Refrigeration broke down on the Magick Sandwich delivery truck and all the yummiest stuff got spoiled. So it’s back to salt and ketchup packets today, as we give you another handful of fixins:
How much waste is created in the making of those high-minded recyclable shopping bags? They’re everywhere. Do you think Rite Aid cares if they’re made in China through child labor? Does Whole Foods ensure the resulting toxic run-off doesn’t end up in our water supply? The regular plastic ones are still made, too, and thanks to their high percentage of recycled material, they have to be doubled to keep from breaking two steps out of the store. Yeah, this is working.
At what point will we admit that these pathetic efforts are like putting a band-aid on an avulsive wound? It might make us feel better but the patient is still bleeding out. Of course, the earth will rebound once it has shaken us off like fleas from a dog’s back.
On a related subject, I’m getting sick of environmental groups saying that Americans use too much toilet paper. Here I draw the line. Isn’t it enough that we use recycled paper that gives us a spa-worthy exfoliation of our collective ass cracks? I don’t need Sheryl Crow or Laurie David or Joe Treehugger inviting themselves into my bathroom.
I also don’t want to stand downwind of them. When they sit down, do they crunch? I wonder how much waste water is generated from the extra detergent it takes to remove all those skid marks. From where I sit, the amount of toilet paper I use is just enough.
Note to autoerotic asphyxiators: don’t forget the lime! You bite down on the lime at the moment of climax to wake yourself up before you die. I saw it on an old episode of CSI. You can get a lot of useful information from that show.
The world might still have David Carradine and Michael Hutchence if only they’d had a small wedge of tangy citrus. Or a spotter.
I am viscerally creeped out by John Travolta’s hairline. It gives me goosebumps. Does he use a stencil and spray-on hair in the front? Or is he the first human Chia pet? It could be a Scientology thing: maybe that’s how they all look on Xenu‘s home planet.
Overheard in the post office:
“They call it settling like with cereal so they don’t have to give you a full box. Or like you have a bottle of Snapple that isn’t completely filled. They say it needed air. But they’re just ripping you off.”
That guy should be in a think tank somewhere. Then “they” should fill the tank with water and leave him for dead.
I’d like to end the week with a pet peeve. Please feel free to add your own.
Why do fancy restaurants grind pepper and dust my pasta with Parmesan? Are they adding value to my dining experience? Do they think I’ve never done this myself or won’t do it properly and thereby ruin the chef’s work of art? Are they trying to dictate how their dishes are garnished? Or maybe it’s a cost-saving measure, à la McDonald’s Ray Kroc: don’t give them condiments unless they ask for them.
I happen to be a person who likes a lot of pepper and grated cheese, so I’ll have that poor waiter grind away over my plate until he has carpal tunnel syndrome and other patrons are staring at me, judging me crass, low class, piggish, as if I’d ordered a steak at Peter Luger and asked for A-1 sauce. Or had a cheese souffle at the Plaza and covered it with ketchup.
My feeling is this: once I’ve ordered, this is my food and I can do whatever the hell I want with it. If that happens to mean I use a lobster as a dancing puppet at Oyster Bar—true story—then so be it. Leave the fixins on the table and step back. The fun’s about to begin.