May 06, 2003 - 2:37 p.m.
I’m typing up a letter to send out, and the person’s address includes the street “Pleasant Meadows Drive”. I run across street names like this all the time and every time I do the names conjure up images of uber perfect sprawling suburbia. Neighborhoods and communities which, once you peel back the shrink wrapped, hermetically sealed skin (which by the way makes a slurping sound when you peel it), are revealed to be the nightmarish Stepford distopias found in scifi movies and political novels. Man, I’m glad I live on 55th Terrace.
Let me take a second to pimp my new favorite snack, Quaker Crisp’ums. I have only tried the Cinnamon Sugar flavor so far, but they taste exactly like cinnamon crispas sold by TacoHell. Crisp’ums, however, are made by Quaker under the sign of the . . . Quaker, which means they are healthy and not deep fried next to the rats’ innards. Since the Cinnamon Sugar flavor is this good, I expect great things from the other selections.
As a warning, and to show impartiality, the little mini cookies sold in travel packing made by Quaker (I forget the name) taste like refried anal biscuits. I’ve tried the star-shaped, chocolate cream filled cookies and oy! with the dry. I needed a glass of milk after each cookie. So, don’t go wasting your money on those mini cookies, unless you’re the sick type of person who enjoys a nice dry cookie. Maybe during your Satanic rituals and virgin sacrifice, because that’s exactly the kind of person who enjoys dry cookies.
And speaking of the Devil, lavender? The stink of Satan. Just FYI. Late at night, when you’re home all alone, and you’ve snuggled deep into your bed and have pulled that warm quilt made by your granny up to your chin, and you hear a noise in the darkness that sounds surprisingly close to what you imagine cloven hooves might sound like on your bedroom floor or ceiling, fear not, young person. For you will know if that strange sound trumpets your impending late night rendezvous with the Prince of Darkness, by raising your nose into the air and taking a quick whiff. If you don’t smell the geriatric odor of lavender (Ooo! Its so sooooooooothing!), then its only one of Hell’s minions come for your eternal soul. And you can fight those jokers off with a good riddle and a dirty limerick.
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