Yeah, some folk do call Minnesota the Land O Ten Thousand Lakes. You know who those people are? Wisconsiners and the Jealous, though that is a bit redundant. We got on hand more than ten million lakes and including the water of our sweaty palmed hands, we got well nigh into the billions. We’re natural born swimmers we are. Most of us are born directly into a lake or at least into the live bait box. Don’t know how many siblings I lost to being mistaken for minnows. We got lakes such that if you’re dry for more than a few minutes, anxiety kicks in and you’d better take a step to the right or left and get yourself into Perch Lake or Lake Arrowhead. I once just about drowned after drinking a few Hamm’s and falling off a fishing dock. I fell like a stone to the bottom of that there lake and when I did what’d I find there but four Mer-people sitting around a lower fishing hole catching tin cans. Nice folks, them. Ended up spending the weekend with ‘em before making a casserole of ‘em.
Mer-People Casserole
Debone and de-trident Mer-people.
Make offering to Neptune (unless serving during Lent or Dionysian Feast)
Crumble Funyuns into casserole dish
Use crock pot
If Minnesotan, you know the rest. (If Wisconsiner, get bent)
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!
For those mindflowers readers with birthdays the day before tomorrow we bring you this mouthwatering cake in a litterbox. Click me for the recipe. [thank you boingboing!]
