The Junk Drawer

Regular readers may recall that my pal Jeff and I started a support group for people annoyed by certain noises. That group expanded to include not just noises, but a host of other things that drive people nuts. And so the Annoyances Anonymous support group was born.

If you missed the last couple meetings, head on over to Jeff’s place for a transcript of events that were held on our respective blogs. We are nothing if not organized. Remember, to join the support group all you have to do is leave a comment here (or Jeff’s blog) about what annoys you.  No dues. No paperwork to sign. Just comments.

And if you say that nothing annoys you, I don’t believe you. I can think of six things that annoyed me before breakfast.

Go!

My pal Lee over at Tar Heel Ramblings tagged me for the very simple 123 Book Meme. This meme asks you to complete a kindergarten-level task and report the results. It’ll give you a good sense of what I like to read when I’m not blogging. It might scare you, but if you’ve been here before, you’ve been scared plenty already and this won’t faze you a bit.

So why am I a problem child? Because the meme didn’t work on my first try. It’s always something with me.

Here are the meme rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book ( of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people & post a comment here once you post it to your blog, so I can come see.

I have a few half-read books in the pipeline, but as instructed, you have to pick the book nearest to you. That book is Ray Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing.

I opened it up to page 123 and what should I find? Almost nothing. It was a chapter title page: Shooting Haiku in a Barrel. That’s it. No fifth sentence to find. No three sentences to list after that. It would figure I’d pick a book with a faulty page 123.

So onto Plan B. Pick another book. This time I chose Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach. Before you ask, yes, I’m really intrigued by stuff like this. I don’t want to actually see a cadaver or be a cadaver, but I don’t mind reading about ’em!

Page 123 and the fifth sentence: The researchers concluded that the planes had broken apart at altitude, spilling most of their human contents into the sea.

The next three sentences: To figure out exactly where the fuselage had broken apart, they looked at whether the passengers had been clothed or naked when pulled from the sea. Sir Harold’s theory was that hitting the sea from a height of several miles would knock one’s clothes off, but that hitting the sea inside the largely intact tail of the plane would not, and that they could therefore surmise the point of breakup as the dividing line between clothed and naked cadavers. For in both flights, it was the passengers determined (by checking the seating chart) to have been in the back of the plane who wound up floating in their clothes, while passengers seated forward of a certain point were found floating naked, or practically so.

That’s just lovely, isn’t it?

If this doesn’t give you a fear of flying, reading this might. I live directly under the flight path of an airport located three miles west of me. As a result, I have regular and terrifying nightmares about planes crashing into my neighborhood. The nightmare I described isn’t all together horrible, as it involves The Three Stooges. Even in my nightmares, I have to laugh a little.

I won’t tag anyone, but if you would like to crack open a book and do the meme, have at it! 1-2-3 Go!

All too often I’m complaining about something. If you heard that’s what happens here, sorry to disappoint you for today.

The thing is it snowed last night. Not a blizzard, but enough snow to make the prospect of shoveling it unappealing to my husband Dave and me. We’re off work today and really wanted to kick back and relax. The more it snowed, the more our backs instinctively started hurting.

The plan was to watch the forecast and estimate the best time to go out, between when the snow was expected to stop and when the sleet was expected to start.  We had another hour to complain about work neither of us wanted to do.

Just then Dave heard some kids walking up towards the house. Kids with shovels. Five of them. In the ten years we’ve lived in this house, we never had kids come by to offer to shovel for us. I figured that was an activity today’s youth wanted no part of, or their parents were afraid to send them out the door to strangers’ homes. I thought what a sad sign of the times. As kids, Dave and I shoveled for money. All our friends shoveled for money. Doesn’t anyone want to shovel for money anymore?

Before the kids even rang our doorbell, Dave handed me 25 bucks. “Here, this should be enough for the driveway.”  I opened the door and before the kid could even say anything, I thrust the money at him and said “Is this enough for the driveway?” The look on his face was priceless. Red-cheeked from the cold and eyes wide open, he said “Yeah!! Thanks!!”

When he turned around, he waved the cash at his buddies and their faces lit up. They got crackin’ immediately.

Before they got halfway done, Dave asked me “Do we have any more cash laying around? We should ask them to do the back sidewalk.”

I frowned. I only had about three bucks in my purse and he only had eight more singles. I cursed the fact that I almost never have cash on me, since I prefer to use my debit card at stores. I considered writing a check. Dave and I discussed how stupid it would be to write a check to a child. I suggested we write it to one of the kids’ mothers, but then that seemed too weird. Dammit!!! We need more cash! And, hurry! They’re almost done with the driveway!

After nixing the check idea, we did the only thing we could do. We raided the change jar for quarters. There we stood, counting out enough quarters to round out to 20+ more bucks. As dumb as it felt to give them a pound of change and some bills, money is money. I hardly think they would care. They didn’t.

I opened the door and yelled “Hey guys? Is twenty good for the sidewalk?”

They shouted back, “Yeah! Cool!” And off they went. We had ourselves our own little snow-shoveling chain gang and now we didn’t have to get bundled up, get wet and cold or break our backs on what looked like very heavy snow.

When they were done, the leader of the group returned to tell me they were finished and to thank me for the money. No, thank you!

God bless you, Chain Gang. Your parents should be proud that you’re not afraid to sweat for a few bucks. I didn’t think I’d ever see that sight for the rest of my life. I hope I see them again next year. I’m pretty sure after making almost 50 bucks for a half hour’s work, those kids will remember our address.

“Y’all come back now, ya hear!”

So do any of you see kids shoveling for money (or maybe for nothing) in your neighborhoods? Or do I just live in a really lazy section of town?

My husband Dave and I received a thick, official-looking envelope from the Nielsen Ratings Company last weekend. The Nielsen ratings system measures television viewership in the United States. The information they gather establishes commercial advertising prices and determines which shows stay or go in the program lineup.

Having this kind of control is a huge deal. Think of it as the adult version of being crowned Homecoming King and Queen. Not just anyone gets picked and you can’t volunteer for the privilege. Being selected as Nielsen Family means you’re something. People would kill to be you.

The letter gave a brief overview of how the system works and explained that we could make up to $450 for taking part. Sounds good, right? Wrong. I decided to do some research. Little by little, I realized we didn’t want to do this, since it comes with a whole lot of annoying strings attached.

The letter stated they’d like to “stop by to talk to you about this excellent opportunity.” I planned to give them an emphatic “We don’t want to do this” and the case would be closed. For some reason, I assumed they’d call to schedule the visit.

Instead, my door bell rang at 6PM last night.

Turn on the porch light, open the door and who do I find standing there but a Nielsen TV Ratings representative.

“Hi, you received our letter?”

“Yes, but we’ve decided not to take part.” Deaf to my response, she moved right into her spiel, explaining how wonderful an opportunity this is for me and wouldn’t I like to be part of the select group that was chosen by a very elaborate, scientific process… and on and on it went.

Rah, rah. I still don’t want to do it. It should be noted I did not invite her in. From what I’ve read, they can be pretty forceful and I knew if I let her in, I’d wind up making her dinner.  In more than one case, people have compared these folks to the FBI. My FBI agent came bearing a box of chocolates.

I gave her a look that said, “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not ready for a relationship.”

She persisted with her cheerleader-y speech and I knew I was in trouble. I was going to have to fight. I was going to have to make her hate me. I was going to have to kill her with questions, and so began The Inquisition.

“I’d read that technicians come to your house and attach wires and boxes, and even solder something to every TV set in your house. Is this true?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe. But we wouldn’t damage anything.”

“We just bought a very expensive high-def TV and we don’t want anything to happen to it.” Concerned about the amount of time it takes to set everything up, I followed up with “How long will that take? I read it can take six or seven hours.”

“Well, probably not that long. Maybe four.”

I counter, “But then I’d have to take a vacation day. The amount of money you pay us isn’t worth the aggravation. I’m a very annoyed person.”

“Well, we could do it on a weeknight.”

“That’s worse.”

“We could do it on the weekend.”

“Not much better.”

I probe further. “I’ve also read that you have to login to a device every time you walk into a room with a TV on, and then logout when you leave. Is that true?”

“Yes. You need to punch in your name and age.”

“I don’t want to do that. Plus I’ve heard that if you don’t confirm you’re still watching TV after 42 minutes, a box starts flashing red lights until you press something on the remote.”

“That’s true.”

“But I’m a very annoyed person.”

She kept the joust going. “If it helps, we asked other participants if they found the process annoying and they said after about ten days, they got used to it.”

Ten days?!?!?!

Now rubbing my temples, and freezing because I’m standing in my doorway in a pair of shorts on a 35 degree night, I tell her “Really. We don’t want to do this. I know you’ll have to pick someone else on our street now. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I wish you’d reconsider. Here, at least have these chocolates as a token of our appreciation.”

“Thanks, but no. We’re dieting.”

“No, really. You’ve been so kind.” Kind? How? For letting you stand in my doorway and not inviting you in from of the cold?

“OK. I’ll take them and share them at work.”

“Would you allow me to call you in a few days to see if you changed your mind?”

Oh my God, lady! I said no! No means no!

Because I’m a crumpled, guilt-ridden, chocolate-box-holding mess now, I sigh, “Yes. You can call, but I really don’t think I’ll change my mind.”

I reluctantly give her my work phone number, knowing full well when she calls me, I’ll be saying no all over again. She thanks me, we part ways, and I finally get back inside my warm house with my box ‘o chocolates.

The first thing I do is get on my laptop and email my sister about tonight’s bizarreness. Her response:

She came all the way from New Jersey!!!! What if you weren’t home? What if you were a serial killer? I would never go to a stranger’s home by myself. Oh yeah, the chocolates would protect me. The idea is intriguing, but I would probably regret the whole thing if I had signed up. Do you have to fork over all your financial statements, too? It’s like the IRS, they’ll make you do it, or else! I would do it for maybe $5,000.

She’s right. If I signed up, I’d regret it immediately. The last thing I want to do when I get home from work is do more WORK. Press buttons, log in, deal with flashing lights if I don’t press a button in 42 minutes?!?! Yikes. I have enough pressure 9-5.

Not wanting to put off the inevitable, I contacted the representative today at lunch, hoping I’d get an answering machine. Unfortunately she picked up. I explained to her that after careful consideration, we still didn’t want to take part.

She was deflated. I reminded her for the third time what an annoyed person I am and to please understand that my time is more valuable than the money they offer, but if they really wanted people to take part, they ought to up the anty to $5,000.  That put an end to the ordeal. FINALLY.

Today I picked up our mail and found another package from the Nielsen people, which contained brochures, a questionnaire and five single dollar bills. A five spot? Multiply that by a thousand and we’ll talk. Or bring me a box of diamonds.

UPDATE: There’s more to the story. See http://www.junkdrawerblog.com/2008/03/next-step-restraining-order.html

Quick Monday morning tip for the squinty-eyed among us. This computing tip is Windows XP-specific. There’s a little-known setting in your Display Properties called ClearType that smoothes the edges of text on certain kinds of screens, especially LCD flat-panel monitors.

If you use Windows Vista, the setting is already turned on by default. If you use a Mac, consider passing this on to your Windows friends if you have any. You still love us, don’t you?

To turn the setting on:

1. Right-click an empty area of your Desktop.

2. Left-click Properties.

3. Click the Appearance tab.

4. Click the Effects button at the bottom right of the screen.

5. Be sure there’s a checkmark in the box next to Use the following method to smooth edges of screen fonts.

6. Change the option from Standard to ClearType, then click OK.

7. Click OK to exit Display Properties.

Does the text on my blog look better to you? If you don’t like it, change it back. If you do, share it with your squinty-eyed friends!

Someone told me I smelled this week and I couldn’t be less insulted. Mike, author of the Mr. Grudge blog, honored me with a Flower Smellers award. I’m deeply humbled because this award is like no other.

The folks over at Go! Smell the Flowers have created a new award that Mike was one of the first five ever to receive. Go! Smell the Flowers is an international blogging community (20 founders from 10 countries) whose mission it is to “inform, entertain, and enlighten people from all over our increasingly smaller world.” They created this award to recognize others who, in their own way, smell the flowers and make the world a better place.

That Mike would pass this award on to me before paint even dried got me all misty-eyed. I discovered Mike’s blog a few months ago and have been hooked ever since. Mike is a master storyteller. His pieces run the gamut — from the compelling to the sweet, from the inspiring to the tear-inducing. Mike’s stories are consistently engaging and it seems unfair that one person can have that much talent. Share a little, will ya?

As a humor writer, I’m driven by the hope of making people laugh. But by reading Mike’s work, I’m reminded I still have to weave a story. It’s what I try to remember before I hit the publish button. Mike, thank you for proving that writing is an art form and to do it well honors your craft. You make me want to be a better writer.

You can read what he said about me and my blog over at his place. See why I got all misty? Sheesh, if I wasn’t already married….

As a new member of the Go! Smell the Flowers community, I get to bestow the award onto others. What I like about this award is you don’t necessarily have to pass it on to other bloggers. One of my honorees isn’t.

Julia DeGraf, author of the I Do Things So You Don’t Have To blog. Julia was one of the first humor bloggers I discovered. We share similar senses of humor and became fast friends as a result. Our daily email exchanges are laugh riots and they’re one of the reasons a potentially bad day never seems to become one. Her creatively-named blog is the first pit stop on my daily rounds. Every single one of her stories slays me, and some leave me in a state of wonderment, as when she videotaped a medical procedure she had done that had me squirming in my seat. She means it when she says “I do things so you don’t have to.” Thanks, Julia! Now I don’t have to worry.

Cardiogirl, author of the Cardiogirl: 19% Body Fat 100% Fun blog, is my personal hero. Hers is a blog that puts it all out there — every last raw bit of it. Her life struggles are laid out bare for everyone to see. She sees injustice in the world, grabs it by the collar and slaps it in the face. That girl’s got guts. I award her this badge for her fearlessness and her determination in the face of life’s obstacles. To do all that with a wicked sense of humor is hard. No, it’s damn near impossible. Cardiogirl, take a bow and never stop cutting through the crap.

Dan Balogh, author of Dan’s Blah Blah Blog, is an inspiration to me. Only a month after discovering his hilarious blog, he promptly shut it down so he could devote his spare time to writing his memoirs. He knows how mad I still am. We began writing each other privately, and he was instrumental in giving me the courage to publish a story about my grade school nightmares. I have him to thank for encouraging me to put it all out there and to see humor in tragedy. Without his support, I wouldn’t have what has become one of my most successful posts to-date. Dan, hurry up with your book so you can get back to your blog. You owe us!

Now for the non-blogger — my niece Regan. When I started my blog I had pitifully few readers. I didn’t know at the time whether The Junk Drawer would ever take off, but I always knew I could count on Regan to read my posts and leave witty and keen observations in the comments box. She’s elevated me to rock star status and thinks I’ll be famous one day. Whenever I was slow to publish, she would ring me up and say “Got anything new?” She has no idea how that uplifted me when I faltered for something to write. Thank you, Regan. If I ever become famous, you’ll get to say you were with me right from the start.

Mike, thank you for naming me a Flower Smeller and giving me the chance to share stories of how others are making blogging some of the most fun I’ve had in my life.

Photo: Seth Wenig, Associated Press

Top prizes were handed out on Tuesday at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show in New York City’s Madison Square Garden. I caught up with the winner in the non-sporting group, Remy, a haughty, ridiculously-shaven standard poodle who made time in her busy schedule to answer a few questions.

Kathy: So, Remy, how does it feel to win the top prize in the non-sporting group?

Remy: It’s a total crock. I mean, look at me. I should have won Best in Show. You know who they gave it to? Snoopy. A beagle hasn’t won Best in Show in like a hundred years. But a plain Jane, floppy-eared beagle? Come on! And they gave her a standing ovation. I just about crapped right there on the floor.

Kathy: So you didn’t win Best in Show, but you won best in your category. That’s an achievement!

Remy: Sorry, no. Not the same. I was robbed. I’m the only breed who gets shaved like this. Beagles don’t. They’re just their beagly selves. They get to lay down wherever they want, whenever they want.

Kathy: What do you mean?

Remy: Are you kidding? Look at my coat. You think you can just lay down on the floor with this thing? I can’t get comfortable on any side. It’s so thick, I’m constantly shifting positions. I can’t get a good night’s sleep. The only part that is comfortable is my ass, but even that’s a problem. I’m freezing down there!

Kathy: I think your hair looks lovely.

Remy: Pffff! Look. Here’s the thing. I didn’t ask for this hair. When I went to the salon, I asked the stylist for something cute and easy to manage. But all she heard was the cute part and started shaving away. What she did to my butt was criminal. It all went downhill from there.

I let her shave my face, thinking it would offset my naked butt, but then she proceeded to give me cotton ball feet and a helmet head to match. And, like I said, being hairless means you freeze. So I asked her to keep some on my torso so I wouldn’t get hypothermia, and that’s why I’m all over the map with this look. I can’t prove it, but I know my owner set me up.

Kathy: Didn’t you know what happens to poodles when they’re entered into the Westminster Show?

Remy: Honestly, I didn’t. My owner doesn’t have cable, so I wasn’t aware of the show until recently. My friends and me…. we can’t read and don’t have access to the Internet. Plus, we only see non-shaved poodles in our neighborhood. There was no reason to think this could happen. I was completely blind-sided.

Believe it or not, when my owner started entering me into some local shows, I wasn’t all poofed out like this. But then I started winning. You know our society. When something is good enough, we can’t just let it be. We have to supersize it; make it bigger, better, poofier! I should have seen it coming.

Kathy: So when you found out everyone would see you this way, what did you think?

Remy: Dude, I saw perks. In this business, it’s all about the perks. I thought if I had to look like this, I might as well go all out for the prize. Word on the street is most dogs lead a life of luxury after winning at Westminster. I practiced my strut for weeks. I learned not to flinch when they grabbed me in weird places. I knew I could ace this thing.

We all sell out for something and this is my thing. I’m looking at diamond-encrusted collars, 600 thread count sheets on my bed and a lifetime supply of Beggin’ Strips. I’ve heard they’re very good. So, yeah, I hated how I looked, but it was worth it. Besides, I can deal with the hair thing later. Hair grows back. But I’m not going back to that Edward Scissorhands stylist. EVER.

Kathy: Now that you’ve won best in your category, do you think you’ll be doing the talk show circuit?

Remy: Funny you asked. Letterman called and they want me to appear in the Stupid Pet Tricks segment of the show, but I balked. Since I won my category, I expected better. A little respect, you know? What we agreed upon was no pet tricks, but I get to sit on the couch next to him and show off my legs. That’s really all you can see of me anymore and I consider them my best feature. Got it, flaunt it, right? I have to schedule a wax soon, workout a little and cut back on my treats. The camera  puts on ten pounds.

Kathy: What’s on your plate for the coming year?

Remy: Well, first, I’m getting this huge puffball removed from my tail, since it gets in the way a lot. I’m not allowed to get excited about anything because then the tail wags and the ball knocks everything off tables. I’m also thinking of changing my hair color. White is SO hard to keep white. I dream of running out and diving into a big mud pile sometimes, you know? I think I deserve it now, don’t you?

Kathy: Yes. Yes, I do.

Thank you, Remy, for making time for us. Congratulations on your top prize and here’s hoping you get that non-bulbous look you’ve been craving!

Last week I wrote about my love affair with bacon, which included an attempt to find out whether the doggie treat Beggin’ Strips taste like real bacon. The answer: A big fat NO.

After reading about my love of all things bacon, Susan of the My Right Brain blog suggested I try out BaconSalt, a bacon-flavored seasoning for the times I want to baconize my food in the absence of the real thing. According to their website, the makers of BaconSalt are “on a quest to make everything taste like bacon.” Best. Tagline. Ever.

I got online that day and ordered up two containers of it: one for me, and one for my bacon-loving sister, Ann of the Shampoo Bag. They arrived last night.

I gleefully took mine to work today in anticipation of making my Healthy Choice Chicken Parmigiana with Broccoli meal a little more palatable. Here’s my assessment:

1. The stuff doesn’t smell 100% like bacon. It smells more like barbecue sauce, but I salivated nonetheless. I also sneezed.

2. It’s less like salt, and more like crushed up bacon bits. I expected a powder substance, but it had a slight crunch to it.

3. When it hit the food, it didn’t dissolve. It just laid there like a bacon bit would.

4. It didn’t taste all that much like real bacon, I suspect due to the absence of glorious grease.

5. Because I bothered to buy it and wanted to give it a full assessment, I sprinkled another teaspoonful onto my lunch and decided I didn’t hate it. But……

BaconSalt has one major flaw.

Three hours after lunch, I realized I could still taste bacon, or some facsimile of such. The thing to watch out for if you buy this stuff is the aftertaste.

Bring a toothbrush, mouthwash, gum and floss if you don’t want everyone you come into contact with later in the day to know what you had for lunch. And by all means, don’t eat it if you have a dentist appointment within two days. Unless you hate your dentist. In that case, by all means, go forth and breathe heavily.

My sister Ann hasn’t received her order yet, and I’m pretty sure she won’t want it now. But, Ann, if you want your stinky bacon, come ‘n get it. 

Product Tagline: A

Idea in Theory: A

Real World Test: C+

Fear keeps me from doing a lot of things in my life and I hate that. I think that’s part of the reason I read a lot of non-fiction books about people who’ve faced incredible challenges and go on to do amazing things. I live through their bravery and maybe — just maybe — it’ll teach me I can do more than I think I can.

Here’s a sampling of the things I’d never have the guts to do:

1.  Sing in public. I have no singing voice to speak of. Once, Dave heard me singing along to a song in the car and he quickly turned down the radio to hear me. I got so embarrassed, although he said the little bit he heard was so nice and I should do it more.

2.  Sky dive. The thought of it makes me ill, but the desire to say I’ve done something so insane looms large.

3.  Join my local writer’s group. I’ve toyed with the idea of attending a meeting of my local writer’s group, just to hear what real writers talk about. I want to learn what it takes to publish a book, but I’m afraid I’ll overhear “Who let the blogger in?”

4.  Take a trip on a plane all by myself. I’ve never done it (or had to do it, thank God). I’m directionally-challenged in the worst way. I’m afraid I’d get lost in an airport, lose my ticket, get on the wrong plane, or de-plane at the wrong city. If I ever had to do it for some reason, I’d need one of those airline babysitters whose job it is to see that small children traveling alone get where they’re going. Not kidding.

5.  Be a waitress. Not that I would ever need to be, since I’m gainfully employed at the moment. However, I consider waitressing to be such a ridiculously difficult job that I’m an obscenely generous tipper. I can’t understand how a person can take multiple orders, with special requests, write it all down and get it all correct, all while waiting on six other tables. One time I watched a server take a lengthy, specialized order from my husband and me IN HIS HEAD. I remarked for a couple minutes at how impressed I was with his talent. I thought “Uh oh. I’m making him forget our order.” He didn’t. Blew. My. Mind.

6.  Wear open-toed shoes. I wish I could, but I just can’t. If you saw my feet, you’d understand. Picture five gnarly, baby potatoes attached to each foot.

7.  Fire a gun. Come to think of it, I can barely look at a real gun. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ve seen too many crime movies. Guns scare the crap out of me.

8. Ride a horse. Aside from my fear that I’m too heavy for a horse to support me, I have visions of being thrown and landing in a back-breaking, never-walk-again kind of way.

9.  Drive in New York City. I live only 75 minutes from the city. I imagine all the weekend getaways I’m missing because I can’t dream of driving there or getting around in my own car. Yes, there are buses and taxis, but it would be nice to hop in my car at a moment’s notice and be able to get there and tool around town on my own.

10. Be a parent. I’ve no doubt it’s the hardest job in the world. I’ve always said I could easily get through a pregnancy and childbirth with flying colors. It’s everything that comes after that has me shakin’ in my shoes. Hats off to all the parents out there. I’m in total awe of you. 

Now it’s your turn. Anything you’d love to try in your lifetime, but don’t have the guts for? Have you ever tried something and regretted it?

Whoever said chocolate is the food of the gods had it all wrong. We all know it’s juicy, sizzlily, fattening, lickity lips BACON!

How much do I love it? This weekend my family hosted a birthday party for our mother, held at my sister Marlene’s house. Marlene’s dog, Tootsie, is a great lover of Beggin’ Strips, a fake bacon doggie treat. She always gets one after she comes in from outside and I got the honor of doling one out when she pattered into the kitchen.

I grabbed the bag and pulled one out. Hmmmm…. Looks like bacon, smells like bacon. I wonder if it really tastes like bacon. As all of the partygoers stood around watching me study this artificial bacon strip, one thought came to mind: What would someone pay me to eat this thing?

Apparently nothing, because when I announced I would eat part of the strip for money, nobody pulled out a wallet. I suspect this is because they held no reservations that I’d actually eat the thing. I’m not sure what that means, but it’s probably not good.

Not in position to make any money, but still curious, I broke off a decent-sized chunk of it and began chomping away. And chomping, and chomping, and chomping some more. It’s no surprise I had such a hard time breaking it down to the point where I could swallow it.

Why? Because I’m convinced the ingredients that go into making a Beggin’ Strip are the same ingredients that go into making plastic. Did it taste like bacon? Not by a long shot. The closest thing it came to was unsalted beef jerky. Hard, juiceless, tasteless unsalty beef jerky. Do dogs have any taste buds at all? Can you really call this a treat?

Geez. Even Science Diet cat food tastes better than this. Oh, did I just say that out loud? OK, I did eat a pellet of cat food once, on a dare, and it tasted like granola. Quite good, to be honest.

So there you have it. If you’ve ever wondered what pet food tastes like, wonder no more. Oh? You never wondered what it tasted like? Must be just me. Consider yourself sane and well-balanced.

Now, if you love REAL bacon, you’ll like comedian Jim Gaffigan’s take on just what makes bacon the food of the gods.

UPDATE: Recently, this video was removed from YouTube with the following notice: This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by NBC Universal. Bastards! It was such a funny video. You’ll have to trust me.

It’s hard writing a blog some days. I woke up with nothing to write and thought I’d turn the tables and make you guys do some work. So I have a little test for you. Even if you’re new to my blog, you can probably search for these answers, but then I’d call you a cheater and you don’t want to be a cheater, now do you?

Here’s my little quiz. You’ll get a score (10 pts. for each correct answer) when you click Grade Me, but not a list of all the right answers. If you get some incorrect and want to know the answer, drop a comment in the drawer and see if someone else can clue you in. Tee-hee.  Good luck!!!