Most journalists my age are all about the Mac and the Cheese, but not me, baby, I’m a meat man. I’m a metabo-low-carb man, myself, man. You getting me?
If you wanna hand me a balogna sammich, be advised I’ll strip the meat from the bread and let the Wonder lie where it falls. If it’s PB&J, I’ll crack it open and tongue out the PB and the J, but the unmerry messenger of bleachest-most bread is predestined to be shot dead to languish, expiring by the highchair wayside.
But this odd steak seems so steely and I’m crazily unclear as to why.
This big, beefen-bronzy heifer is so solid and steadfast in her milk-free ways. I’ve gobbled no less than twenty-and-tence my weight in cattlesque delectalights. Whether in ketchup, teriyaki or sauces of barbecue it’s been no matter, this holy cow has been a greatest indulgence of mine. One I hesitate to forsake, even for iron, tin or tungsten considerations.
Is this a powerful purveyor of Hindi-esque message ala moo-style preservation the likes of which the Simpson’s Apu himself would be hard-pressed to convey? I know not, but ponder weightily indeedy.
Perhaps it’s a spiritual expression of bovinity the likes of which me and my omnivorous brethren have narient yet, to this very day, ever imagined to have dreamed of seeing. I can’t say what this experience means, nor do I care to even imagine trying.
You know something — which I imagine you do — all this spiritual and philosophical talk is above me. Not just above me, but way, way above me. I can’t ponder stuff of such heady absurdity… I’m a bit sorry to you, but not very.
Forget about steel. Forget about brass, bronze, copper and marble-esque stonery. Think instead of New York, baseball, center cut, brisket, and the most prime of prime rib. Think Au Jus. Think richest gravy. Think Brazilian tongue on a tong and get back to me if you must, though I can’t imagine you will.
Steel cow or steal cow, but do as you must. You’ve got my vote in the event you should need it.
I may never understand the making of metal cattle, but I do know what I like. And oh dear friends, what I like is rich, Angus protein. How you like me now?*
Last week our business manager came into our office to gripe about a number of things, principal among them was the severe lack of publication pieces in months of late, but at the very top of the list was the amount of money we spent in Puerto Rico compared to our net output of viable articles from it… meh, whatever.
It was pointed out that when we went to San Francisco, we produced 55-articles in just five days, whereas in two full months of Puerto Rico living, we only came out with about 50, while hundreds were expected.
What can I say, we weren’t that taken with the place.
More than that, painfully few of the locals could be bothered to get off their patooties long enough to actually meet with us to perform our journalistic reviews. Compare that with San Francisco where every attraction was gracious and giddy to have us in, in order to tap in to our manys of thousands per day in syndicated readership.
It’s not like we asked for money or anything, just somebody to ask questions of, and still very few felt the inclination to actually get up from their desks long enough to do so.
What, am I supposed to go out and invent stories where none exist just to promote an island nation that can’t be bothered to invent itself just to make a story, even if no such story exists? Nonsense!
Us juniors had a well and good enough time in Puerto Rico and truly loved the time we spent there with all the bugs, runaway humidity and tail swoop of Hurricane Dean, and we especially loved that the out-of-mind bored parents took us to every first run film offered within 100 miles each week, though apparently, and this is just what I’m told, the parents were bored out their minds with that too.
And worst of all, the Daddy Man, who does the majority of the business management and who was there on contract to do more work as well, found it especially infuriating that nobody would actually pick up the phone long enough to tell him he could go in to write up the promotional reviews of them and their businesses that were required of him..
It’s almost as if they think the dollar is still strong (which it is not), that they’re unaware that Cuba will open up to Americans in the next few years (which it almost certainly will) or that they’re a dirty, quasi-American protectorate whose only saving grace is the ease of Caribbean fare without a passport… crazy talk, I know.
So one could argue that our lack of Puerto Rico articles has everything to do with a general malaise that languished atop the family, or perhaps that it was a sweeping culture of incompetence that caused it, but really the net result was just a general lack of interest amongst all involved in sum entirely and nothing more.
Us juniors had a good enough time, despite the conspicuous lack of playgrounds about the island, though it wasn’t for a lack of trying to find them. The parents insist it’s still a great place to take a holiday, but that one should go with a first-world tourism budget in mind, throw any business notions out the window, and instead just follow the guidebooks for the best trip that can be possible, and to do so the traveler must not take local opinion in mind, regardless of how fluently or passionately it’s expressed.
So our Puerto Rican articles will be necessarily cut uncommonly short with the balance of the articles being doled out over the coming year in exclusive license to PuertoRicoLifestyle.com.We had originally intended to put out a book of our Puerto Rican exploits, but so painfully much ended up being worth so painfully little that we’re just giddy to be back home in the land of as few sub-human-head-sized bugs that we are not going to complain and as an additionally great bonus our safe passage home, even though the airline gave us another ounce of misery on the return flight.
At least the passage through security in Puerto Rico’s San Juan International Airport was reasonable. No bitterness of the journey, and I truly mean it… tell that to the parents in a convincing way and you might actually get a stamp of approval, and you can go from there, but in the meantime, just pick your Caribbean destination by desire, get a passport and go there instead, regardless of boundaries and call it a day.
To our greatest surprise, off the southern coast of Puerto Rico, is a once missed, but since exploited beach just off the coast called Gilligan’s Island. It’s nothing new and check any tour book to verify it, but it’s a pretty interesting place. It was once an uncommonly forgotten grotto just off the coast, but now it’s almost as good place that’s still kind of interesting to attend, assuming you do it on the right day.
The whole thing has been written up in just about all of the guidebooks because twenty years ago it was the cat’s meow. That cat has spent its nine lives, and this spit of grotto has been wasted for its lives as well.
We showed up at our previously agreed upon time only to find that nobody knew who we were and so we got to pay out $40+ for our Perplexing gang to have the luxury of writing up the attraction… obviously it’s just that great, right? Well, it’s pretty good, in sorts, but not entirely so.
We went during midweek after summer break had ended so we had the assumption we were going out during an off-peak time. Turns out the rickety, scary ferry was not just late, which is normal, but loaded to the teeth with paying passengers.
We got out to Gilligan’s Island (or Guilligan’s Island, as it’s locally called), only to find the island overrun with other tourists, replete with all the empty beer cans a tourist might hope to trip over all about the beaches even though, as I said, it was mid-week and mid-day and during the school year to boot and so there was no place to place our sandals or blankets in order to enjoy the glorious beach of which invariably is the place called Gilligan’s Island.
Bear in mind that this silly place was only renamed Gilligan’s Island a couple decades back in order to cul in the wayward tourists, and that the place has no bearing on the actual Gilligan’s Island, and that the only reason it’s been thusly named is because of the whole and entire likelihood that a tourist might go out there just because of its name…. which is somehow bearing the title of “Gilligan’s Island” though it pays no royalty and that’s just because it’s technically a real island.
In short, do not ever go there for any reason other than to say that you have, but even then, you really still shouldn’t bother, even though we had a fine enough time out there.
If you want an island excursion, drive out to the ferry that traverses the waters to Culebra or Viequez, both of which are a fraction of the price and either of which will take you to a place so much nearer to paradise than anything you can find even in the backwaters of Gilligan’s Island.
With that said, let’s talk again about Gilligan’s Island, even if it is the one island in the world Gilligan never actually visited.
It’s a nice enough grotto. We spent our afternoon getting sunburns and checking out the assorted dead coral beneath our feet. We found all kinds of dead seashells and a bunch of interesting dead fish fossils too even though we couldn’t find a free square foot of coastline onto which we might place our beachy towels.
By the way, if you do decide to visit Gilligan’s Island, you are strongly recommended to not leave anything of value on the beach, which is a bit sad, since it means that people are paying a solid $8 a head to head out and steal your stuff, which is terrible.
The exclusive purveyors of the island are jerks, as best we can tell, no matter how much fun we had (at tremendous cost), and if you’ve got the nickels to spare, go to a real island or two instead and call that good enough.
Bottom line is that you should never go there. It’s a 4 of 10 experience at a 9 of 10 cost while you can go get far better values with overnight accommodations elsewhere. And that my fellow kiddo travelers is my review.
I probably could be more excited about it but I’m not sure how. Maybe if I knew I was a journalist, what a magazine is or how to read, but no matter what, we at Perplexing Times are very excited about this latest arrangement to spread our young, timeless wisdom to a handful more of the myriad masses.
I can’t go in to detail, and that’s mostly because I don’t actually get to know what the details are, but I can tell you that the Puerto Rico Lifestyle Magazine has come to terms we like to reprint all of our stories from our many adventures in Puerto Rico.
Dollars and cents aside, because I’m not sure how many of those are actually involved, I can tell you one exciting thing is that all of the contextual links we put in our articles will continue to link to Perplexing Times. Golly, that would just make it super if we actually made any money.
The administrative “parent” types decided years ago to keep ads on here to a minimum and to severely restrict the kinds of ads that can actually appear on Perplexing Times so it’s not like that’s a huge boon for anything other than bringing in new readers, but I’ll take it. That alone is exciting enough for me.
I know we’ve been pretty lax about publishing lately, and part of it is that our collective rate of learning things new and newsworthy have slowed and the other part of it is that our adminadaddy has been buried in his own work so one thing we’ll do ti get things running in real time is wrap up the last of the Puerto Rico articles and move on from that “old business” to more timely and interesting things like “new business.”
If you really liked the Puerto Rican articles you’ll be able to read even more of our exploits over on Puerto Rico Lifestyle, so you won’t miss a minute of our journey, if you’re into that sort of thing. We sure were at the time but we’ve been there so we know what makes it cool.
There will only be another maybe five or six articles about Puerto Rico, then I promise we’ll wrap it up properly, move on with our lives, and get right back to bringing you the news that’s most relevant to your lives.
And if you really want to support the Puerto Ricans, do as a third of them say and demand the island becomes a state. On the secondhand (which ticks much faster) you could hear the second third of them and demand independence. With that said, you might be better off listening to the final third and demand no change in status whatsoever. Either way it’s a quagmire, but that’s Puerto Rico for you, a quagmire.
I don’t know syndication from a stranger, but I was writing only a month before a bunch of publications picked up my stuff. This latest one, however, is close to home and as welcome as my matt… even though his name’s something else.
A billion years ago, way after the dot bubble burst like (one of the many of) my favorite balloons under my jumpy-pouncy weight, a bunch of sites syndicated my articles. Studio 8, the Fake News, Uncle Sharky and even Zinos ran my stuff. They didn’t need my infantile insight, but wanted a fresh perspective as only I could bring. Kudos, my loving syndi-gaggle, I approve and appreciate it, every last letter.
Satire Search syndicated my work from the giddy up n’ go, picked us up quicker than an Amsterdam escort, and didn’t drop us until proprietor Pedi-Bob decided he didn’t like my dad*. Better still, the guys at HumorFeed have picked up every headline we’ve sent in for worldwide distribution since then. HumorFeed, baby, how cool is that?
Anyhow, there’s this new outfit in Seattle, my proximate hometown, and they’re coming out with more issues than my crazy aunt Gina (who’s still drowning in her own river of “de Nile.”) They caught wind of me and demanded I share my work with them… A demand? So hostile! Very well, like a true underdog, I concede.
I’m a Pacific Northwest native, despite my farthest travelings, so it pencils out in fine Crayola fashion. I review the cruises, dinner train, museums, zoos, aquarium and more, and let these guys spread my goodly gospel. Who loses? Nobody, that’s who. Who? Nobody! (Pay attention already.)
I’ve never been above begging before, so let me beg once again. Not for myself this time, but for my dear, precious syndiate. A vote for Seattle Sum Times is a vote for Mr. Me-man, grandest Brendan Alexander.
As much as I hate it when you guys leave, I undestand that you do it at the end of every visit to my site. You want more and I can’t blame you. I want more too, sometimes. For me it’s toys, candy and attention. For dad it’s security, a car and maybe a house. Whatever you crave, consider Seattle Sum Times for the total of your online (mis)information needs.
See now, if that don’t make it all official-like, I just don’t know what could do it… yet somehow, not everybody’s got the message that we’re for real, just yet.
* It’s been almost a year and a half, yet despite over fifteen emails, the pseudo-nommed Bob Pferd from Satire Search won’t even aknowledge us. We were so good back then, but despite Our growing success, traffic and attention, not even remotely worthy of even a single word back. Now who’s the child?
Hey man, we’ve been running kibbles and bits of news now for a crazy long time, with over 500 articles in our craw (as of the publication of this piece). It feels like the right time, so why shouldn’t we do a “best of” bit?
Call us campy or call us old fashioned, but there’s new readers stumbling upon us every day. It’s important they be able to find our best stuff at a glance, right? This page aims to accomplish just that very goal.
– Jump to any category –
Best – Cutest – Best Photoshops – Best Animations – Most Popular
Best! of course this is a matter of taste, but as the single senior editor of wide syndication, uncommon longevity and unrivaled repute, the following articles represent what I consider our very best work.
Minimum Security Christmas Tree Brings Joy, Mischief
Additional Limbs Discovered
Point/Counterpoint: You’re Big, You’re Small
Agri-tourism Bad for Agora-tourists
Please Don’t Feed (me to) the Animals
Dam Tub for Ten Reviewed in Dry Dock
Accessorizing Complicated by Language, Cultural Barriers
Roy’s Feline Disaster Unraveled
Picture Buttons for our “BEST” gallery (click any one to see the whole articles)
Cutest! And then there’s the cutest articles. Sometimes funny, often insightful, but always the sort of thing that makes girls mushy.
Extreme Tape-Overs a Big Hit
Dude, I’m Tripping Out
Naval Expedition Uncovers Tummy
Brendan Alexander, International Man of Mischief
McDonalds Introduces the ‘French Fry’
Skunk Like Me; Candy for Free
Loch Ness Monster Discovered
Picture Buttons for our “CUTEST” gallery (click any one to see the whole articles)
Best Photoshops! This one is a matter of far less conjecture. Sometimes we put just a ton of work into our photoshops. Maybe it’s a waste of fire, but it’s always worth it. These articles are very good, but in every case the work in PhotoShop after the fact vastly outweighs the time spent on the writing. If you dig altered photos, these are not to be missed.
What is the Patrix?
Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me?
Third Haircut Lacks Fanfare of First
FDA Revises Food Pyramid, So Do I
We’re No Stuffed Animals
Gross Motor Skills Fine By Me
‘War Hall’ Portraits Oddly Unpatriotic
Family Craves Bigger Buggy
Photoshop Outperforms Rogaine for Bald Brother
Picture Buttons for our “BEST PHOTOSHOP” gallery (click any one to see the whole articles)
Best Animations! I’m not sure if we should call it “Best Animations” or just simply “animations.” There’s so much work that goes into them, so we only make animated pictures when it’s the only way to convey our meaning. They load slower (on dial-up) and take more bandwidth (from our beleaguered server), but we gotta do what we gotta do, so these are our finest animations.
Have to Learn to Crawl Before I Fly
Primate Crib-Evicted for Monkeying Around
I am Kevin Spacey’s Clone
Dominic Garners Posty Pointers
TV Not Interesting, Rather Enveloping
FDA Warns of Turkey Poisoning
Picture Buttons for our “BEST ANIMATIONS” gallery (click any one to see the whole articles)
Most Popular! Regrettably, our very best articles, those which we put the must time into, the ones we find the most clever and/or useful, are rarely the ones that enjoy the highest readership. Maybe it’s a key word like booby or wiener that pushes it over the top, who knows. No less, these are a few of our all-time most popular articles.
What the hell does this thing do?
Older Chicks Have Hypnotizing Mammaries
Drinking Myself to Sleep ‘Not a Problem’
The Uncredible Quasi-Hulk
Please Stop Asking If I’m A Girl
Picture Buttons for our “MOST POPULAR” gallery (click any one to see the whole articles)
With all this now readily and easily displayed for everyone’s engiddied enjoyment, I hope you find joy and least solace. We work hard to keep it lively for you guys.
What can you do to help?
I’m ever-so glad you asked!
Tell me your favorite pieces that aren’t on this list.
Drop us a dime towards college as a contributor.
Tell everyone you know about how great we are, there’s a button to do so at the bottom of every page.
Tell me what made you read down this far… though really, the money’s better.
Check out our syndication page.
Come on guys, you don’t have to love us more than your own kids, but if you’ve read this far down in our illustrious “best of” bit, you obviously dig us on some level. We put out our best and our worst for you. At least share what love you have for us. Maybe with us directly, maybe with your friends, heck, maybe even with our college fund. You tell me what it’s going to be. I’m here to listen.
Hey, are you outrageously rich and looking for a noble and underfunded cause with which to share your absurd wealth? Forget scams that lie and take your money. We won’t lie to you, but we’d gladly take your money.
Daddy-O was once a rich man, but a series of breached trusts and misfortune traded it all in on a shiny new “broke.” He’s not bitter, mind you, just broke. Since he had us boys he’s been dedicated to our rearing and unable to gain gainful employment gainfully. The last couple jobs took him away long hours but didn’t even pay enough to beak even. Sad, huh? I know.
You’re rich so I’ll just ask. Can we have a house? Apartment living is less fun than unsolicited naptime. We can’t paint, our carpet is garbage and our landlady is a crook. Starting to feel the benevolance welling up inside you yet?
Wouldn’t it be nice to live in one place for our whole childhood? To put in windows that don’t mold-over and make bro-Patrick sick? To have a place for a chest freezer to stock up on chicken when it goes on sale? It’s a noble cause, I assure you. Noble and underfunded.
We’ll move to your commune, we’ll promote you as a person or business, we just need a place to truly call home. Two bedrooms for 3 boys and 2 parents isn’t cutting it. You can help, can’t you?
If not, how about a million dollars?
The parents are telling me not to run this article. That no one out there has the combination of wealth and blind generosity to bring our dreams to life. I know when we sought a cheap, used car that we struck out, and when we told you to tell a friend you didn’t bother. Maybe this dream is more noble, not just more grand.
Reality shows spend millions a week so I have trouble believing it’s completely crazy. Maybe you have a reality show for us. Perplexing Times is our reality show but dad doesn’t keep the money and it only brings in like $30 a month from ads. We’re grateful but not moved to tears, that takes more.
With three kids you know it’s common to struggle, but is it crazy to dream? I hope it isn’t, but I’m just a kid, right?
After some confusion about my national loyalty I commissioned an aspiring young artist to portray me in a more patriotic yet still truthful light. I expected the look of a Patton, MacArthur or even a McCain or Powell. What I got was totally odd.
I was very clear when I told him to put me in a War Hall. I figured I’d be looking at command central or at least some historic military relics, but obviously there was a breakdown in communication somewhere along the line.
What sort of hack of all hacks does work like this and has the gall to call it a portrait, let alone art? This isn’t even worthy of the hack title. It’s barely sub-hack on its best day, and I’m stuck with it like family.
What’s up with this first shot? Not only am I so out of focus that there’s four of me but the coloring is all wrong. How can I co-exist in fuschia and orange simultaneously? It defies logic. The second shot is even worse. I didn’t authorize blonde highlights. I did say I was a bit pale and could use some color, but I didn’t mean mauve, and I don’t think a strange brown funky across my face counts as a Hollywood tan.
I asked for a War Hall and what I got was labeled “Brendy Warholxander”. What a total ripoff.
Why the patriotic shot in the first place? You see, a while back I wrote this piece about Infant Infantry which stirred some folks cocoa all wrong. I guess I came across a bit too harsh, and I dare say un-American. (The full text of his email is included below.)
Now that Grinch Santa has been captured, (come on, that uni-Saddamer looks as much Claus as Kaczinski) a lot of people’s view on the war has shifted. So far my view is both unchanged and unfairly represented. I don’t really have an opinion of it, though it may seem that way after my editors rework my words. (Don’t worry, he’s got the day off, so this article should go through okay.)
Am I glad there are people protecting my freedom? Yes. Do I enjoy the safety of knowing I can speak out against my own government if I disagree with it? Absolutely. Do I support killing? Not really, no. Even if it means that others may live free? See, there’s where it gets tougher than steak. Some people chew right through steak, I struggle.
I hope the world appreciates the lengths we go to in the name of protecting their freedom. I don’t think they do, but I hope. I hope we are wise to spend our time, money and lives in that pursuit. Sometimes it looks like it’s hard to figure out who the good guys are. Mostly I hope everybody’s daddy gets to come home, but I hope in vain because it doesn’t happen that way.
We have a lot of problems at home that I hope we get around to fixing before it’s too late. We should be able to ensure public health and take care of our retiring veterans, but for now, that too is just a hope.
As for my portraits, well I just don’t know what I’m going to do. They’re pretty hideous, but I suppose I’ll hang them somewhere.
What follows is the full text of the email that helped me rethink my position on the stuff mentioned above and in this article. The email appears unedited, though I may have redacted it a bit. It’s a government thing I learned, miltary people just love it.
I thought your article on Infant Infantry was a bit less than satire, and more along the lines of political dogma. Where, pray tell, are the masses of draftees serving overseas? Do you make a distinction between different kinds of murdering tyrants? “Let’s see, Al Qaeda and Taliban are too bad to have around, but Saddam Hussein? Nah, let him kill a few hundred thousand more before we do anything.” By all means, let’s have some more peaceful negotiations with Osama and Friends. I nominate you to seek him out and start a dialog. You might even get a meaningful conversation with him before you’re shot and have your head chopped off, a la David Pearl. Please take care of your son, you obviously love him. Teach him what you want. Mold him in whatever image you desire. Fill his head with poetry, quantum physics or mindless drivel. You don’t have to worry about him growing up to be a soldier, unless of course he chooses to. Have no fear of terrorists harming him or your family for there are others on watch. You might even know some of them. It’s okay though, because you don’t have to sacrifice unless you want to. My son will just have to wait a little bit longer for me to come home. You see, I’m off hunting terrorists. My little man doesn’t know why I’m gone, and he might not remember me when I get back, but that’s okay. As long as the Taliban, Osama or their minions don’t get the chance to shut down your web page, I must be doing my job. Have a happy holiday season. Maybe next year I’ll get to have Christmas at home, but I’m not counting on it.
P.S. I loved the Pre-Sleep Mood Disorder story. It reminded me so well of the last hour before I would put my son to bed. I miss him. Thank-you.
Light meat, dark meat, and even mystery meat, special sauce, no extra charge; McDonalds, long famous for their cutting edge décor and stunning Playlands has outdone themselves with their newest menu item, the French fry.
Who would have guessed that those clever culinary conspirators could work such magic on a processed potato fried in fat? It’s an amazing harmony unlike anything I’ve ever had.
I don’t know all the details of their recipe, shrouded in a thick fog of unimaginable mystery, but what I do know is astounding. Allow me to explain.
First they take a potato, but not just any potato, that would be too easy. They probably use genetically modified potatoes, because God builds them for the long haul not the flavor.
Next they process it into a puree before reconstituting it into a stick. Isn’t that a kick in the pants? They go from solid to liquid and back to solid. Pure genius.
Here’s where it gets exciting: They burn the stick in a vat of boiling hot oil. Oh it’s good stuff. The oil soaks right in. You see, people are made up mostly of water so oil is a perfect yang to your body’s natural yin.
Once good and soaked, plus good and crispy, they take it out of the oil and place it in a special chamber where salt crystals weighing up to four pounds are able to form all stalagmighty on the fries. If there’s one thing that makes oil-drenched potato that much closer to heaven, it’s jagged shards of salt.How did they think to invent such a treat? We’ll probably never know. At this point I’m just trying to figure a way to grow more hands so I can triple-fist or quadruple-fist my fries. There just has to be some way of taking them in more efficiently than my mere double-fisting them.
Some words of caution in closing. Since they are long and relatively sharp, try not to poke yourself in the eyes. It sounds obvious enough, but it still bears mention. What’s more important than that is your nostrils. A little harder to avoid, but just as uncomfortable. If you’ve got any kind of good momentum going, as I did, one wrong jab and you’ll have salt in the sinus. No good. Also, bear in mind I don’t think these have ever been tested on humans, so there may be long-term consequences to consuming them. But really man, who cares when it tastes so divine?