Yet Another Recipe for the Lazy Houseperson

This recipe comes from the 41 hours I logged in Adobe Cooking Simulator 5.0 Professional Edition, and the program no longer gives it a score of “HORRIFYING ATROCITY”. So, let me introduce a yummy treat that might be able to get you off work!

Almost a Cake

Preparation Time: 952 parsecs
Time it took for the Millenium Falcom to complete the Kessel run: many, many less parsecs (presented for comparison purposes)

Ingredients:

Eggs
Bucket
A Box of that Cake Mix Stuff
Oil
A Big Ol’ Soon
A Stove
Various Bowls and Pans

First, preheat the stove. It doesnt matter what temperature you put it at, just make sure it’s hotter than what your toaster could do because if we could use that amount of heat, we would cook the cake in the much-easier-to-use toaster. After doing this, put the “oil” (interpret this ingredient however you want) on the pans and bowls and stuff, so the cake doesn’t stick to it when it burns in the oven.

Now, open the cake mix. See that brown powder-type stuff that is supposedly supposed to make your cake? Throw it out. I say this with the most seriousest of faces, like the one that a person would do while announcing that the Colonel’s plane had been shot down over the Sea of Japan*. This is because, as hypothesized by the entirety of science itself, pre-packaged cake mix is actually fairy shit. If your cake mix is chocolate, then it was shat out by negro fairies. I kid you not. And while the cake will still be delicious if you use it, come on. Think about your reputation. Judd Nelson might come up to you some day and be like “Hey, do you eat shit?” and you’ll say no, and then he’ll say “Oh yeah!? Well I saw you eat that cake once!”

And you won’t be able to say a single, goddamn thing.

So out with the cake mix. We WILL be using the box the cake mix came in though, because it probably has a picture of a good cake on it, and it will give you something to shoot for.

Now, take your bucket (which, if you’ve been following the instructions, should be slathered in about a gallon of motor oil), and travel to the nearest tropcal paradise. There, you will find chocolate trees, which produce chocolate seeds. Pick approximately 1 million of these seeds and crush them with your manly hands until they resemble the powdery cake mix you threw out in fear of Judd Nelson’s scathing insults. Voila, cake mix.

They look gross, but these are actually chocolate seeds.

Note: if you were hoping to make a non-chocolate cake, you are out of luck, because real men eat chocolate, motherfucker.

Now that you have your cake mix, mix it with the eggs, and more of the oil apparantly. Pour this gross looking monstrosity of a liquid into a pan and insert it into the oven to cook for a while. I didn’t time mine, it might have taken an hour. Maybe. Just look at the cake box and compare.

Once done cooking, be sure to allow 15 to 20 seconds to cool. If you are successful, you should have a delicious, non-poison cake. Bon appetit!

You did it!

Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Ordering a Sandwich Without Sparking My Eternal Rage

Just incase you don’t actually know me, I work at a Subway. And I don’t mean the cool kind of Subway with the train and the tunnels and the hobos. I mean the one with the sandwiches. And the hobos. Now, before you load your Inept Fast Food Service Worker Insult Gun (patent pending), consider these critical reasons\excuses:

• My town has approximately 8 places where they employ people
• I’m not an indian, therefore disallowing me to sell smokes to people
• The work is insanely easy
• I enjoy free food.

There is a downside though: my job involves me having to deal with people. And, being that Subway employs one of the most retarded ad campaigns on the planet, the majority of the people I have to deal with are complete morons.

I suppose it is important to tell you of the area in which I live. Put simply, it is a rural area. This means that 93% of the people who live within 5 kilometers of me drive a tractor around as their job. Now, scientific studies have shown that you need an IQ of 51 to drive a tractor. This means that virtually no one in my county decides to finish (or in some cases, enter) high school, so now I have to take orders from people who think tomatoes are called red roundies.

Some people I serve are so intensely stupid that I have trouble figuring out how they manage to keep from eating rocks and sand. Unfortunately though, certain chapters in the Subway Rulebook prohibit me from using a stale loaf of bread as a makeshift cudgel and forcibly removing morons from the premises. So, in an attempt to educate and inform, I present yet another guide in my Best Selling series of Guides, which also includes: Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Funding Your Space Program, Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Battling Butt Cancer, and Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Licking Hobos: The Do’s and Don’ts!

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Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Ordering a Sandwich Without Sparking My Eternal Rage

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Chapter One: Eight Easy Tips!

1) Our selection of breads is clearly shown using a giant sticker. In case you are blind and have somehow overlooked it, they include: Italian (or White), Whole Wheat (or Brown), Italian Herbs and Cheese, Parmesan Oregano, and Honey Oat.

We do NOT have: Wheaty Italian, Premio Original, The Crusty Bread, or Dough Bread (whatever that means). Read the sticker, morons.

2) The bread takes an hour to rise and 15 minutes to bake. Do not ask me to cook a fresh bun for you. (When I told the lady I wouldn’t do it, she left, then phoned me saying “I’m going to be back in 2 hours, can you bake me one for then?” I told her I would. When she came back, I told her she was late so I ate the bun. Naturally, she threw a full can of coke at me and left. Hey, free coke!)

3) A simple glance downwards at the ingredients will inform you that we have 4 different kinds of cheese. They are easy to tell apart. They are all different colours. One of them even comes shredded in a cup. So when I ask “What kind of cheese do you want?” do not say “Both”.

4) If you say “I want everything” and then go out to your car for 20 minutes, you can’t yell at me later for putting on every single sauce we have. Take 30 seconds out of your life and actually tell me what you want. Also, dont make me wait to ring you in for 20 minutes. If you do, your sub will invariably be used to kill flies.

5) We DO NOT have the following vegetables: cabbage, purple peppers, hot onions, greencumbers, potatoes, old cucumbers (referring to the pickles), or red roundies. Learn the names of simple vegetables before ordering them.

6) Do NOT order smokes with your sub. We are a SUB SHOP, and a proactive contributor to the retarded health food craze. We do not sell cigarettes.

7) You do not need to point at the ingredients as you say them. I work here, I know where they are.

Do not send in your six year old son to order an entire family’s food from memory. If you for some reason do, do not phone me four hours later to complain about how all your subs were microwaved tuna smothered in pizza sauce and ketchup.

If you follow these simple rules, you will receive an absolutely delicious sub from a smiling, happy Sandwich Artist. Otherwise, I will be forced to show you why they call it a “sneeze guard” instead of a “knife guard”.

You have been warned.

Chapter Two

Give me money.

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As a footnote, I would like to add that everything mentioned in this post I have actually heard or witnessed while working. No exaggerations, this stuff basically writes itself. Riding on the coat tails of other’s stupidity… I now see why Bill Engvall has a career.

His speakers shatter ear drums, kids.

Several months ago me and Mr. Keith were flipping through random songs on my Cypress Hill-themed radio station when to our hilarious surprise, an obscure rapper came on and started telling us of his Gold Plated Chops or Diamond Womens or something like that. We laughed at the song for a few minutes, imitating his probably inept use of sign language in a fashion that could only be described as “immature and a sure precursor to the nastiest of carpel tunnels”. Wiping the tears of what must have seemed like intense racism from our eyes, we took in the greatest word ever printed:

Chamillionaire

Now THIS, this man knew what the score was. Millionaire? Bah, too common. Billionaire? Naw, only fat guys and nerds get to be billionaires. This man is a Chamillionaire, which, uhh… I can only assume is a reference to the most unholy of shapeshifting hellspawn: The Chameleon.

And when this man chooses to devote himself to such an avatar of wickedness, he follows through, as his lyrics are filled with chamelleonic properties. A simple glance may reveal nothing but some inane jibba-jabba, but delving deeper we reveal layers and layers of complex subtext. Which brings us to:

THE WORDS BEHIND THE… UHH.. WORDS. SURE.

They see me rollin’
They hatin’
Patrollin’
And tryin. to catch me ridin. dirty. (Rep. x4)

I’m driving in my car. The police, who hate me because as a rich black man I am stereotyped as a man who commit crimes, are out and about on duty trying to discover my devious plan to drive without my liscence.

My music so loud;
I’m swangin.
They hopin’
That they gon’ catch me ridin’ dirty. (Rep. x4)

My car has an excellent speaker system, and I use it to its full potential by forcing everyone to listen to my hot thumping beats. And while this is a crime in that it disturbs the general public, the police do nothing as they are devoted to revealing my plot to drive without shoes, or perhaps without my seatbelt.

ma asss??
Police think they can see me lean;
I’m tint so it ain’t easy to be seen.
They see me ride by, they can see the glean
And my shine on the deck and the TV screen.
Ride with a new chick, she like “Hold up.”
Next to the Playstation controlla;
well have a four clip, in my pistolla
that im’a send a jacker into a coma.

How is my butt? The authorities believe that light reflects off of me and into their eyes, but I am black, so all light that hits me is absorbed into me, much like a black hole. All they are able to witness is the light reflected off of my TV. I ride with girls who don’t like me driving very fast, as they cannot play Playstation very well. As a result I get angry, which is okay because I have bullets in my Italian gun and I can shoot them at people with heroin addictions.

Girl, you ain’t know, I’m crazy like Krayzie Bone;
Just tryin’ to bone, ain’t tryin’ to have no babies.
Ride clean as hell so I pull in ladies.
Law’s on patrol; you know they hate me.
Music turned all the way up and to the maximum;
I can speak for some niggas tryin’ to jack for some.
But we packin’ somethin’ that we have
And, um, will have a nigga locked up in the maximum

Miss, you probably don’t know this, but I am quite the strange character, just like another rapper. I desire intercourse with you, but I can assure you it is for no reason but carnal pleasure. Fret not though, if you do not agree, I can pick up another fine woman, because my car does not make a lot of noise and has a well-tuned suspension. You see, the police are looking for crimes because they dislike me. Once again, I must remind you that my music is very loud. I know some of my brethren who do drugs intravenusly. Also, we have things that we own, and sometimes one of us gets sent to prison.

Security cell. I’m grippin’ oak.
Music loud and I’m tippin’ slow.
Twins steady twistin’ like hit this dough;
Police Pull up from behind and im sittin low.
Windows down, gotta stop pollution.
CDs change; niggas like “Who is that producin’?”
This the Play-N-Skillz when we out and cruisin’
Got warrants in every city except Houston
But I still ain’t losin’.

My car, you see, is armoured and can withstand the toughest of barrages. It is lined with fine oak, which is a luxury that I enjoy while listening to my unnecessarily loud music. While the music plays, I slowly nod my head sometimes. I really, ma’am, let me stress this , REALLY enjoy liccorice. This must wait though, as the authorities seem to have drove up behind my car. Luckily I’m down in my seat, or they would be able to see my hair. I keep my windows down, so as to not have to use the air conditioner. The next CD in my player is a mix that one of my brethren have never heard before, and he inquires upon the name of the producer. I answer that the rappers are the notorious Play-N-Skillz, and I always enjoy their songs when I drive. On an unrelated note, I have papers which allow me to do unspecified things in every city on the Earth except for Houston, Texas. Despite this, I maintain a high level of confidence in my abilities.

And on and on it goes. Like, seriously. It says the chorus about ten more times, and there are two more full verses. In any case, it is clear what he is trying to convey:

- He has a great car, equipped with one (1) woman and the things she needs to keep amused while he’s not boning her (TV, Playstation, etc.)
- The police dislike him, perhaps because of his wild hair.
- He likes to shoot heroin users, except for the one’s he knows.
- His speakers are very loud

Truly a modern day prophet if I ever saw one.