“Tell me when you’re sick of having your mouth open and I’ll be the hole.” (part two)

June 15, 2010 12 Comments read Attractions, Pacific, So Terrible It's Amazing, Travel, USA, Washington, West

After stuffing ourselves sick, we drove to Marsh’s Free Museum. If you’ve ever gazed upon a piece of tacky merchandise so wondrous you never knew how you lived without it, you know what it is to be in Marsh’s. Marsh’s schtick revolves around Jake the Alligator Man, a poorly taxidermied monkey/alligator hybrid which has been featured prominently in the now-defunct Weekly World News, the only paper brave enough to tell us the truth about Bigfoot abandoning his children and Mrs. Bigfoot having to hook to buy diapers because her babies crap like a man. I may have, in my youth, read a story about this self-same Alligator Man and wholeheartedly believed it, because why would anything with ‘News’ in the name lie to me? News flash: I am naive. Marsh’s treasures hail from a different era, a time when we needed machines to mold things for us. Today, in the Pacific Northwest, things like bread and window sills and underarms manage to grow mold without aid. Truly, we live in the future! Do you suppose the cotton is magic? Or is magic corporeal now? What do magic boxers do? Is the fit magic? Do they lend magical properties to objects around them? Magic asses! Think of the possibilities! Of course, if you want to be a true stud, you will wear a studded t-shirt. There’s even danger inherent in wearing it! Nipple burn, or something! What is this I don’t even Jake himself is trapped in a lackluster glass case. I, for one, believe he should have some neon flashiness, a little more glittery Vegas-style sheen to him. At least give him a hat appropriate to the season! …Like this one. Appropriate for all seasons! Especially deer season. Yes, that is totally a two-headed alcoholic snake and not some doll heads propped upon a turd.

Racist or delicious? Both? Jesus Christ that lion has hemmorhoids, get in the car! I brought home with me three amazing new things: a rad poster, an alligator head, and a skullfuck pirate to go with the blowjob pirate I sadly didn’t buy last year which has now been sold and I will have to make my own because my grand new plan for the pirate bathroom (now quite different from the pictures but whatever) is to have a shelf with “Pirates You Can Stick Your Dick Into: The Series” which requires at bare minimum three pirates: A Skullfuck Pirate, A Blowjob Pirate, and an Earfuck Pirate. These are the sorts of things one can do with their apartment when it’s conceivable that no family will ever come to vist, ever again. After we got home from Marsh’s, it was time for a marshmallow gun war. It started earnestly enough with Emily standing patiently with her mouth open, waiting for a delicious marshmallow to land inside. It ramped up when she got popped in both eyes, particularly so when we discovered that velocity and sting to recipient increases if we wet the marshmallows just slightly, and that we could load several into the barrel for a scattershot effect. Marshmallows went EVERYWHERE. Down the stairs, behind picture frames, inside the decorative brick-a-brak, into the fireplace, behind the television, between the couch cushions…everywhere. The firing squad versus the willing victim. After that marshmallow war was cleaned up, we settled in to watch Orgazmo and play the associated drinking game: drink every time someone says the word ‘Orgazmo’, ‘Heavenly Father’, or ‘Jesus’, which means we got loaded. A few drunk folks (no names, ahem) discovered that you can make really awesome sea lion noises through a marshmallow gun. Particularly in the wee hours when everything else is quiet enough to allow your bellows to truly reverberate. It was only after we’d stopped making damn fools of ourselves that we realized there were people attempting to sleep who were planning on getting up early the next day to leave, so we attempted quiet peace offerings. After all the excitement and running around, we all felt quite awake and settled in to watch another movie, during which we all passed out on our respective couches. Thus endeth day two.

“Tell me when you’re sick of having your mouth open and I’ll be the hole.” (part one)

June 14, 2010 20 Comments read Masticating With Mellzah, Nom or Vom, Oregon, Pacific, Travel, USA, West

On Sunday, we decided to haul our hineys to the farmer’s market, which was really more of a craft fair with food. Not that I’m complaining, mind! Arts and crafts like these charming signs that let you know that you are an open-minded, forward-thinking individual, right on the outside of your home so as to better warn passers-by, potential friends, and Amway salespeople that you are likely armed and trigger-happy. My favorite is “God created a few perfict people. The rest of us are right handed.” Given ‘perfict’, what are the odds that the woodburning master was himself right-handed? Aaaand then there was this: Poll #1578480 Nom or Vom: Cocktail hour Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 27 Would you eat this?

View Answers NOM NOM NOM 9 (33.3%)VOM VOM VOM 18 (66.7%)

Do you find the ‘meat…’ disconcerting at all? Like perhaps it’s circus-grade mystery meat?

View Answers Yeah, hello grade F! 8 (29.6%)Maybe. A little. 10 (37.0%) I’d still eat it. Your grammar has no place on MY palate! 6 (22.2%) No. What’s wrong with you, that you infer that from some damn dots? 3 (11.1%)

When you hear meat cocktail, do you think:

View Answers “Like shrimp cocktail, only with other meats!” 10 (37.0%)”A jamba juice-like boozy meat smoothie.” 15 (55.6%) Something else. To the comments! 2 (7.4%)

Further down the street, we ran into a caramel corn vendor who believed in the nigh-lost art form of themed headwear for their employees. Emily approached and asked the vendor ever-so-sweetly if it was possible if we were able to get pictures wearing the hats, and he promptly handed over two. We promptly engaged in corn-hat battles on the street, drawing in so many onlookers that we were offered corn-shilling jobs, but this unicorn can’t be tamed, baby. When I saw that a vendor was selling rattlesnake on a stick, I knew it was my solemn duty to eat it. We have already learned that food tastes better when impaled upon a stick, and this was my opportunity to try something new AND at maximum tastiness, given the presence of said stick. I’ve gotta say, I was a little underwhelmed. The flavor was good, but it was entirely too difficult to eat. That seven dollar and fifty cent lump in the photograph was nearly 90% bone, I shit you not. No wonder the woman taking my order smirked at me! I firmly believe that if we can engineer watermelons to be square and seedless, we can make delicious foods boneless. Don’t try to contradict me with science and facts. On our way back to the car, we bought marshmallow guns. So very many marshmallow guns, and bag after bag after bag of marshmallows. Is it really so important that one gets cremated with a scenic view? Isn’t it past the point of mattering? Just a thought. After the market and picking futilely at bony meat products, we decided it was time for a late lunch at the Bridgewater Bistro. Apparently, no one in the history of time had ever shown up for a late lunch, as they were utterly flummoxed as to what to serve us. First, we were told that for the next ten minutes, we could order off the brunch menu. Or, in ten minutes’ time, we could order off of a much smaller menu. Or, we could order from the dinner menu, but no entrees and only some of the other dishes. I fully expected to be presented with yet another menu with the disclaimer that you could only order from it if your birthday was between December and April and your favorite color was puce. It’s also to be noted that they don’t serve fish at the Bridgewater Bistro, they serve “fish”. God only knows what “fish” might be. I pressed my luck and ordered from two menus, getting the dungeness crab escargot-style with hazelnut butter, and a cougar burger, with cheese from real milked cougars on top (dangerous with any definition of the word cougar), and cranberry-blueberry mustard. Everything was delicious, but beware of showing up at 2:50 on a Sunday lest you have to run the gauntlet of menus yourself. After lunch, it was time to head back to Long Beach and the wondrous Marsh Museum… to be continued

Go to your hidey hole!

June 14, 2010 10 Comments read Travel

On beach weekend, this was my hidey hole. The house has a few of these rooms with tiny doors that lead to little nook-and-cranny spaces. As a near-midget, sleeping in this hidey hole provided me with a few tactical advantages. First, it’s strategically located between two bathrooms, availability of which are limited given the sheer number of people in the house. Second, being a closed-off space, it is warmer, darker, and quieter than other spaces in the house, which is also important, given the sheer number of people in the house and how generally bear-like I am at six in the morning. Third, it affords a number of opportunities to leap out and grab ankles to scare the bejezus out of some poor unsuspecting girl, who will no longer need to use the bathroom because her bladder is no longer full.

Tactics, baby.