is outside my window whining to be ridden around!  TTFN!  Your bud, Erin

Feburary 25, 1991

Dear Erin.  Hello again!  Thank you kindly for your letter!  I was so excited to recieve a reply from you!  I hope you don’t mind that I am writing back to you on the backside of your letter you wrote to me…we ran out of cereal boxes a few days ago and I couldn’t use our toilet paper  because we only have one roll left and it has to last us another 8 days…Mother doesn’t get paid from her job at Nike until then.  Please, tell me; who is this Alf person?  And what is a Melmac?  You must be so lucky and rich to know of such things.  I am humbled by you and your knowledge of so many wonderful things.  And I admit, I am envious of your pony.  We too, have a family pet.  It is a rather large sewer rat that has taken hostel in our bathroom, but he is friendly, so we decided to keep him as our own.  I’ve named him Kenji-wa, after my baby brother who died a few years ago.  He was such a gentle baby–much like our rat is, so I thought the name fitting.  Well, again, I must end my letter here.  Mother is calling me to help unclog our toilet, and I am out of room to write anymore. Please write back with more stories!  I cherish them all, much like I cherish our friendship.  Your friend, Naru

August 9, 1991

Dear Naru.  Sorry so long to write back!  I’ve been super busy with summer camp, playing with my friends all summer and celebrating my 12th birthday!  I was born on the 4th of July!  Isn’t that awesome?!  I would like to thank you and your people for making the coolest fireworks!  They were totally tubular this year!  I got a puppy AND another pony for my birthday this year!  Isn’t that gnarly?  I named my dog “Bubbles” and my pony “Lenny.”  They are the best presents a kid like me could ever ask for!  Gotta run–I’m going to California to stay at a beach house until school starts again!  Smell ya later!! Ha ha.  BFF, Erin

September 15, 1991

Erin.  I’m happy you are having such a great summer.  Here, it is winter and a cruel one it has been to my and my family.  My grandparents died last week.  I am very sad and have had many terrible thoughts of ending my young life to join them in the arms of Buddha.  I am so cold and hungry.  I’m sorry, I must stop now.  I am too weak to continue.  Your friend, N

October 27, 1991

Dear Naru.  Sorry about your grandparents, but at least they won’t smoosh you while you sleep anymore!  I don’t have much time to write; the weather here is pretty nice and my mom is making me clean our pool.  I hate my mom!!  Your pal,Erin

This was about the time that Naru stopped writing to me.  The last letter I wrote to her was marked “return to sender”…I guess she just couldn’t take my total awesome radness anymore, which is understandable.  Her loss! 

Or maybe it was because I was a little racist bastard….

My childhood sucked.

It did, really.  I had a boring, lame, uneventful childhood.  Oh sure, all my stories may seem fantastical and wonderful, but I’ll let you all in on a little secret:  lies.  All lies.  The subject itself is true, but the story is all bullshit.  Corey never beat Mandi unconscious….Mandi was never a lumberjack….Chad never had a family….all lies.  I’m sorry I was so deceitful, but you understand, don’t you?  I had to win you all over and telling little fibs was how I managed to do that.  I’m sorry. 

Growing up, it was just my parents, my older brother Nate, and me.  We had our fair share of good times and plenty of laughs, but nothing compared to the wonderful stories of my husbands past.  Oh, the stories this man tells me!  I am so jealous of him and his brother and sisters!  I wish that some of his great tales could be mine, but alas, they are not. 

I have favorite stories featuring each of the Zulkoski children.  I’ll start with Jennie, the youngest. 

Picture this:  a young girl, all of age three, kneeling beside the toilet.  She is singing ever so softly into the bowl of her porcelain throne.  What song graces the lips of such a precious young child?  “I’m wishing (I’m wishing), for the one I love, to find him (to find him), someday (someday).”  The song Snow White sings into her wishing well in the Disney movie.  How amazing is that?!  Oh, how I laughed and laughed when I heard this story.  And how freaking adorable would it have been to walk into your bathroom to see your youngest child singing her little heart out into a toilet?!  My god…priceless.

Next, a tale of John Paul, oldest son, second oldest sibling.

Young John Paul and Mother Sandra are at church one Saturday morning; Mother Sandra is the church pianist and is practicing her songs for the following days services.  Mom is busy upstairs in the choir loft, tinkling away at the old ivories and decides to take a break.  Below her, her young son John is playing near the pulpit, keeping out of trouble.  Sandy returns from her break and sees John is near the front of the church, standing directly under the statue of Jesus Christ’s crusifixtion.  Little John is looking up at J.C. and yells  up at his Saviour:  “Hey, Jesus!  I’m talking to you!  When are you going to come down off of that cross and play with me?!”  Methinks that if Jesus were to appear before John, it wouldn’t be to play……

Now, a story from the eldest Zulkoski heir, Sarah Deanne.

This story is fairly recent and occurred a few years ago at Thanksgiving.  Mother Sandy’s youngest sister was in town visiting for the holiday and had in tow her four young boys, ages 12 to 4 at the time.  The entire Zulkoski clan was congregated in the living room, chatting and making pleasantries with the visiting cousins and aunt.  It should be noted at this time that these children were spawned from Satan himself.  Ugly as the deepest pits of Hades itself.  Sarah was trying to make nice with her bizarre cousins and asked them if they were all excited to see the first Harry Potter movie, which had just been released into theatres.  The youngest cousin lifts uphis giant head and stares at Sarah with bulging, cross-eyed peepers and says with a lisp, “We can’t see it because it has too much magic.”  There is silence, save for me, who has retreated into the kitchen because if I were to stay in the living room, I was going to lose my shit completely.  “Oh,” says Sarah cooly, “that’s too bad.  It’s going to be a good movie, even if it does have alot of magic in it.”  I had had enough and Jason had to take me outside so I could release the explosion of laughter that was threatening to kill me.  My god….”too much magic….”  That is now the Zulkoski credo.  We’re working on getting official family t-shirts printed up.

And now, for my prize possession, my husband, Jason.  He is the youngest son and second youngest child.  This is difficult, being that Jason has many, many good tales, but this one is my favorite because this epitomizes JJ to a T. 

Mother Sandy had just gotten done baking a special treat:  jam filled muffins.  It was always a thrill to get to eat one of these tasty bites right from the oven, piping hot and delicious, steam rising in your face and crumbs falling all around you.  Mother had just called the kids into the kitchen to let them divulge in the special snack, and Jason was eager to get a big mouthful.  He grabbed a muffin off the counter, handling it carefully as it was very hot, unwrapped the tiny cake, and took a big bite.  His mouth was full of the warm goodness and he was savoring his bite, but his elation was short lived.  His foot was searing with a burning fire of a thousand Hells.  What was this?!  What’s going on?!  He began hopping around the kitchen like a madman, trying to dance the pain way, but to no avail.  Frightened her child was hurt, Sandra stopped Jason from hopping around and asked him what was the matter.  Through a mouthful of muffin and eyes full of tears, Jason told his mother that his foot hurt very badly and it felt like it was on fire.  Sandy looked down at her youngest sons foot and started to laugh.  She tried to hide her outburst, but could not.  The cause of her child’s pain was this:  the apricot jam that had been baked into the muffin had fallen out of the bottom and landed on top of Jason’s bare foot.  Hilarious.

See what I mean?  These stories are amazing!!  I’ve got jackshit compared to my in-laws! 

Oh well.  At least I had my mother and father’s love.