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Brother, can you spare a quatloo?

I realize nothing is as important as discussing me and my extreme lactose tolerance, but I’d like to aim you over to Stashiu’s Space for a sec. You know Stash as a career soldier and proud moron. If you read this series over at Patterico’s a year or so ago, you know he also did a stint as an army psych nurse at Gitmo. So…ummm…holy shit, basically.

Anyhoo, Stash adopted a couple of little girls, and now he finds out his first lawyer didn’t get the paperwork quite right, and it’s all come back to bite him in the ass in a Big and Very Scary Way. Legally, emotionally and…<cough> financially.

Go over and hit his Amazon hoozit, if you can spare a few quatloos (good on DPUD for helping him figure some of this stuff out).

He’ll be AFK for a while, working it out, but a supportive message is
always welcome, too.

Carry on!

sock it to me

April 28, 2008 — 6:21 pm
Comments: 21

Please make my dairy products shut up leave me alone

limes smiles

I like sour cream. In fact, I like anything with the word ‘cream’ in it. Ice cream, clotted cream, cream of wheat, creamed corn, aspercreme, Thomas Neill Cream: give me it! On a biscuit!

You know what kind of cream I don’t like? Preachy cream. I bought this unfamiliar brand of sour cream because it had the longest sell-by date on the shelf, and look wht was printed inside, on the foil seal: If life gives you limes, just rearrange the letters and return a smile.

Ugh. Horrible. That doesn’t even scan good. How about, if life gives you limes, make margaritas?

stupid sour cream

Okay, maybe a dairy doesn’t want to promote booze (though LOLcats teamed up with Jones Soda, surely another Sign of the Apocalypse). I don’t think it’s too much to ask my food not to make me feel actively nauseated.

Anyhow, that’s not what I’m flexed about. Side B is what I’m flexed about. One of the great things about sour cream is that it’s immortal. It starts out sour; there really isn’t anywhere for it to go (that’s not original, but I’m damned if I can remembered who said it first). When it’s tired of life, sour cream just goes green and hairy.

I always have a container of sour cream on hand, sometimes long enough for us to develop a personal relationship. So when I read The container date indicates how long unopened Daisy will remain fresh. TO PROLONG FRESHNESS AFTER THE FOIL SEAL IS REMOVED: Spoon out the Daisy you’ll need and promptly return to refrigerator, I considered it a complete violation of the sour cream contract, that sacred covenant between Weasel and ultra-pasteurized dairy products.

Last night, I tried to enjoy my baked potato the usual way, with the wide open carton of sour cream at my elbow, ready to add supplementary sour creamy goodness at my merest whim. But it preyed on me. It niggled at my attention. Could I really hear tiny spores landing on the surface with a soft, ripe shush, like early snow? I put the lid on. But inside, wasn’t it still gently warming? Making a hospitable home for those spores I heard earlier?

So I spooned out the Daisy I needed and promptly return to the refrigerator.

Damn you, Daisy. Damn you in all four cardinal directions. Damn you right into the parched, airless desert of the non-dairy aisle, where you belong. I’m handing you itembe, Daisy. I don’t know what the hell one of those is, but I reckon you can rearrange the letters and bite me.

sock it to me

— 4:52 pm
Comments: 37