It's true what they say: When God opens a door, he gives you hand lotion.
Each year, the neighborhood children eagerly anticipated the arrival of Santa Gargoyle.
Say hello to my Jeffro.
Please address all thank-you cards directly to me.
Elves just cannot hold their eggnog.
Santa loves bunnies.
Every year, the Salad Clan is invited to the much anticipated Latkefest in Seminole Heights.
And every year, the event gets more and more wonderful.
New friendships are formed.
Glad tidings are shared.
And delcious food - like this caprese and spinach dip on challah bread bruschetta - is enjoyed.
Even the eggs are happy.
Alan Snel of the outstanding Bike Stories blog throws Latkefest each year.
He bestowed this lovely sombrero upon the salad family as a holiday present last night.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Hanukkah.
He's dreaming of a Whitey Christmas.
So the other morning, I'm watching SportsCenter while having coffee. And I notice that writer Rick Reilly is in one of the anchor chairs. And he's really bad.
That's not a criticism, just an observation. Anyone who's been on TV knows that it's an unnatural experience.
But Reilly was bad, even by middle-age schlumpy writer standards. And it irritated me. So I go and do what every 44-year-old man does to vent his spleen.
I tell it to Twitter:
Allow me to put the reference in context:
Stay classy, Jeff.
Only one problem. People read things on Twitter.
In that sweater was this:
To recap: I watched a show that regurges sports clips, then went on a social media site that regurges opinions to vomit outrage about the peristaltic sports show. That discharge was then projectile hurled uopn readers at Deadspin. I then picked through my own regurge on a regurtitated post to then reheat those refried bean of outrage so I could share it with you now.
We may have just gone back in time.
If there is one redeeming quality to the Internets, it is this: It allows those who think a personified candy apple doffing a top hat is funny to gather and warm their hands around the same warm fire of stupidity:
Weirdness + Flickr = Approbation
I've been a reader of the blog Your Moosey Fate since about 2004. I connected with Lynn in Winnipeg after I posted a story of a moose found dangling 50 feet in the air, his antlers tangled in a set of rural power lines southeast of Fairbanks.
Turns out that in addition to moose, she's also a fan of disturbing Santa photos, so much so, that she posted a photo of herself as a child on Kris Kringle's knee on the verge of having a frightened hissy.
Lynn has decided to join our reindeer games. Today's entry on the CoDS comes directly from her, via the Winnipeg Free Press:
Looks like Santa could use a patch job on the beard. And, generally, a less frightening facial disposition. Pronto.
Santa is a fan of tattoos. Who knew?
One tat too far? My apologies.
Feel free to make your own.
My new morning ritual: Watching a variety show called “Don Cheeto” on Spanish-language EstrellaTV.
I stumbled on it yesterday morning as I was flipping through the cable looking for news.
Stupid Jeff and his stupid gringo behaviors.
All this time, I could have been watching Don Cheto.
The host, who is the namesake of the show, is a giant Hispanic tubby who, yesterday, was wearing an orange Guybera shirt, fake blond wig and moustache and a cowboy hat.
What caught my eye? A midget dressed as Chucky running around with a knife and sickle throwing sombreros at everyone in the band.
Then the highly attractive strapless chicas in the band returned fire.
Rebuffed, the miniature man then ran to head-butt the camera.
This must be what it's like to live in Gary Busey's head.
For good measure, Latin Wee Man (who resembled Mitch Albom more than a little bit) then trashed the set and writhed around on the ground committing a very diminutive tantrum, during which he threw a knife at Don Cheto's bulbous Latin groin.
I am exactly this easy to amuse.
I had no idea what was going on or what the people on the show were saying, but a warm bath of euphoria swept over me as I was watching. I felt like Bill Hurt in "Altered States," simultaneously depriving my senses while bombarding my brain with too much cerebral stimulus.
If there is such a thing, I may have been experienced a "television high."
I stumbled on the show as Salad Boy was having breakfast. As I walked him out the door to go to his bus stop, I said, “Adios, muchacho.”
He said, “Dad, please don’t start talking like that show.”
I make no promises, mi amigo. No promises at all.
Hulk also wish people stop making crap Hulk movies.
I have no further comment at this time.
This news just in:
Guess I better get started on my applesauce.
For a time when they were younger, Phil Jackson and Val Kilmer were quite close.
I wish it could be Christmas every day.
And by every day, I mean, "Mommy, make those bad men stop."
Salad Mom casually dropped into conversation the other day that she didn't much care for the new banner for the Salad Bowl.
"That doesn't sound like something you'd say," she said.
There's a story behind why it's there, of course.
A few years back, the Salad clan hooked on to the movie "Dumb and Dumber."
Of particular note was this scene, which takes place early in the movie. The sequence, which finds Harry and Lloyd discovering that their parrot's head has been detatched, seemed to speak to a particular moment in our lives when it seemed everything was going off the rails:
Like I said, it spoke to us. From then on whenever life would go awry, we'd reach for the shorthand of screaming, "Our pets' heads are falling off!"
You had to be there.
Anyway, not long ago we hit a particularly rough patch again at Casa del Ensalada. Everything seemed to be snowballing against us.
And I just happened to trip across this t-shirt:
I sent it immediately to Salad Wife at work, who appropriately fell into a torrent of hysterical, dark, soul-smudged laughter. Something about a cuddly, lovable panda barely holding on to the horizon seemed to be a perfect metaphor for what we were dealing with.
I liked it so much and I thought it was such an accurate barometer, I made it into the Salad banner.
But as I said, Salad Mom dislikes it greatly.
And I want Salad Mom to be happy. So I started looking around online for an alternative.
The candidates for replacement at this point are:
Too Bed, Bath & Beyond.
Too Van Halen "Diver Down"-ish.
Too wordy, prosaic and convoluted.
Too happy and shiny.
Face it, not everything can be amazing. If it were, it would lose its amazingness.
Sorry, mom. I'm sticking with the panda.
Don't worry. It'll be okay.
Down from the rooftop, squirt, squirt, squirt.
Gerd, I like.
Margret, however, looks like trouble.
The latest posting to Not Funny/Funny:
To follow along with the not fun/fun, click here.
Santa's got a brand new plug.
If you get asked to be a barbecue judge at the Plant City Pig Jam, I highly suggest you get on it tout de suite.
Why? First, because it involves eating barbecue.
Second, because it involves eating barbecue!
The way you people act. You'd think you ate barbecue every day.
As delicious as that sounds, it takes skill to judge such things.
Doing so next to a portable outhouse takes more skill than you can comprehend.
This is Thaddeus. I liked Thaddeus. I liked his shirt even more.
Barbecue people are funny.
I said, BARBECUE PEOPLE ARE FUNNY!
Elvis would have loved this team's name.
The King would have loved their pork even more.
That sounds like a challenge.
Another happy customer.
Death hates the sun in its eyes.
Eatin', readin', sippin' and ridin.'
Looks like someone else needs a ride, too.
Some people just know how to have a good time.
For more photos, click here.
Giant Santa! YAYYYYYYYYYYY!
What's that smell?
HOT FIRE BURN SANTA!!!!!!
HOT FIRE BURN SANTA!!!!!!
That tricycle in the back? That's how I rolled.
It's Dec. 1, which in Salad terms means that it's time to kick off another soon-to-be-aborted attempt at the annual Calendar of Disturbing Santas.
Longtime reader(s) know that this is the time of year when I try to string along visitors to the Salad Bowl with a daily posting. And, true to my nature, it usually ends in disappointment, prematurity and loss of dignity and self-worth.
Let's review our track record, shall we?
NUMBER OF CUMULATIVE CALENDAR DAYS ACHIEVED
2004: 17 (extremely sort of)
2005: 15 (sort of)
So, with that track record, we start again with the best of intentions and a full dose of reality that this may again end horribly.
All in all, they're just another Nick in the wall.