Saturday, August 20, 2005
The Problem With Dogs
Don't try this at home.
Consider...the hot dog. The *wiener* if you prefer. Tube steak. It’s a nasty food made of ground-up bits of things you wouldn’t feed your dog (no pun intended here) mixed with other things that aren’t normally considered food—like, say, sawdust and insect parts.
Still, you have to admit that when you hear the call of Oscar Mayer nothing else will satisfy. I put down maybe five dogs in an average year. There just aren’t many foods that can really do justice to being cooked on a stick. The other day I notice that summer is almost over (sob) and I haven’t enjoyed even a single frank, and I get this craving. So off to the store I go.
Now you can’t just buy one lone hot dog, right? You have to by a pack. So I pick out two year’s worth of Ballpark specials (Now...with extra Ear & Snout!) and head to the bread area, which is conveniently located in a distant zip code somewhere beyond the pharmacy. I pick up a package of buns and head for home. I fire up the grill and get down to business. I don’t want to waste food, so I cook all ten dogs.
I’m sure you’ve seen those infomercials where the lady holds up the dirty little girl by one ankle while the baritone voice-over drones, “Little Mary drinks from this filthy sewage-polluted stream that runs through the landfill behind that hollow log where she and her 11 brothers and sisters live.” Ever since then I vowed...no more wasting food.
So I tuck each of my dogs into a delicious fresh bun...except for two. Since buns only come in packages of eight to my ten hot dogs, I’m left with a remainder of two--like some kind of meaty division problem. Chalk up one quick stop at the store for another pack of buns. Now my dogs are bedded down, but I have six buns left. Back to the grocery for more dogs. Now I’m long by four wieners (ok, that pun was intended). Here’s how the story goes from here:
+ 8 buns = 4 buns left
+ 10 dogs = 6 dogs left
+ 8 more buns = 2 buns left
+ 10 dogs = 8 dogs left
+ 8 buns = urp!
All told, I’m into this little project to the tune of 4 packs of hot dogs and 5 rolls. Total cost $24.95. So here’s a riddle—what the @#$%! gives? Is this a long-standing feud between butchers and bakers? Is it the Republicans? Are crooked CEOs siphoning off two buns from each pack to pad their retirement funds with extra dough? Are they being shipped off to our brave boys in Eye-raq?
Then I discovered the solution just where you’d expect it—on the internet.
“It's an obvious conspiracy. The bun company is in cahoots with the hot dog company. They want you to buy one pack of hot dogs and one pack of buns. Then, to use up the other two hot dog buns, you have to buy more hot dogs. You would have more hot dog buns left over, so you, once again, are forced to buy more hot dogs. Eventually, this would zero out (8 packs of hot dogs, 80 hot dogs, and 10 packs of buns, 80 buns), but no one wants to eat that many hot dogs.”
People are bad at story problems.
Next week we’ll explore why, even though you purchase them at the same time, you’ll always run out of shampoo before conditioner.
Bon Appetit...
Consider...the hot dog. The *wiener* if you prefer. Tube steak. It’s a nasty food made of ground-up bits of things you wouldn’t feed your dog (no pun intended here) mixed with other things that aren’t normally considered food—like, say, sawdust and insect parts.
Still, you have to admit that when you hear the call of Oscar Mayer nothing else will satisfy. I put down maybe five dogs in an average year. There just aren’t many foods that can really do justice to being cooked on a stick. The other day I notice that summer is almost over (sob) and I haven’t enjoyed even a single frank, and I get this craving. So off to the store I go.
Now you can’t just buy one lone hot dog, right? You have to by a pack. So I pick out two year’s worth of Ballpark specials (Now...with extra Ear & Snout!) and head to the bread area, which is conveniently located in a distant zip code somewhere beyond the pharmacy. I pick up a package of buns and head for home. I fire up the grill and get down to business. I don’t want to waste food, so I cook all ten dogs.
I’m sure you’ve seen those infomercials where the lady holds up the dirty little girl by one ankle while the baritone voice-over drones, “Little Mary drinks from this filthy sewage-polluted stream that runs through the landfill behind that hollow log where she and her 11 brothers and sisters live.” Ever since then I vowed...no more wasting food.
So I tuck each of my dogs into a delicious fresh bun...except for two. Since buns only come in packages of eight to my ten hot dogs, I’m left with a remainder of two--like some kind of meaty division problem. Chalk up one quick stop at the store for another pack of buns. Now my dogs are bedded down, but I have six buns left. Back to the grocery for more dogs. Now I’m long by four wieners (ok, that pun was intended). Here’s how the story goes from here:
+ 8 buns = 4 buns left
+ 10 dogs = 6 dogs left
+ 8 more buns = 2 buns left
+ 10 dogs = 8 dogs left
+ 8 buns = urp!
All told, I’m into this little project to the tune of 4 packs of hot dogs and 5 rolls. Total cost $24.95. So here’s a riddle—what the @#$%! gives? Is this a long-standing feud between butchers and bakers? Is it the Republicans? Are crooked CEOs siphoning off two buns from each pack to pad their retirement funds with extra dough? Are they being shipped off to our brave boys in Eye-raq?
Then I discovered the solution just where you’d expect it—on the internet.
“It's an obvious conspiracy. The bun company is in cahoots with the hot dog company. They want you to buy one pack of hot dogs and one pack of buns. Then, to use up the other two hot dog buns, you have to buy more hot dogs. You would have more hot dog buns left over, so you, once again, are forced to buy more hot dogs. Eventually, this would zero out (8 packs of hot dogs, 80 hot dogs, and 10 packs of buns, 80 buns), but no one wants to eat that many hot dogs.”
People are bad at story problems.
Next week we’ll explore why, even though you purchase them at the same time, you’ll always run out of shampoo before conditioner.
Bon Appetit...
Saturday, August 13, 2005
I'll Have a Hot Christmas
Ahead of the curve--way, way ahead...
Saw this one the other day returning from work. Two houses up the street my neighbor is perched atop a tipsy ladder stapling his Christmas lights to his house. In the front yard Santa and Frosty the Snowman are slowly inflating. Frosty is halfway done so he’s leaned over to the side as if melting in the heat. I quickly check my Casio to see if somehow four months has magically elapsed since I started my commute home. Strange crap like that happens all the time, they just never tell you about it. Just ask Rod Serling.
Nope, it’s still August. So now I’m, like, confused. My neighbor turns (oh yes, Virginia—he’s wearing the traditional red felt hat with the puffball on the end) to wave vigorously at me. I hold my palms up in the air and shrug my shoulders, making the universal symbol for, “Do you know the number to our HOA?” He shouts something incoherent about “Reality TV and Being Bobby Brown.”
An assortment of wreaths, children, and empty Michelob bottles decorate the front porch. “No really,” I inquire, “What are you doing? It’s summer, man.” He raises his staple gun in the air like Excalibur and shouts, “woop Woop WOOP!”
That night, standing in front of his blinding display I wonder what kind of job-related stress makes a man commit Christmas right smack in the middle of summer. Sure, I can see it maybe if you go by “Crazy Larry” and you own a waterbed store.
“It’s Crrrraaaazy Laaaaary’s Christmas in July sale--this weekend only! Stop by today for insane holiday prices on all of our latest full-motion and waveless sleep systems by Serta Aquapedic and Sloshy Slumber. Get an extra twenty percent discount on heaters and liners. I’m totally dain bramaged! Green beer for the Kids! Saturday we dye Easter eggs! I’M TOTALLY FRIGGIN’ CRAZY, Y’ALL! We also have a fine selection of spas and pool tables.”
Poor bastard doesn’t even know those inflatable lawn ornaments are *so* 2003—It’s all about the icicle lights now...
Saw this one the other day returning from work. Two houses up the street my neighbor is perched atop a tipsy ladder stapling his Christmas lights to his house. In the front yard Santa and Frosty the Snowman are slowly inflating. Frosty is halfway done so he’s leaned over to the side as if melting in the heat. I quickly check my Casio to see if somehow four months has magically elapsed since I started my commute home. Strange crap like that happens all the time, they just never tell you about it. Just ask Rod Serling.
Nope, it’s still August. So now I’m, like, confused. My neighbor turns (oh yes, Virginia—he’s wearing the traditional red felt hat with the puffball on the end) to wave vigorously at me. I hold my palms up in the air and shrug my shoulders, making the universal symbol for, “Do you know the number to our HOA?” He shouts something incoherent about “Reality TV and Being Bobby Brown.”
An assortment of wreaths, children, and empty Michelob bottles decorate the front porch. “No really,” I inquire, “What are you doing? It’s summer, man.” He raises his staple gun in the air like Excalibur and shouts, “woop Woop WOOP!”
That night, standing in front of his blinding display I wonder what kind of job-related stress makes a man commit Christmas right smack in the middle of summer. Sure, I can see it maybe if you go by “Crazy Larry” and you own a waterbed store.
“It’s Crrrraaaazy Laaaaary’s Christmas in July sale--this weekend only! Stop by today for insane holiday prices on all of our latest full-motion and waveless sleep systems by Serta Aquapedic and Sloshy Slumber. Get an extra twenty percent discount on heaters and liners. I’m totally dain bramaged! Green beer for the Kids! Saturday we dye Easter eggs! I’M TOTALLY FRIGGIN’ CRAZY, Y’ALL! We also have a fine selection of spas and pool tables.”
Poor bastard doesn’t even know those inflatable lawn ornaments are *so* 2003—It’s all about the icicle lights now...
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Hollywood Declares, “We’re All Tapped Out”
I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but that talking Quizno’s baby is pretty damn creepy.
You know what else sucks? Paying $9 to go see a movie that I’ve already seen for $3.50 when it originally came out. Namely, all the freeze-dried crap churning it’s way to a theatre near you. I enjoy Will Ferrell as much as the next guy, but let’s face it—Bewitched wasn’t worth going back for. Contrary to what the Marines may tell you, there are just some times when it’s totally right and necessary to leave a man behind.
Bad News Bears? Really? Now I’m picturing a bunch of guys in expensive suits sitting around a mahogany conference table nodding at each other sagely and saying, “I think Paul has a great idea with the BNB project—I just don’t see how this one can miss. I’ll call Sling Blade—He’ll do it...” Oh, and my guess is the recruiting line to sign up for the Russian submarine force will be longer than the line to see Dukes of Hazzard...
Some of this summer’s recycled offerings are wrong, but for exactly the opposite reason. They were done properly the first time. Look folks, Gene Wilder is Willy Wonka and that’s just all there is to it. That movie didn’t need to be remade. Granted, Gene didn’t have the Michael Jackson-inspired effeminate mannerisms that Johnny brings to the role, but my bad dreams after the original were confined mostly to Oompa Loompas. Man, those guys are spooky.
Same story on the Pink Panther. Steve, I loved you with the arrow through the head thing—but Peter Sellers pretty much nailed that part, I think. Anyway, I thought you were still working through your crappy novel phase? What’s happening there?
Ironically, in the 1953 version of War of the Worlds it was the special effects that were kind of cheesy, yet disturbing at the same time—in 2005, it’s Tom Cruise. He’s easy to spot onscreen. When he’s with the space aliens he’s the one that doesn’t look at home.
Do yourself a favor, stay away from the theater this summer and instead rent Team America: World Police. It’s damn funny, Michael Moore explodes, AND it has graphic sex scenes with puppets.
And don’t eat at Quizno’s. First the singing rats and now that hungry demonic baby—when does the pain end?
You know what else sucks? Paying $9 to go see a movie that I’ve already seen for $3.50 when it originally came out. Namely, all the freeze-dried crap churning it’s way to a theatre near you. I enjoy Will Ferrell as much as the next guy, but let’s face it—Bewitched wasn’t worth going back for. Contrary to what the Marines may tell you, there are just some times when it’s totally right and necessary to leave a man behind.
Bad News Bears? Really? Now I’m picturing a bunch of guys in expensive suits sitting around a mahogany conference table nodding at each other sagely and saying, “I think Paul has a great idea with the BNB project—I just don’t see how this one can miss. I’ll call Sling Blade—He’ll do it...” Oh, and my guess is the recruiting line to sign up for the Russian submarine force will be longer than the line to see Dukes of Hazzard...
Some of this summer’s recycled offerings are wrong, but for exactly the opposite reason. They were done properly the first time. Look folks, Gene Wilder is Willy Wonka and that’s just all there is to it. That movie didn’t need to be remade. Granted, Gene didn’t have the Michael Jackson-inspired effeminate mannerisms that Johnny brings to the role, but my bad dreams after the original were confined mostly to Oompa Loompas. Man, those guys are spooky.
Same story on the Pink Panther. Steve, I loved you with the arrow through the head thing—but Peter Sellers pretty much nailed that part, I think. Anyway, I thought you were still working through your crappy novel phase? What’s happening there?
Ironically, in the 1953 version of War of the Worlds it was the special effects that were kind of cheesy, yet disturbing at the same time—in 2005, it’s Tom Cruise. He’s easy to spot onscreen. When he’s with the space aliens he’s the one that doesn’t look at home.
Do yourself a favor, stay away from the theater this summer and instead rent Team America: World Police. It’s damn funny, Michael Moore explodes, AND it has graphic sex scenes with puppets.
And don’t eat at Quizno’s. First the singing rats and now that hungry demonic baby—when does the pain end?
