Now no fingerpointing! It’s not as if the Governor is the first Arizona Tealoon to turn a tidy profit on her untidy relationship with the truth. So the Governor has managed to massage her encounter with the President into sales: “Scorpions for Breakfast,” her hilarious political fabulation-a-clef, has zoomed on Amazon from 343,222 to 7. (Thanks TPM) Shall we deny an author the fruits of the sweat of her tongue?
But now to the news I know Roastafarians have been on tenterhooks waiting for: the winner of the Kaption This Kaptious Kook Contest and the valuable, one-of-a-kind Jan Brewer Souvenir Hospitality Bottle Cap:
the following is best experienced with this music playing, but then, what isn’t
How you livin’, girl?
Greetings, your fine-ness, and welcome to gil mann’s pad o’ seduction. Make yourself comfortable, have a li’l somethin’ to drink, and don’t mind Jim Wallis’s Huffington Post column; if there’s one thing gil mann can make sexy, it’s anything.
I know I’ve shared this recipe somewhere on this blog at some point, but it’s so delicious and useful that it warrants republishing. It is also directly relevant to Gil’s post below on innovative strategies to deal with pesky holiday visitors as it has an irresistibly soporific effect:
So here’s the original with a couple of updates added:
INGREDIENTS:
6 eggs, separated
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup Southern Comfort*
1/2 cup rum**
1/2 cup bourbon***
2 cups whipping cream
2 cups whole milk
Freshly grated nutmeg
DIRECTIONS:
Separate eggs and reserve whites in fridge in a separate container. In a large bowl, beat yolks until lemony, gradually adding sugar. Add the booze. Refrigerate mixture overnight.****
Next day, add milk to booze mixture. Beat egg whites until stiff peak stage. Separately beat whipping cream to the consistency of that nasty Cool Whip crap. Fold egg whites into booze mixture, then fold in whipped cream. Don’t over-mix—leave it a little lumpy. Grate nutmeg over top and enjoy!
* As vile and hideous as Southern Comfort is (and no one despises it more than I do, having once yerked up great quantities of it all over a golf course during a teenage drinking binge), it is for some reason an essential ingredient in this recipe. I tried doubling the GOOD bourbon once and eliminating the SoCo, and it wasn’t as good. Really.
** I generally use Appleton’s, but recently I tried it with Kraken rum, which is just insanely good. In my opinion.
*** I usually use Maker’s Mark or Knob Creek. Because I care.
**** We’ve omitted the refrigerate overnight step a time or two. If you’ve already had several cups of it made the proper way, you won’t notice the difference. If you haven’t you will. Funny how that works.
Never let it be said that we don’t know how to handle a little rotational air current! This was K-Mart last night. There was still sparkling water left, quite a reverse of the usual elitist eastern buying pattern.
Not to worry! East Coasters have come in for a measure of abuse during our recent seismic surprise, but we’ve got this. Go Bag, with important documents and shatterproof flask of sherry, check. Hand-cranked cell-phone charger (and Rumproast connection lifeline), check.
Our own Floridian Betty Cracker, who’s luckily getting just a sideswipe, posted this fabulous hurricane tracking site to end all hurricane tracking sites in the Rumper Room. Thanks Betty! Now I’ll know exactly how much to cower from.
I should be tying down the furniture and draping the piano, and to all you wonderful Roasters in the path of this thing, here’s FEMA’s site, as if you didn’t know how to get there on your own. We live in lower Manhattan, and might be evacuated, so I couldn’t resist posting One More Blingee. Good luck, stop reading, and get yourself to high ground!
Now go find those batteries you stashed—somewhere. Where the hell are they?
Wingnut pundit and GOP debate question dude Byron York caught a lot of flak for asking Michele Bachmann if she would be a submissive wife as president:
First of all, her answer doesn’t make any sense because “submissive” isn’t the same as “respectful.” I respect my husband, but if he asked me to do something I found as odious as Bachmann seemed to find the study of tax law—like, say, trying out for the American Ninja Warrior TV show—I’d tell him to get stuffed (in a respectful manner, naturally).
Since it’s the GOP debate, Bachmann was allowed to skate past the real issue with the standard bullshit answer biblical literalists use to convince others (and probably themselves too) that their imaginary sky daddy isn’t a misogynist knob. Instead, the controversy descended on York.
York’s question was a hot topic over at NRO, where Sister K-Lo Inviolata begged her colleague’s detractors not to harsh the mellow:
“[H]e let hee provide an explainer”? K-Lo was drunk-blogging the GOP debate! That’s fine for Rumproast, but NRO is the cyber-home of America’s conservative intelligentsia. I guess they’re as despairing and addled as we are. Heh!
Watch the cornfest livestream at America’s Center for Ijitprop. Will Gary Johnson’s charisma suck all the vitality out of Huntsman? Please submit a list of phrases to get drunk by, since going through this sober would work nerves I haven’t used since I was the bouncer for a drag queen’s dressing room.
Charlie Sheen shares a number of characteristics with the common house cat. Both creatures are attractive, don’t always relieve themselves in the appropriate receptacle and will give you massive amounts of attitude before, during and after they wreck up your shit. Remorse is not in them; That would mean less room for the crazy.*
Sadly, mankind has been deprived of a total melding of the Felix Domesticus/Sheen experience.
This really happened. One year, right after Christmas, my mom decided to drive herself, my little sister and me up to North Carolina to see snow. As native Floridians, my sister and I had never seen snow before. We complained bitterly about this fact, especially during the holidays when all the TV specials featured snowmen, sleigh rides, etc.
This was a very long time ago, back when people drove ugly green station wagons with fake wood paneling. Anyhoo, we had a little dog—a poodle mix of some sort. He was a kind of goldish color, so we named him Butterscotch. But we all called him Scotch.
We couldn’t take Scotch with us since we were staying with dog-phobic relatives in North Carolina. So my mom asked her younger sister to housesit and watch after Scotch. Auntie agreed to do this for us and promised to take good care of our beloved pet:
Today is known as “Boxing Day” in Great Britain, because it is the one day of the year when sewer workers ask the public to place their leftover fat drippings in a box, instead of drizzling them into the kitchen sink or flushing them down the loo.
In Wales, 26 December is observed as “Gŵyl San Steffan,” which celebrates St. Stephen in his traditional role as an itinerant missionary from the Eastern Orthodox Church who converted the Celts to Socialized Medicine and drove the vowels out of Western England.
In the New Testament’s Book of Acts, Stephen is portrayed as the first Prophet of Christ with a Waspy name to be stoned to death by the Jews—which seems pretty much par for the course these days, but was actually rather a novelty in its time.
I apologize for any lapses or ellipses in my description of this venerable British holiday, but this post is my half-assed Christmas present to co-blogger YAFB, and any errors or omissions should be credited to another uniquely Anglo tradition—the “Drop o’ the Craythur”—which is both my Best Friend and my Everlasting Ruin.
