Bloomin’ Onion Machine
Spike knew, and now so do you. The secret is the cold water bath, and this midieval torture device repurposed to manufacturing deliciousness.
Tentative Fringe showings
Tentative:
Sunday, Aug 7th -
10:00 PM: Adventures in Mating
11:30 PM: The Scrimshaw Show
Shows that you will probably be avoiding so as to not make uncomfortable eye contact with me before looking away and going to the bathroom to hide:
Aug 8 - 5:30 PM: “Cliff Notes” for Dummies by Third Rabbit Dance Ensemble
Aug 14 - 7:00 PM: Man Saved by Condiments by Pehl Productions & Starting Gate Prod.
No Mini Donuts
It is actually illegal to have a fair in Minnesota without mini donuts. There was another stand over on “The Mall.” I declined this time because I was full from deep throating a foot long Italian. Sausage. Eating it. STOP THINKING THAT! I USED TEETH!
Sigh. You fuckers are all perverts.
My Hands Smell Like Basil
Lisa always seems to forget that we have a few herbs in the back garden. As I was supplementing her sauce-from-a-jar I said that I am jealous of Paul’s Mom’s vegetable garden with tomatoes and a forest of pepper plants (don’t tell them who ate all the spicy sweet pickle slices, holy fucking delicious). Anyway, Lisa said that next year I could probably dig up more of the yard to claim my own space, and I casually mentioned that I might not be here next year.
I’m a little sad that I didn’t join Paul’s Party Pad as the eigth and oldest Power Ranger, heretofore to be referred to as the Den Mother, or just Mom, but I’m not sure that spending six months or a year living with 22 year olds would really improve my social standing. Nonetheless, it was an opportunity to revel in adolescence.
It was only three or four years ago that I had thought to myself that I would be looking at houses “in a few months.” Then, life went tits up.
I must be slipping, I only took 120 pictures at the art thing.
