I’m exceedingly proud of my Irish heritage, which I assume I’ve got some of, judging by the way precancerous lookin’ shit pops up every time I wear a tank top outside. But whatever kind of white person I am, I’m also an amateur mixologist! I’ve come up with some festive St. Patrick’s Day concoctions, which I present here for your subjective emotional response which may or may not be classifiable as enjoyment.
The Pot O’Gold 1 liter Amstel Light in fishbowl
1 little person/child/average size adult with shoes on his knees like Dorf, dressed as leprechaun
Taunt “leprechaun” in between swigs. Suggested jeers: “Boy, the foot of a rainbow sure was a brilliant hiding place!” “Better make a boat and sail away, ‘cause your Lucky Charms are next!” “You’re short!”
Operation Cloverlord 1 pint Harp Lager
1 oz. green food coloring, dumped into the sink and replaced without your knowledge by 1 oz. Andes Crème de Menthe liqueur
Mix together and drink up! Tastes great, right? Yeah, asshole, that’s what you get for being one of those green-beer-drinking assholes, you asshole.
The Flaming Crotch 3 Pints Killian’s Irish Red
Down pints in quick succession, tamping down inhibition; ask a passing attractive redhead if the carpet matches the drapes. When she kicks you square in the nuts, express surprise at what the name of this drink ended up referring to, because you were on a different page entirely.
The Riverdance 1 pint Guinness in plastic cup with sturdy lip around rim
Drink without using hands. If you manage not to spill any on your lap, declare yourself “Lord of the Pants.” If single, try to accomplish all of this out of public view or you’ll definitely have to use your hands.
Cherry Adams 5 Porterhouse IPAs, bottled
With Sharpie, write “Harrod’s of London” on forehead and add extra line to the “P” on IPA bottles so they look like “R.” Chug beer to kill a few brain cells and maim hundreds more. Say “Mmm, that’s Sinn FINE!” Pour grenadine on face because you’re making a statement about political violence or whatever.
The Audited Diocese 1 oz. each of beers listed above, in shot glasses
Just keep doing shots and shuffling glasses around, refill as necessary. Continue until unconscious or until somebody in a position of authority steps in and puts a stop to this madness, so basically, until unconscious.
Happy St. Paddy’s Day, and as the old Irish blessing goes, “May the road rise to meet you, and Lord grant you the wisdom to know the difference between that and passing out face-first in the street.”
James Poulos cranked a particularly stinky nugget into Tucker Carlson’s cat box Thursday, a column entitled “What Are Women For?” that was at once so offensive, pretentious, incoherent, clueless and just plain dumb that it attracted hoots of derision from every corner of the internet. Balloon Juice commenter Clark Stooksbury summed it up pithily as follows:
I think that English is his second language, and perhaps Earth is his second planet.
Yup. Stung by the “wave of anger and condemnation” occasioned by his column, Poulos apparently decided to spend Friday afternoon masticating and swallowing an unabridged thesaurus along with a freshman introduction to philosophy textbook and wash it down with a liter of Everclear. The resulting geyser of vomit was pixelated into a dripping rebuttal to his critics that contains half-digested chunks such as this:
It’s not very controversial to point out that sex and gender are foundational to the culture wars. But it is apparently extremely controversial to claim that we can’t make sense of how and why they’re foundational without acknowledging that the root of the battle is over reaching — and enforcing — a consensus about the relationship between what women do and who women are.
The same [Meh, never mind; it doesn’t really matter what is allegedly “the same”—ed.] is true for the meaning of the relationship between women as sovereign individuals and as beings with female bodies.
But its conclusion may contain a kernel of truth that the incredulous and exasperated reader espies with wonder similar to that of a janitor engaged in mopping up a binge drinker’s pool of sick upon finding a single kernel of undigested corn, whole and recognizable, in the barf on the frat lounge floor:
Difference doesn’t presume or ordain inequality. I’m not alone in thinking that women are uniquely able to help humanity avoid becoming enthralled to the more sterile cultural creations of men. But this sort of insight is far more circumspect and modest than the central principles of virtually all social conservatives. If my claim is doomed to be met with an avalanche of contempt, it seems likely that in our lifetimes social conservatism as we know it will be mocked, despised, and shamed right out of existence. You might be deeply uncomfortable with that even if you do hope to see an America without a social conservative movement.
I think he means “Après moi, le déluge” or something. But I’m not sure why I’m supposed to be “deeply uncomfortable” with the extinction of social conservativism that Poulos’ blogular rogering is supposed to portend. Say bye-bye to all-male panels of sanctimonious, god-bothering pricks deciding women’s healthcare issues? Bring it on, I say.
I’m doing you a favor as I’m giving my endorsement
Kids who grew up on my music looking for three other horsemen
Your polls are creeping up and you feel a sudden surge No, I am not Satan’s servant, that’s the guys in Demiurge
You’re thinking of… guys in Demiurge
Backin’ Rick Santorum, I’ll be ticking off my fans
He’s the perfect frothy mixture of morals and tax plans
My drinking’s in the past now so my head’s clear as a bell
Two thousand twelve election, go Rick go, give ‘em hell
Never was a fan of Mitt, his money gives me pause
Newt’s unpleasant persona is a hindrance to the cause
Paul seems okay at first glance but he comes from outer space
So I spun around three times and threw a dart that hit your face
I threw a dart… and it hit your face
Backin’ Rick Santorum, I’ll be ticking off my fans
He’s the perfect frothy mixture of Taliban and Stan
I’ll be the baddest motherfucking Lincoln Bedroom guest
Two thousand twelve election, I’m with the sweater-vest
Backin’ Rick Santorum, I’ll be ticking off my fans
He’s the perfect frothy mixture of Wallace and hu-man
Rick sells and I am buying, Santorumentum is a go
For the twenty twelve election ‘cause Jesus tells me so
In a development that pushes the right-wingers-are-always-worse than-you-give-them-credit-for conceit so far that we prisoners of the machines have begun to question the simulated world into which our consciousnesses have been projected, the “Conservative Dating” seminar at CPAC is being run by none other than some dude I never heard of but should have since he’s sort of internet-famous, and since I’m always in the market for guys that make me look good by comparison. This Wayne Elise fellow is the perfect wingman, provided you can plausibly deny later in the evening that you knew who that creep standing next to you at the bar was.
Elise runs a site called “Charisma Arts,” the best evidence I’ve seen yet that charisma is a hard science. It’s one of those joints where you can pretty much randomly click on any article, stab your index finger blindly at the monitor, and find something mockworthy, but heck, let’s go with this one.
Dealing with hot women is like talking to a celebrity. You know they’re famous. They know that you know they’re famous. To pretend you don’t know who they are is just going to make you act silly. Best way to interact with a celebrity is to admit they’re a celebrity, introduce yourself and move on to other topics of conversation.
“Hey, you’re George Peppard from The A Team. I used to play with your action figure. I’m Wayne Elise. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“I thought you were dead. Anyways, It’s good to see you. I saw you checking out that girl’s butt. Don’t worry. I’m not calling you out. It’s okay, I was checking her out too.”
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:
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
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!