Twisted Spinster

And I’ll bet he eats reindeer sausage.

I don’t know about you, but my estimation of Ikea just went up a little from that report. I mean, I love their cheap Swedish-designed crap assembled into flat packs by Chinese political prisoners like anyone else, but selling reindeer meat during the holidays? That takes balls. I wonder if they have any at my local store… (Probably not, I do live near Disney World after all — God forbid some tourist decide to stop by for Swedish meatballs and see that Donder and Blitzen are shrinkwrapped and ready for snacking…)

(Via.)

Update: “Venison! Venison! Venison!” (About 4 minutes in.)

The comment thread is better than the actual story. No, go read, I insist.

The English are the masters of cuisine.

(Via Tim Blair.)

Update: however…

No. I just can’t find the words. Don’t click that link. And whatever you do, don’t “preview this book.”

(Via.)

I started reading this post about a news item from Failed Britannia on yet another Limey establishment’s genuflection to their new Islamic overlords, when my eye got stuck on the following sentence: “Janette Lynch, whose seven-year-old son Keanu attends the school[…]”

How do you expect anyone to take you seriously if you name your child after a foreign movie actor (especially one with all the talent of drying paint)? Get measured for your burkha, bitch.

(Via another link on KisP.)

Keep in mind that most of these people are also fans of Obama. What does that tell you? Well, it tells me that we are fucking doomed, but you knew that already. (And by the way, this occurred to me first. So there.)

Hey, so a few people could possibly get crushed to death by deadly chunks of ice. But that’s a small price to pay for nice, clean wind-powered electricity! Which will be used to power the 24-hour televisions that will be the only entertainment available to the remainder of the population, safe in their concrete-lined underground bunkers.

(Via Tim.)

For one thing, the god-awful noise of the pressure-washing machine that is being used on the outside of my apartment building right now. “What the hell is that noise?” I wondered, and I opened the front door and nearly got a faceful of dirty water. It’s a good thing I don’t currently have one of my headaches…

I’ve been wondering for a while where all these allergic kids came from too. Now when I was a kid (after the Stone Age, thank you very much) we had a couple of kids with asthma and then there was The Allergic Kid (so named because he was the only one we knew of who had permission not to eat certain things because he’d break out into hives — the rest of us had to eat everything we were given or else face a lecture) in my school, and this was in a populous city full of upper-class Jews and middle-class Hispanics, which were the only ethnic groups I knew of with these frailties. (Fun anecdote — I use that word since we are no longer allowed to call things we’ve observed in person in our own lives “facts” unless we have degrees in the subject on those facts and were engaged in an official study of those subjects: half the Cubans I knew were allergic to fish and shellfish. This was hilarious to me because Cuba is an island. When you go into a real Cuban restaurant — I mean where Cuban families eat, not where celebrities flock — in Miami you’ll find maybe one or two seafood dishes on the menu, one shrimp and one fish, and the rest is beef, chicken, or pork. And I knew quite a few Cubans who were allergic to corn and corn meal. Cuban cuisine is less heavy on the tamales and taco-like items than other Hispanic cuisines.)

Anyway, while I knew about food allergies and knew a few kids who had them, most kids were healthy eating machines with the normal likes and dislikes about foods that their parents generally ignored, because that food on that plate cost money, money didn’t grow on trees, and if they wanted dessert they were going to finish their beets or sweet potatoes or whatever else they didn’t like. And I can tell you one thing that was universally loved by every kid I knew and that was peanut butter. I think if I was a kid and I had developed an allergy to peanut butter, I would have gone into hysterics. Peanut butter and kids go together like… I don’t know, peanut butter and the emergency room do today, supposedly. I tell you what. I think the whole thing started with some parents who were sick of their kids asking for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner every goddamn day. “No honey, remember? Peanut butter makes you very sick. Yes it does, that wasn’t a cold you had last week, it was the peanut butter. The doctor says we can’t have peanut butter or peanuts in the house anymore.” And then it spread, until the peanut industry collapsed and thousands of people were thrown out of work, precipitating a worldwide economic depression that caused civilization to go into a tailspin, weakening the Western world so greatly that all of Europe fell to the New Islamic Empire and the United States was dissolved and carved up and divided between China and Brazil.

See? See what happens when you don’t give your kid his peanut butter sandwich? They’ll pry my can of Jif from my cold, dead fingers…

Something I’ve noticed: ever since this incident the trains seem to be sounding their horns even louder and longer when going through stops. It’s easy to notice this, because the tracks run right next to my apartment complex. It’s a good thing I like the sound of trains.

In San Francisco this past Friday, protesters demonstrate against the recent terrorist atrocities in Mumbai. Oh, wait…

Hey! No laughing at the cardboard “cars”!

(Via SondraK.)