Groupon: crime scene Red Bull

Everyone knows about Groupon. It's that magical coupon kingdom where, for just thirty dollars, you can buy approximately sixty dollars' worth of bullshit. Which is what I did as a gift for Levi. And on Sunday we used those bullshit coupons for a bullshit "cheese making" class. "Cheese making" is in quotation marks because we only sort of made cheese, and I think that the person who taught the class was being punny -- during this two hour class she made "cheese," i.e. cold hard cash, while we, her students, made "cheese," i.e. shitty cheese. Hahahahaha.

"Expert gourmand supplies all materials for a two-hour cheese-making class that produces approximately 1.5 pounds to nibble."

For starters, our "expert gourmand" was a middle-aged woman in an oversized Patriots jersey and severely holey jeans. Or Swiss jeans, if you want the technical cheese gourmand term. I don't know -- I guess when I buy tickets to a food-making class, I figure the person in charge is at least nearly as refined as her craft. But I'll forgive the homeless person loungewear, not that your couch doesn't deserve better than that. What I won't forgive is that the mozzarella we made started off as a gallon jug of milk from Seven Eleven, which she admitted was a last minute buy, but not as an apology. More of as a point of pride. Like, I didn't have time to go to the Albertson's I usually go to (which is not a real grocery store either), so I used my problem-solving skills to buy this gas station "milk". Come on. You're a gourmand, yeah? Then you don't get within a hundred yards of a Seven Eleven unless you're bound and gagged and the guy who stuffed you into the back of his van is stopping in for some crime scene Red Bull.

"While absorbing knowledge of cheese production, students can opt to take turns grabbing hold of butane burners, pots, and thermometers to learn how to make fresh, handmade batches of mozzarella and ricotta cheese."

This part, the part aside from the "while absorbing knowledge of cheese production," I must have missed in the Groupon explanation, as it is exactly what happened. It was like chemistry lab for a paraplegic kid -- just sit over there, Susi, while we take turns grabbing hold of this butane burner. WTF, Gourmand?! You grab hold of the butane burner. I'll hold the fucking pot. And that other guy can hold the thermometer. And that's what we'll do while you tell us about your failed cheese shop, which, upon some Google investigation, turns out was maybe something of a whim on your quest for a new profession -- "I don't honestly know why I chose artisan cheeses[,] but I have no regrets." I'm not going to make a list of things you should do before you open your own cheese shop, but...okay, I am:

Things you should do before you open your own cheese shop:

1. Have a passion for cheese.

So the five of us are sitting around the table taking turns holding the thermometer, and our gourmand blathers on about friends of hers who make cheese, and a fight she got into with a famous cheese guy, and why he won't talk to her anymore, and the man who bought a fence from her on Craigslist who asked her how she pleasures herself, and blah blah blah, and once in awhile one of us would ask her a question about cheese, and it turns out she's never really made any cheese other than mozzarella or ricotta (the production of both of these cheeses, as it turns out, is like boiling pasta), so she'd point to this cheese-making book on the table and ask us to turn the butane burner up or down. And eventually, yes, we did end up with a fuckton of mozzarella, but let us not forget the Seven Eleven, or the Patriots jersey, or the fact that Gourmand has never made any cheese south, north, east, or west of Easy. As in Easy Cheese. Except that's probably a lot harder to make. And, really, less gross.

Gold, frankincense, and leg lamp

This is a dog in a Christmas sweater. It is humiliated. Not because of its sweater, but because of the figgy pudding it just whipped up under the family Christmas tree.

This is a gingerbread goat. It appears to be munching on fake candy canes. But it's not. Gingerbread goat isn't hungry because earlier it ate the foreskin from gingerbread baby Jesus.

This is Krampus. If Santa were God, Krampus would be Satan. While Santa brings all the good children toys, Krampus stuffs naughty children into his enormous biodegradable tote bag and takes them to see the new really awful Hobbit movie. 

This is a merrily-dressed woman walking to her job at a local bookshop. Boy, is she going to scare the shit out of some people in the geography section.

This is the Abominabababable Snowman. His favorite food is Christmas elf who really wants to be a dentist, but he'll settle for the rest of what's in your really sad Christmas Day KFC bucket.

This is a major award. 

This is Denver's Civic Center. If you look close, you can see that Jesus' foreskin is missing. A couple of years ago the city of Denver had to put the Christmas nativity behind glass so hipsters couldn't just run up and steal the trendy facial hair off the wise men.

And this is just a tree that's pretty. Merry Christmas.

The incident of the spread-out bee parts on the Burt's Bees

I bought a bottle of Burt's Bees honey and milk lotion. While taking it out of a bag, I noticed a bee head on my hand, then the rest of the bee, in spread-out and crunchy bee pieces on the bottle of Burt's Bees. Say what you will about Burt, but his bees are motherfucking committed. 

Presidential blahblahblah debate round-up

Great debate. Really quality stuff. It kind of reminded me of the time in high school when I prepared for the wrong side of a Federalism debate, then got up in front of the class and sweat profusely through some ugly nineties sweater from the clearance section of the Gap. Only at least my sweater was more interesting than two grown men not having to explain themselves. It would've been great if one of the candidates had prepared for the other guy's side and then accidentally kissed the other guy's wife at the conclusion, which is not what I did because, you know...braces.

Speaking of lips, did you see that part of the debate where President Obama and Mitt Romney looked like they were either going to hit each other in the governator, or make out with each other awkwardly like in that scene from "American Beauty" where the psycho Army dad kisses Kevin Spacey's character because the psycho Army dad thought his son was giving Kevin Spacey's character blow jobs, but really psycho Army dad had some very pent-up sexuality, which he needed to let out after years of hiding behind a buzz cut and a cabinet full of antique firearms and Nazi dinnerware? Why couldn't they have just kissed? Or, Jesus, throw us a bone -- some lube wrestling maybe? We don't hit the mute button during your campaign ads and immediately recycle your political pamphlets for nothing.

And thank goodness Mitt Romney has solved the problem of gun violence: if a person has two parents (presumably a man and a woman, since same-sex couples cannot operate as parents when they are pillars of salt), that person will not put a cap in yo ass.  

Have we learned by now that the debate timer is total bullshit? The countdown clock turns yellow, then it turns red, then it disappears, and the candidate gets to keep talking. Until he's done. Unless the other guy says something he disagrees with, then he can butt in and say more when it's not his turn. Why do we have this countdown clock? To remind us that time is infinite, like God on money, and congressional holidays, and the federal deficit. When your time is out, you should have to stop talking. Then the moderator will turn the air on in your private booth, and you'll have a chance to swat at and stuff dollar bills into your shirt until it's your turn to speak again. 

Newsletter

IKEA says it regrets that it removed images of women from its Saudi Arabian catalogues. Who has room for women when you're trying to pack a bed, a dining table, and a couch all into the same 100 square-foot space?

Georgia Congressman Paul Broun says evolution, embryology, and the Big Bang theory are "lies from the pit of hell." You know, hell -- the thing God created right after he made congressmen.

Vladimir Putin just had a birthday. He celebrated as he does every year -- by rescuing a litter of rare puppies from an active volcano while dangling, bare-chested, from a helicopter.

The Mormon church has lowered age requirements for missionaries. It used to be 18, but they've changed the requirement to being tall enough to knock.

U.S. Protestants have lost majority status. That title has officially transferred to Americans wearing howling wolf t-shirts.

Cattle farmers who are struggling with record corn prices are feeding their cows candy. Now you can order your steak medium, medium well, or with sprinkles.

Mitt Romney says he would pursue no abortion legislation if elected president. As if Mitt wasn't enough of a ladies' man.

A 14-year-old German boy pawned some of his mom's jewelry so he'd have money to visit a brothel. The kid will get a spanking, just not of the variety he was hoping for.

Florida Governor Rick Scott accidentally gave out a sex hotline number instead of a meningitis hotline number. See? Meningitis isn't all bad.

Taylor Swift says drinking wine makes her "feel classy". You know what else makes her feel classy? Not dating Kanye West.

Urban Outfitters: what happens when ugly sofas have drunk sex

Urban Outfitters has evolved over the years. It once was a store where you could buy hip, urban-ish clothing, then it was a store where you could buy hip, uban-ish, but pretty weird clothing, and now it's a store where you can buy things that the Goodwill won't even sell. Seriously, UO is that bag of weird cardigans, stirrup pants, and curtains in the back of the Goodwill that not even homeless people or naked windows will wear.

It's quite possible that Urban Outfitters is some kind of messed-up social experiment sponsored by NBC's "Dateline". You remember when Dateline's "To Catch a Predator" host Chris Hansen would suddenly appear during what some freshly-Old Spiced pedophile thought was going to be a hot night of My Little Pony reenactments? That's what I think might happen with Urban Outfitters. People will start wearing their acid wash jean vests and poinsettia-print velour  stretch pants with some seriousness, then Chris Hansen will pop out from behind their floor mirror with a video camera and a bunch of questions you can't answer, like "Why are you wearing that?" Forcing you to flee with your leopard-print patent leather shame. 

Judging from the most recent Urban Outfitters catalog, we are nearing the end of the experiment, as its hot buffet of photographs is clearly what happens when a bunch of ugly sofas have a night of drunk sex, then throw up all over skinny people.

And the pointing fingers award goes to...

How about that vice presidential debate, huh? Two guys who really want to be the guy who basically does nothing while some other guy is President. Talking very loudly. Sometimes yelling. And pointing really hard at each other.

Far and away my favorite part of the VP debate was the use of the word "malarky," which I think could only have been topped by the use of the word "poppycock," which, note to the presidential candidates, could sway my vote this year. But also any year, so future presidential candidates, you guys take note, too. Poppycock. Work it in there. But not in the dirty way.

A big thumbs up to Joe Biden for laughing during Paul Ryan's responses so often because, one, pretty boy needs to be laughed at, and, two, I mean, what else are you gonna do during a vice presidential debate? Pretend like you're taking notes when you're actually just drawing yourself as President? Wearing a crown? Yeah, the first President of the United States with a crown. And a red, white, and blue Batmobile. That's a convertible. That'd be awesome.