An intrepid KCCI reporter named Eric Hanson eats Deep Fried Butter on a Stick at the Iowa State Fair. Who wants one??
Food
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August 11, 2011
February 4, 2011
How To: Host The Best Super Bowl Party Ever
Posted by Ryan McGivern under Activities, Food, How to, Sports1 Comment
Get ready to rock and roll for some Awesome Packer/Steeler Action and host the party that will be talked about non-stop as soon as the hangovers clear up!
Follow these easy steps to weasel your way up the social ladder, impress your co-workers, find a new and better spouse, reach your life goals, and establish yourself as your neighborhood’s Silverback!
1. GET BIT BY A SPIDER
What doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger. By the time your fever-insanity wears off, you’ll be ready to do a touch down dance! And with any luck, the spider will be irradiated–giving you more power (awesome!) and responsibility (boo!).
2. PROVIDE FOOD
Fill up on some wine and bread before you crack out your expensive ceremonial peyote!
3. GIVE LOTS AND LOTS OF HUGS
Football games get people’s dander up. It riles the blood and spoils the spleen! Football is dangerous, violent, and exactly what the Donner Party would look like if it was interrupted by advertisements every two minutes.
That’s why the best Super Bowl Parties start with lots of hugs and end with passing around a bowl filled with car keys. Love is the antidote to testosterone. Remember to hug firmly (but not squeezing) and don’t do that “pat pat” thing–it feels condescending.
4. GIVE YOUR GUESTS TATTOOS
After the BBQ accident, you’ll want as many distinguishing marks as possible to identify the bodies.
IN CONCLUSION:
Your party will be known as “the day everything changed” and it will have a movie made of it where your complaining neighbor will be played by Matthew Modine and a number of creative liberties will be taken to make your lifestyle fit a PG-13 rating.
Good luck (and remember a little cilantro goes a long way)!
Ryan McGivern
http://sbtwitter.nfl.com/
November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving Party Playlist: Songs in The Key of Turkey
Posted by Ryan McGivern under Food, Love, Nostalgia, Pop Culture, Videos[2] Comments
August 13, 2010
Script: The Food Court (a scene for two actors)
Posted by Ryan McGivern under Comedy, Food, ScriptLeave a Comment
Two actors seated in mall cafeteria or ‘food court’
1: The sale at Macy’s was amazing!
2: You’re telling me! I think I have my complete polo season wardrobe.
1: You’re gonna look fantastic out on the greens. Put a mint julep in you and you’re gonna be hit!
2: I do need a little bit of something to loosen up. I can’t help it! The only conversations going on are ‘should we vacation in St. Bart’s this year or Genoa?’
1: How are those two places even in the running together? Its like suntan or salami: apples and oranges.
2: Stop it! You’re making me hungry.
1: I’m dying of hunger myself over here. Famished!
2: Let’s take a look and see what’s on the menu today shall we?
1: Best. Idea. Ever. (they begin to walk slowly past the various kiosks and food vendors)
2: Its not that I even like to drink all that much. I just like a social lubricant once in a while, you know?
1: God, its not like you’ve had an intervention yet, have you?
2: Twice. No more. That I remember, anyway.
1: Alright then.
2: Its just that last week all I wanted to do was talk about my vacation to Cleveland and everyone else seemed to breeze right past the topic and gushed about this tres chic salami butcher in Genoa.
1: He is great, by the way. He catered Nathan’s bar mitzvah. Deer salami all day long. I didn’t even know deer is kosher! My god, I’m sorry Bambi, but I’m gonna drizzle you with a mushroom sauce.
2: Ahh! I’m so hungry!
1: I’m famished over here.
2: There’s nothing here to eat I swear there just isn’t. There just isn’t.
1: Pizza…Orange Julius…Cinnabon…
2: I had Cinnabon for breakfast.
1: Me too.
2: I just don’t know what there is here for me.
1: Me neither.
2: Whatever. I’m on a diet anyway.
1: Me too.
2: And it shows! You’re glowing. (The two sit again at their chairs)
1: Oh my god. Don’t look. Everytime I come to this mall. Everytime.
2: What?
1: I always end up running into someone I know. And I always look horrible.
2: Oh come on,
1: I’m totally not put together…my hair.
2: Who is it?
1: My serial stabber. Don’t look. He hasn’t seen me yet.
2: Embarrassing! Is he with anyone?
1: Not yet. He’s just sitting down enjoying a Cinnabon.
2: Ahh! I’m so hungry.
1: I’m gonna have to stop coming to this mall. That’s it.
2: Excuse me? We’ve been coming to this mall every day for the last fifteen years. This is our mall.
1: I just hope he isn’t like following me or something. My liver is still recuperating.
2: A person’s liver is important! You deserve better than a stab to the liver.
1: Three stabs!
2: I just don’t see why the police can’t catch that guy. I just don’t.
1: He has a very difficult face to describe to the police sketch artist.
2: Oh please let me look!
1: Okay, but quick.
2: (Looks) Oh yeah. I see what you mean!
1: Its like he’s got the most nondescript face I’ve ever seen.
2: Its like staring into the abyss.
1: His face is like a ’93 Ford Taurus.
2: Yet he somehow looks like everyone I know.
1 and 2: Nixon!
2: Weird.
1: God. I know.
2: Its a face I’d love to paint, actually.
1: Believe me, I’d love to too. But just try to get him to sit still! Its always ‘stab you this’ and ‘stab you that’ with him.
2: I’ve really got to introduce you to my serial strangler.
1: Pencil me in. Let’s do a lunch date. I’m telling you. I’m ready for a change. God.
2: You wanna meet here tomorrow at the regular time? I’ll have him swing by, throttle the two of us a bit and just see what you think?
1: Sure–we’ll call it a lunch but I don’t know if I’ll be eating.
2: Oh I won’t be. I’m on a diet.
1: Oh, good! He’s leaving. Whew. God, you want to get out of this place?
2: Sure. I’m just going to stop by Cinnabon for some rolls to go.
1: Yeah, me too.
March 9, 2010
Dogfood Taste Test: Which Is Best For Your Pet?
Posted by Ryan McGivern under Animals, Food[2] Comments
We all want the best for our beloved pets. Check out this video clip of culinary expert The Dogfood Whisperer (also seen on Duluth and Esko Public Access Channels).
How to choose the right dogfood:
1) Consider your dog’s nutrition needs. Does it have a gluten allergy? Is it hypoglycemic?
2) Look into your dog’s eyes when it eats. Judge for yourself: is there joy in its eyes while it eats or it is merely going through the motions?
3) Personally raise and slaughter the animals you will grind up and put into your dog’s meals. This is the only way to assure that the meat is quality and if your dog is kashrut, Kosher.
December 28, 2009
Domino’s Reacharound: Changing The Pizza Face
Posted by Ryan McGivern under Comedy, Diarrhea, Food, Pop Culture, Recipe[2] Comments
We’ve been busy at our headquarters in Ann Arbor Michigan dreaming up a pizza that will change the way you think of Domino’s forever. You think you know Domino’s Pizza?
You don’t have a clue.
We’re doing for pizza what Agent Orange did for defoliation. We’re breaking all the rules: not wearing hairnets, sneezing directly into our mixing bowls, and taking a break from the eight foot bong which lives in the corner of our “brain storming room/bathroom”.
We realized we’d grown soft and lazy in our role of “biggest eyesore on strip mall blight aside from Starbucks” and “home of the stinkiest air exchange fan aside from Panda Express”.
It was time for a change. A new sensation. Like when you had to convince your girlfriend of 5 years it was time for ‘backdoor’.
Well we changed. And to make a cool reference, we were like that guy from that soccer movie and we “showed you the money!” We’re fresh and hip and we understand our 14-34 year old stoned male demographic. We know that you do stuff involving video games or whatever it is you’re always doing in the basement and we know that you sell your parents lawn tools on craigslist for weed money and Domino’s.
We normally perform surveys and taste-tests. That’s nothing new. But recently we threw out the rule book and did something different: We asked sober people to tell us what they thought of our pizza. When we got responses ranging from projectile vomiting, screams of anger and confusion, and babies born with developmental delays, we came to the conclusion that maybe our lawyers, honest friends, and sober family members were right: our pizza was barely within raccoon diet range.
We hit the ground running and hit our chief recipe director Sheila Simonsen in the face with a pestle. We told her that a woman named Adria told us to go fuck ourselves through a mouthful of blood, vomit, and pizza. We told her it was time to get our game back. Sheila met the challenge and pestle wound with gusto. “Mama’s got a brand new bag!” she said and produced a fatty sack of gooey Humboldt shrubs.
Listen to what we did!
We got new processed cheese substitute that has four new chemical additives that not only reduce your diarrhea levels, they make your stool smell like a gangrenous gallbladder because our new pizza recipe causes gallbladder gangrene.
We replaced our old meat substance with a wheat and corn enhanced ‘meat’ that uses only the finest slaughterhouse scraps from only the most tortured and depressed cattle.
Our other ingredients include: movie popcorn butter, teenaged shoulder grease, lip gloss, salt, sodium, dehydrated sea water, and the expulsions of a cadaver’s clogged arteries.
Our patented recipe will make you want to go to sleep and never wake up.
You know what we did next? We drove to Adria’s house. You remember Adria, that woman who cursed the day we were born and then succumbed to madcow and E. Coli? Well we paid her a visit at her house. Unannounced.
But you’ll have to wait to find out what she did when she opened her door in her pajamas to see we’d tracked her down like a wounded antelope!
December 16, 2009
The Odyssey of Ulysses S. Groan: Part Five (Psalm 116b, In Praise of the Drink of The Gods)
Posted by Ryan McGivern under Fiction, Food, Ulysses S. GroanLeave a Comment
It was a dark and stormy night. The eight-bit beeps of nano-devils munching on the zebra’s long and luxurious eyelashes was the only sound with the exception of occasional piercing screams from the bathroom. This evening found the Strangers of the world huddled around their occult brews, each a bubbling froth of children’s nightmares, tweens’ nightmare/wetdreams, or adults’ regrets. There were also a few unfortunate souls drinking Frappes (the smallest serving of which contained 38 grams of sugar and 220 calories). At the bar, Satan was sipping at a wooden barrel of warm cod liver oil, syphilitic chancres, and McDonald’s ‘orange drink’.
h0m-R watched the shifting eyes of the trio of gods before him. There he saw an absence of compassion rivaling Ann Coulter and a callousness rivaling Ann Coulter’s scrotum callouses.
“You gonna talk, big talker?” Sheila asked.
“This cafe is filled with darkness. My soul is nigh overwhelm’d.” h0m-R muttered through dry lips. “My yoke is uneasy and my burden is heavy.”
h0m-R felt like he was Frodo with Sauron’s ring for a Prince Albert.
Nibb leaned in and gave him his grande Frappe. “Drink this. It will strengthen you.”
h0m-R took a sip and raised his head and he raised his voice:
“…..I love sugar and caffeine because it animates me like near-dead baby raccoon being tossed on a tennis racket in the hands of a traumatized and future arsonist child.
They listen to me when I pray to them and even moreso when I ingest them.
I will always eat them, because they help me level out my drunk.
The danger of death was all round me.
I began to be afraid of Sheol and tiredness at my afternoon meetings.
I was sad because (I had) so much trouble keeping my eyes bright when I kissed my jerk-off supervisor’s ass.
Then I prayed to the name of saturated fats, refined sugars, and caffeine:
(I said) Please save me!
Caffeine and sugar are kind and good (to people).
This is how the Gods (shows us that they) love (us).
The Gods gives help to those (people) that need it through the graces of fast food, carb-fixes, comfort food, empty calories, and most importantly coffee.
When I was in danger, Starbucks saved me!
(So I could say) to myself, “Now you are safe,
because no one will be able to guess that you were up all night watching internet porn instead of resting or preparing for my office meetings.”
Yes, coffee, you saved me from losing my job many times and from nodding off at my grandmother’s funeral!
(You saved) my eyes from closing and my feet from falling.
Now I can serve my office department for at least another six months while I pad my resume or I get fired because of company cutbacks.
I believed that by turning myself into a drug addled automaton I would partake in someone’s definition of success, even if not actual enjoyment.
(I believed this) even when I said, “I have so much pain from my caffeine headache”.
When I was very sad, I said, “Everybody says what is not true!” (climate change is exacerbated by sentient beings, drinking 62 ounces of coffee a day is unhealthy, Carlos Mencia plagarizes jokes from LaffyTaffy, and that the whole “who shot JR?” thing was a dream.)
What can I give to coffee because it has been so kind to me?
I will offer a cup of wine to coffee.
And I will thank coffee by drinking myself to normalcy from my caffeine-mania.
I will do everything that I have promised to my co-workers
(I will do it) in front of all my department (change the coffee filter, make a new pot, and clean up the employee breakroom).
It hurts coffee very much when one of its servants breaks their addiction.
COFFEE, I really am your servant.
I am your servant just as my mother was.
You have saved me from death!
I will offer you my special “thanks” when I pray to the name of coffee at the altar of Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, Peet’s, or Starbucks.
I will make special promises to my boss.
(I will do this) in front of all his people.
(I will do this) in the lobby of my workplace.
(I will do this) in the centre of Jerusalem.
Hallelujah!…..”
At the end of h0m-R’s psalm, he had a caffeine crash and feel fast asleep on the table.
Nibb took him into his hooves and together with the gods and the waste-of-stripes Plumpy, went across the vast parking prairie of the shopping center to a German beer garden.
Nibb encouraged h0m-R back to consciousness with the stick and carrot of a stick and carrot, both of which he alternated hitting him with. When he began to mutter curses, Nibb nursed him from a nookie filled with a Porter, Stout, and Pilsner combination with a bit of sour mash whiskey for good measure.
When h0m-R awoke he was well drunk and ready to tell a story.
“Wait!” interrupted Tanya, “We need to order something to quench our thirst too!” She came back with ambrosia for Dee Dee and Sheila, an imperial stout for Nibb and the head of a Frenchman for Plumpy. “Just what I wanted!” She squealed.
When they had all settled in for story-time, h0m-R was too drunk to speak and he passed out on the table. Just as their hearts were about to soar with the idea of just having a goodtime and dancing a bit with the saucy German sailors who populated the dance floor, Clumpy stood on the table and said “Allow me to entertain you with a zebra tale. It is one that no one knows except those who read my blog.” Clumpy failed to mention that she was the only one who read her blog.
As h0m-R snored, Nibb rolled her eyes, and the gods eyed up the sailors across the room, Plumpy addressed no one.
July 5, 2009
The night previous, I returned to my bed chamber after nodding in goodnight to my departing dinner guests and found my sleep to be hard fought. I thought it would be another night of wrestling with the demons of regret, the voices of “why did you bring up Charlemagne at dessert? You know Ms. Devonshire is Francophobic!” echoing in my fretful-host post-party reflections but I was soon alerted to it being something else entirely.
A hot eruption of vomit from my gullet across my down comforter and unto my stately new globe with the recently updated “passage to India” cartography told me that my third helping of corned beef hash was more than just a probable deciding factor in Ms. Devonshire’s declining my advances-it was an invitation to a shamanistic voyage of the mind. My friend and fellow member of the City’s exclusive Men’s Club, Dr. Mortolo had begun recently exploring the uncharted recesses of the human mind through the use of electromagnets, hypnoelectric shock, lightning rods, applications of leeches, and electrified leeches to great increase of knowledge. Among his findings, Dr. Mortolo concluded that Beef Hash was but one way to travel to the spirit realms which envelope the ether layer just below the watery heavens. The same effects could be reached through ample voltage directed through the brain pan or through the medicinal drug ‘cocaine’, but corned beef hash of the sort I’d eaten a pound and a half of was the most potent and successful means to achieve this altered state.
Another round of vomiting, this time painting my silk drapes, readied me for my spiritual voyage. I was not in the least worried nor upset. My upbringing was afterall, as a Methodist and I had grown accustomed to fearful flights into the edges of sanity.
The first thing I became aware of was that I was floating in a perfectly white space. Or rather, a white lack of space. There was absolutely nothing about. It was as though I’d been transported back to Minnesota in the winter (a devilish vision for anyone in of itself) and all about me was pure whiteout. I was fully aware of my body: my powdered wig, my parasol, my wooden clogs, my merkin, my wooden teeth, my ivory inlaid false eyebrows; all was in place only there was no reference point to gauge myself against.
I walked. Or rather, I made a walking motion for there was no ‘floor’ to be had. After what felt like an infinity of this repeated walking motion without any sensation of progress, I felt as one who has been attempting to solicit a direct answer from a politician or seminarian. At long last, I saw the dirty tip of a digging spade appear as a gnat before my face and then the entirety of said shovel as it ‘dug’ deeper then followed by a venturing hand. I was plucked from the dread whiteness as a gopher may from its burrow and came up in a humble farmer’s field.
“I thought you mighta’ been watermelon.” The oafish looking brute said in a purely working class accent.
“Watermelons grow above ground, dear sir.” I said, brushing off my crushed velvet cape and wiping clean my nez pince.
“Then how come I’ve never seen one?” he countered.
“If you’ve never seen one, then mayhap you have seen one and not known it, my good man.”
That put him in the throes of thought and I hated to have troubled his mind so. To relieve him of his efforts, I told him of my experience in the void. “I was afloat in a vacuum of nothing!” I concluded and half expected his proletariat’s ears to begin fuming.
“P’haps it was you that was everything.” he said back without a courteous bow. “That is,” he continued as he placed a plug of chewing tobacco in his jowly mouth, “If there was nothing else around, you composed the whole.”
I clicked open my pocket watch and saw the hands were moving backwards, a phenomenon I owed to either the beef hash or my nightcap of laudanum drank from my lead lined grail. “Sir,” I said “I haven’t the foggiest notion of what it is you are trying to express.”
“That is, when the universe was the size of you (which it was but briefly despite your great girth) that all was measured by it, and within it. Distance is a flexible and arbitrary idea-and by your description, I would say that before I plucked you like so much a beet or a watermelon (not to contradict your belief of watermelons) from the ground you were everywhere.” The farmer placed a plug of tobacco under his right eyelid.
I felt quite put off by the man’s haughty demeanor and I told him as much. With a smart lash of my riding crop across his mealy mouth, I bid him adeiu. If the tears in his eyes were any sign, my departing hail triggered an active Francophobia within him and I quickly replaced it with a “good day” accented by another taste of my riding crop.
As I turned to make my way towards a village I’d espied upon the horizon, I was transported upon a great gust of wind back to my four poster and the candlelight of my room.
My bedroom door opened and in came my maid inquiring to my well being. I threw my chamber pot at her and in my distress instructed her to fill it. Thankfully she quickly obliged and then left me to entertain my troubled thoughts of the night’s happenings.
Had the night’s voyage been a trip through the astral plane? Or had I been privy to the ‘seventh heaven’ spoken of by the Apostle? I put the guessing aside and settled down for bed joined by my fourteen wolfhounds and decided that the morning’s breakfast would be corned beef hash and trepanation.
June 11, 2009
An Interpretation of Religion and My Ability to Perform Simple Tasks
Posted by Ryan McGivern under Comedy, Drugs, Food, Improvised Writing, ReligionLeave a Comment
You know, some of the best poets never spoke literally.
Why is it that we need to always speak of religions literally?
Really.
Have you ever thought about Mormonism in a non-literal sense?
It seems pretty cool in that way. You know, like, these immigrants
or more appropriately refugees have to flee and lo and behold they
end up in the Americas.
And this fella cares about their stories and writes them down and
then this other dude finds them and in an effort to establish harmony
and unity, makes a new myth for spiritual folk in America.
Forget literalism! It’s a cool story.
And its in that same spirit of Mormonism that I can tell you that
I’m sober.
I’m totally not high-in a metaphorical sense.
You see, when I body paint magical runes on myself and eat
chocolate covered cherries and watch the sunset over LA,
I can say that like every religion worth its weight in salt,
I’m operating at a purely mythic level.
So to answer your question:
Yes, I am perfectly fit to walk to
Jack In The Box.
Just write what you want down on this old google maps.
January 10, 2009
Giant Seafood Restaurant Creature Released
Posted by Ryan McGivern under Comedy, Food, Justice, news, Pop Culture1 Comment
NEW YORK (Mindflowers)– A giant Crestacean-like cretin named George W. Bush caught the attention of onlookers recently at a New York seafood restaurant and will be returned this month to its Texas ranch cesspool, according to a statement from the People’s Foundation for Inhuman Assholery (PFUA) .
George has been a “sort of mascot” for the Crabs A’Plenty restaurant in New York and to fundamentalist, extremist Christians.
The PFIA’s released statement did not say exactly how the immense depth of assholery was allowed to get so big, but restaurant manager Keith Walton told Mindflowers that sometimes brine-smelling muck-dwellers can grow increasingly arrogant, fear-mongering, bigoted, war-loving, and actually insane over time, if given the right conditions. “This thing must have somehow been fed the pyschic energies of millions of bigots over at least eight years. It was oozing toxic ignorance.” Said Walton.
He said the creature had been “sitting in the restaurant’s tank and acting as a sort of mascot, you know: telling funny stories like a crazy old senile person, starting wars, lying about said wars, illegally spying on people, combatting against reason and sense through appealing to people’s base nature, lying about environmental devastation, playing with its tiny genitals while thinking about Abu Ghraib, that kind of stuff.” but when PFIA got involved and requested it be released back to its cesspool, it “seemed like the right thing to do.”
PFIA President Shayna Newkirk said in a statement, “We can’t believe the assholery present in this feeble and despicable creature. Surely this is a bottom feeder who found a wealth of homophobic, anti-science, racist, war loving Neandrathals to be a source of its soul vampirism. ”
Plans have been made for the creature to shed the tight confines of his old restaurant display tank. On January 20th, George W. Bush will be driven to Texas by PFIA members and returned to his natural habitat on the bottom of a cesspool, the organization said.
Reported by Ryan McGivern
http://www.cnn.com/2009/US/01/10/maine.lobster.liberated/
http://www.bushlies.net/
http://bushcrimes.net/
http://www.rense.com/general73/warcrim.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lobster
