Terrible Analogies

What is the half-life of Velveeta cheese?  I only ask because we’ve had this block of Velveeta for over three months, and it’s show no signs of degradation.  It’s a bit eerie, actually.

Now that I think about it, I realize that more and more of our perishable foodstuffs is increasing its shelf life to unnatural lengths (did you know that ultra-pasteurized milk can stay good for three months?).  Extrapolating this idea, it’s not difficult to imagine that a processed product such as this extruded brick-like mass of “cheese” that I’m about to throw into my scrambled eggs should remain safe to eat for the foreseeable future.  Let’s hear it for science!

While watching an episode of Burn Notice on blu-ray last night a random, obtuse thought popped into my head, and before I could get the brain / mouth filter into gear I spouted the word “Sardines!”

“What was that?” Karin asked with a puzzled look in her eyes.

“Sardines. I’ve never tried sardines.” I couldn’t tell you why that particular thought had suddenly come to mind. Perhaps a long dormant, forgotten brain cell decided to spontaneously fire, projecting the thought of tinned fish into my frontal lobe. Or perhaps there’s a bit of subliminal advertising going on in the episodes of Burn Notice, with the good folks at Fox Television receiving a kickback from the sardine industry with each and every can of sardines sold.

Regardless of the origin, the idea had taken root, and I was bound and determined to try a can of sardines.  From that night forward, I would not feel complete as a human being until I had accomplished this task which was set out before me.

Thus, the great Monday Morning Sardine hunt began.  I jumped into the S2000 and jammed over to my local grocery store, where I found the object of my quest:

Running through the self checkout line, laughing maniacally and crazy-eyed, I swiped my check card and inputed my PIN number like only a man on a quixotic journey such as mine could.  Gripping my newly acquired tin of sardines, my knuckles turning white from my kung-fu grip, my butt hugging close to the ground as I rushed towards the sliding glass doors in hunched, lurching, crab-like motions.  Exiting the store I dove head first into my car (which I left running in the red zone by the front door), gunned the engine, and in a cloud of thick, acrid tire smoke made haste for home base.

Karin, confused by my singularly obsessive desire for canned fish, and having recused herself in the upstairs office to avoid any confrontations, heard me burst though the garage door and shrieked, “I think you need to calm down!!”…or something to that effect.  I couldn’t quite hear her, but that didn’t matter now, for my quest’s journey was about to bear fishy, fishy fruit.

Ahhhh, there it be, laddies.  Canned gold!  

Oddly enough, sardines taste an awful lot like tuna, only a bit more mellow.  The head and tails had been removed, but on my second fish I noticed that the spine was still in place. Oh, lucky day!:

The bones of these fish are so tender you don’t even notice them as you eat.  Very interesting.

And so, satiated for the moment, I made a mental note to pick up a few more cans during our next shopping excursion.  I can’t help shake the feeling that these would taste fantastic in a sandwich…

Wandering the aisles of our local union staffed grocery store this past weekend, we noticed that the Mountain Dew 12 pack boxes looked a little strange.  Instead of the normal neon and muted green color scheme they were white with an odd strip of red on the edge.  Peering down at these stacked boxes like someone studying a bit of road kill or examining a newly discovered chip in his windshield, I read the word “Throwback” in tiny letters stamped on the end of the containers.

Wow…instead of high fructose corn syrup, this limited batch of Mountain Dew was made with real sugar.  Recalling how good the sugar-infused Coke tasted during our trip to Maui last year I quickly strong-manned several cases of our accidental discovery into our cart and made a dash for the checkout line.

Let me state again how amazingly good Coke tastes when infused with sugar.  Upon first drink you’re wondering why it tastes so different.  So staggeringly seductive.  It’s only when you read the ingredients printed on the side of the can do you realize that what you thought to be some kind of ancient arcane chemical alchemy was simply…sugar.

If Coke tastes so wonderful when made with sugar, then it goes to reason that Mountain Dew must taste equally, if not more fantastic.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

What I thought was going to be a technicolor explosion of dreamlike sensations turned out to be more like a blind date with a homely girl suffering with an inflamed goiter.

Tasting quite bland, balancing upon the sharp wavering precipice of distasteful, this nearly insipid liquid leaned precariously on just this side of foul.  I didn’t have to choke this liquid down my throat, but as I drank deeply of its blandness I couldn’t help but think of several other refreshing soft drinks that I could be ingesting in its stead.  

This is the sort of drink Santa gives to bad boys and girls.

To put it bluntly, the Throwback Mountain Dew left me quite disappointed.

To save yourself from a bit of a letdown, if you’re ever given a choice between Throwback and regular Mountain Dew, chose the latter.

Imagine my shock and horror when, late one night, I happened upon an infomercial that featured one of the most unlikely of pitchmen.  But there we was, big as day and in full regalia, mohawk primped and perfect, gold chains around his neck, and sporting a “fresh out of the package” polo shirt.  Aghast, I sat with wide, unbelieving eyes at my television, unable to comprehend the full meaning of it all.  Mr. T, that beloved, illiterate icon of the 70′s and 80′s, had sold his soul to the infomercial gods, and was now hawking the latest in a long line of “as seen on TV” products that, according to the late Billy Mays, “no house and home can live without”.  

I don’t know what upset me more; the fact that Mr. T was wearing an uncharacteristic button-down Polo shirt, or that he’s apparently half Klingon.  

Mr. T, bought and paid for.  This is something that goes against the very nature that is B.A. Baracus.  Why, Mr. T…why?

Pitching the FlavorWave, which apparently can cook an entire turkey in 5 minutes, teach manners to your unruly children, and balance the national debt with the simple push of a button.

This miraculous product is brought to you by the good folks from the Cooking Club Of America, which is a scam of the highest order.  From what I’ve read, these grifters charge members outrageous fees for “life-time memberships”, taking hundreds of dollars from you without your consent.  Their aggressive, predatory practices are well recorded.  If I were you, I’d stay as far away from anything having to do with the Cooking Club Of America.  Unless, of course, you enjoy getting ripped off.

The traditional gold chains have been replaced with corporate marketing. Oh, Mr. T…look how far you’ve fallen.

And so, an icon falls.  Next time, I’d do a bit of research just to see who you’re getting into bed with.  Those shylocks from the Cooking Club Of America are nobody to mess with.  Mr. T., IANAL, but I highly suggest that you review your contact with these people to ensure that they’re not going to burn you in some way or fashion.  And get some better handlers…you know, somebody who has an ounce of sense and will steer you away from frauds like these.

Along with my daily intake of protein drinks, creatine, and vitamins, I often have a few eggs at night prior to bed just to squeeze in a few more ounces of protein before hitting the gym the next day.  Last night I cracked into my second egg and found that it had two yolks:

I had never encountered this before, but apparently this isn’t an entirely unusual occurrence.  From a bit of research I’ve discovered that over 75 billion eggs are produced in the United States, and roughly 3-5% of those eggs are double-yolks.  Larger hens, or hens that are overfed at the beginning of their laying cycle, are more likely to produce them.  The record for the number of yolks in one egg is nine.  

Something to think about next time you sit down for breakfast…