Fixins Archives - Magick Sandwich

Sandwich Fixins #8

May 26, 2010

With the BP spill dumping gallons of oil onto our shores, Rand Paul stating (hypothetically) that private businesses should legally be able to discriminate if they feel like it, and Arizona requiring I.D. from anyone with a tan, you can see why Magick Sandwich is experiencing a dearth of creativity. It’s just hard to find anything funny to write about these days.

While I mourn the impending lack of Gulf shrimp–because this is all about me—I will try to satisfy you with the cocktail sauce of my mind in this installment of Sandwich Fixins.

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This is how I imagine a true patriot who stands against big government would react to a service being rammed down his throat.

When he rebuilds that house, he’ll need extra room for his aging parents who refuse to receive Medicare or Social Security because they won’t live under the lash of those evil liberal overseers, dagnabbit!

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BleachBlack.com has released a semen-colored nail polish called Jizz. For more sperm-related trends, check out my post, Gross Anatomy. In case you’re curious, it also sells another polish called Dickweed. It’s a bright metallic blue-green, which surprised me. But then again, I’m not sure what color I expected.

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Paramount is planning a movie based on the Magic 8 Ball Game. Will I see it? Reply hazy. Ask again later.

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A shoe manufacturer named TOMS makes slip-on sneakers that are a huge hit with celebrities. For every pair sold, another pair is given to a child in need. I know this is a really nice thing, but what if that child really needs food? I picture starving kids in trendy footwear.
Is that wrong?

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Lauren Conrad, 24, complains about having cellulite in May’s issue of Glamour. Meanwhile, the woman gracing the May cover of Fitness magazine says, “I have hips! I’m never going to be the thinnest actress, and don’t want to be.” Who is this zaftig beauty? Kristin Davis. She’s proud of her curves? What curves? She’s one thin layer of flesh away from being a human xylophone.

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While we’re on the subject of celebrities, can we please stop talking about Zoe Saldana‘s incredible “performance” in Avatar? I don’t care how realistic the motion capture was: she was running around in a body stocking, hissing her lines. Should we ask if she did her own stunts, too?

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Finally, a study published by the Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin reveals that we are all actually uglier than we think. If that’s so, then haven’t we lowered the bar for attractiveness? In which case…we all look good again! I love my logic.

More fixins:

Sandwich Fixins #5

Sandwich Fixins #6

Sandwich Fixins #7

Gross Anatomy

March 24, 2010

Alert: Adult themes, juvenile language.

Every once in a while, we at Magick Sandwich get down and dirty. This is one of those times. If you’ve never seen a curse word, avert your eyes and log off the internet forever. It’s not a safe space for you.

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I’m not sure how I happened upon a listing for Natural Harvest: A Collection of Semen-Based Recipes, but I do know I never want to eat at the author’s house. The ad copy is priceless. “Semen is inexpensive to produce….” Pretty much free, I reckon. Looking for a use for excess seed? This is your lucky day. Order this book and your wife will never complain about your chronic masturbation again. But you will never look at flan the same way again.

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Speaking of sperm, can we please retire the LiveStrong bracelets now? What’s next, a chlamydia bracelet? (Kate Hudson, are you listening?) Lance Armstrong had testicular cancer and then won the Tour de France. So what? He had one ball, people, not one leg.

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The wrapper on my toilet paper reads Scott. Common Sense on a Roll. If the benchmark for common sense is not wiping your ass with your bare hand, I think we’re setting the bar a little too low.

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Now available at a drugstore near you: electrically charged face cream. Neutrogena explains the technology:

Patented ion2 complex™ contains essential ion-mineral conductors that, when activated by the companion moisturizer, create a positive electric micro-current. It’s so gentle you can’t feel it, but you’ll see a resilient, toned, overall more youthful look.

Yes, it’s so gentle you can’t feel it—but your wallet will. Come to think of it, I’m going to go lick a battery and hand myself twenty bucks.

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I got an email this morning from Shu Uemura Art of Hair inviting me to “discover our precious ingredients.” Here’s one:

Unpolluted and free of bacteria, Depsea Water is drawn 200 meters beneath the Sea of Japan. Matured over hundreds of years, it is a rich source of essential minerals and nutrients that provide ultimate purity and hydration.

Drop one of the letters from “deep sea,” smush them together and presto! We’ll forget that it’s water. Thank God it’s drawn from 200 meters down because 100 meters down is filled with fish pee. But if it’s so “precious,” why am I putting it on my head? Shouldn’t I be drinking it or praying to it? Then again, my dishwasher liquid is infused with gold dust. Isn’t yours? And I eat coal and shit diamonds. Oh wait, that’s corn.

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Addressing the dearth of existential jewelry, Meghan Farrell has created a brain-shaped ring inspired by “one of the most influential psychology professors [she] had while at Sarah Lawrence.” That teacher must be so proud. You can get a safety pin necklace that symbolizes security or a profile of a head that represents paying her rent. She’s available for private consultation if you’d prefer a customized design. It’s all the result of the jeweler’s study of auto-kinetic and chaos theories, math and a great big steaming pile of horseshit.

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There, I feel better. I pushed that thing out like an ugly baby. If I’ve left you with anything today, let it be this: If you sell it properly, people will pay for the privilege of eating or applying just about anything. Also, I guarantee that the next time you encounter semen, you’re going to think about baked goods. You’re welcome.

Sandwich Fixins #7

July 17, 2009

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

More fixins:
Sandwich Fixins #4
Sandwich Fixins #5
Sandwich Fixins #6

Sandwich Fixins #6

June 19, 2009

Once again I find myself a few (magick?) sandwiches short of a picnic. So I offer you the condiments of my mind with another helping of Sandwich Fixins.

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When you order Domino’s online, you can post your order to Facebook. As technological solipsism reaches its zenith, can the apocalypse be far behind?

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My dream job would be to work in a think tank at Arm & Hammer, coming up with new ways to market baking soda.

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When I need to feel smart, I read a message board—any message board. The writers’ streams of consciousness read more like comatose trickles.

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How many bars of soap could be made from the rendered fat of Rush Limbaugh?

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When did “gift” become a verb? “The star was gifted the necklace after the photo shoot.” Wasn’t she given the necklace?

When did “shone” disappear? For example, “The star shined at the opening.” I don’t understand. Was she polishing something?

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I saw Karl Rove in person, so I can cross “be in the presence of evil” off my bucket list.

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If you feel that any of my jokes require a little help, add your own percussion with Instant Rimshot.

More fixins:
Sandwich Fixins #3
Sandwich Fixins #4
Sandwich Fixins #5

7 Signs I’m Getting Old

May 21, 2009

1. I’m not sure if I’m middle-aged because I don’t know when I’m going to die. But with every birthday, the conceit gets closer to science fiction.

2. Two years ago, my husband and I went to an Ozzy Osbourne concert at Madison Square Garden. We were deaf for three days afterward and decided (à la Danny Glover) that we were “getting too old for this shit.”

Next week, we’re going to Radio City Music Hall to hear Karl Rove debate James Carville. I am so stoked. If Carville says my favorite line, “I wouldn’t piss down his throat if his heart were on fire,” I’m going to throw my bra onstage.

3. We’re big boxing fans. We saw the first Mickey Ward v. Arturo Gatti fight from the third row. We could smell the blood. I used to box with a personal trainer for fun. Now I get tired out after three rounds of boxing on the Nintendo Wii. I can taste the blood.

4. I consider a good bowel movement a major accomplishment. Not because I’m constipated, just because it’s creative.

5. If I ever lose my mind, I want to make sure I’m still patriotic. So my Living Will stipulates that my caregivers dress me in the following shirt.

6. When I die, I want to be buried in Florida. I’ll finally own real estate that even Disney can’t build on. That’s power.

7. I want my tombstone to say this:

Then again, maybe I’d rather it say something simple, like this:

I can’t decide, you see. I’m getting old.

By the numbers:
7 Good Band Names
9 Ways to Prevent Your Own Valentine’s Day Massacre

Sandwich Fixins #5

May 18, 2009

At almost every supermarket checkout counter, there are signs saying, “Go Green. Skip the Plastic.” If plastic bags are so bad, shouldn’t we give this advice to dog owners as well? I’m only saying this because I would love to take a walk and see people bent over, fingers spread like a catcher’s mitt, waiting to collect the steaming pile dropping from their pooch’s ass. That would be very entertaining for me.

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Years ago, I accompanied my husband to the New York Auto Show. Manufacturers pay people to lurk around taking notes about visitors’ reactions. They’re not presenters; they’re supposed to blend in. Sometimes you can tell who they are as I did when waxing rhapsodic about a Supercharger prototype that never made it into production. The poor guy was madly scribbling, trying to keep up.

So when we got to the Mercedes exhibit, I started asking, very loudly, “Where’s Hitler’s staff car?” I aimed the question at no one in particular. I saw no presenter. I repeated myself several times, hoping to flush out the secret representative. Eventually, my husband hustled me away and ended my impromptu demonstration of support for Holocaust survivors and, by extension, all Jews, many of whom drive Mercedes.

I’ve been telling this story ever since. It’s short, sweet and totally true. But some morons at this year’s show decided to heckle a Chrysler spokesmodel as if she ran the company. So now I have to give a whole backstory to show that I wasn’t harassing anyone. Thanks to those assholes, my story will never be funny again.

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Wanda Sykes caught some flak for wishing Rush Limbaugh’s kidneys would fail. She was speaking at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner at the time, and the context of the joke was her reaction to Limbaugh’s wish for Obama to fail. She also said Rush might have been one of the hijackers on 9/11 but was so messed up on Oxycontin that he missed his flight. Plus she shares how she’d torture Sean Hannity. It’s pretty sweet. Watch it here. It’s over fifteen minutes long and well worth your time.

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Why use Wynonna Judd in an ad for Alli, a weight loss drug? Is it so fat people won’t feel pressured to actually lose weight? This is ingenious advertising that says, “We’re not even trying to kid you that you’ll ever be able to stop shopping in Dress Barn.” It persuades people to buy a drug while lowering their expectation of eventual success.
P.S. Alli makes you shit your pants. Now you know what Wynonna Judd is probably doing right now.

Sandwich Fixins #4

January 30, 2009

Between the fear and the hope, 2009 is shaping up to be a bumpy ride. I might be a newborn foal taking my first wobbly steps or I could be Old Yeller wagging my tail at the man with the gun. Too soon to tell. Either way, I’ve got some questions.

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Why does George Michael continue to use public bathrooms? How many times does he need to get busted before he’ll learn to put a bedpan in his limo? At least he only got caught with crack and pot this time. Maybe the glory hole was closed for the night.

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Has a friend ever come back from a trip to Europe and told you the public toilets there are great: they’re really clean? Define clean. Did you ever have someone barf into a helmet and then put it on? I trust the answer is no but I think you catch my drift. Those places would look like a CSI murder scene under a blacklight. Or like a bedspread at the Holiday Inn.

I used a public bathroom in Paris once. Supposedly it locked and cleaned itself between every use. So I thought, what if a bum got stuck in there? Would he drown?

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Why don’t environmentalists ever tell people they should stop having pets? What’s worse for the planet: dog shit or dog shit in a baggy, preserved in a landfill until the end of time? People run around bagging up crap behind Fido, but do you think they’d do that for you? They’d put you in a frigging home.

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Where do creationists think oil comes from? It’s fossil fuel. But if the earth is only 6,000 years old and scientists faked the fossil record, where does the oil come from? If dinosaurs walked the earth with humans, which must be true because Sarah Palin believes it, those fossils turn to oil fast. That’s good news because the hamster you buried in your backyard is fuel by now. If we just stop cremation and putting our dead in boxes, we’ll soon be right as rain. Apply some pressure and pretty soon Grandma’s corpse will be bubbling up some crude.

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Does anyone actually think that paint-on abs look good? If I have a huge belly, the last thing I want to do is draw a big diagram on it. The only place I want to see paint on a guy’s belly is at an NFL game. And that’s just so I can make fun of him. For God’s sake, people! Even Stevie Wonder has a sense of touch: do you think he doesn’t know what fat feels like?

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Why aren’t there any winos anymore? Where have they gone?