Lingering Fallout From Nagasaki

Dropping the big one might end a war, but the long-term, unforeseeable consequences continue to horrify.

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Gay For Six Minutes

My conscience is a porcupine. I gotta come clean; level with my readership. Your commitment to the truth is evident and deep-seated, or you wouldn’t be following the-blog-the-authorities-don’t-want-to-exist; wouldn’t risk capture by agents and offices running cyber sweep programs and shit. So here’s me telling it straight-up, in the manner to which ALB™ has accustomed you: this weekend I was totally gay for about six minutes.

As a male reader, you’re shocked. But you don’t want me to feel bad, all ostracized and everything, so you go, “Well, since you can admit it, no big deal, summer after college we were all dancing, pretty deep into the piña coladas, and this dude sort of started making out with me, and I just kinda went with it. No big deal. I figured whatever, I’m in Europe, the music was going UNTS UNTS UNTS, and I just sort of let him in my pants and everything. No big. And returned the favor. No big deal. The fag. So, yeah, totally been there. I hear you.”

And I’m all, Uh, no, I’m talking about the few minutes I let that Nothing’s Sweet About Me song into my head. Spacing out over morning coffee.

Thanks for your story, though.

Advanced Meat Recovery

That's, like, a thing. It exists. In the world. It’s even got its own acronym, AMR (doi). You could be forgiven for assuming it's a rehab program for Ultimate Fighters. It's not. Nor is it a group of specialists John Wayne Bobbitt keeps on speed dial. It's also not a patented injection to revive comatose rodeo bulls, nor a back-translation of the Mexican for Viagra, nor a proprietary tracking system for bris fallout, nor a means to return dropped hamburger patties to the griddle—that's called a McDonald's Employee. But in mentioning McDonald's, nice segue, you got close.

Advanced Meat Recovery is quote a slaughterhouse process by which residual meat trimmings are extracted from bones and other carcass materials unquote, and why AMR is not at least as well-known as E=MC squared or the Pythagorean Theorem is beyond America’s Leading Blog™. The name of its inventor should enjoy equal billing with Lincoln, Washington, and Hannah Montana in the minds of American schoolchildren, and the Nobel Committee owes a fat apology for its obviously indiscriminate method of bestowing top honors.

Here’s AMR in action:



Now, without that machinery to aid comprehension, your eye might think a Macy’s Parade-sized Porky Pig backed one out in your cat’s litter box. In fact, you’re looking at the birth of multiple Chicken McNuggets. No, I didn’t just misspell Strawberry SofServ. That ain’t fake ice cream. It’s real, actual meat.

Lots of people won’t eat something that begins life as a turkey-sized Porky Pig turd. They’ll wrongly consider themselves above the pictured pink. “Well if THAT’S where Chicken McNuggets come from, I can assure you I have eaten my last McNugget.” I say fuck your attitude. Right in its face. Your knee-jerk, birth-of-a-vegetarian bullshit don’t wash in the Halls of Logic. If you care about animals, don’t you want to make sure we gobble every last edible molecule of an animal that traded its life for human nutrition? Of course you do. Say you’re sorry. Ok. Apology accepted. Welcome back.

See, AMR, glorified, not incriminated, in the photograph above, is the means by which we ensure no animal dies in vain. The ghosts of slain chickens used to hover over a meat worker's shoulder going, “You missed a spot. There, you missed another spot. And there. FUCK, what the fuck did I even die for, motherfucker? If you’re not gonna eat all of me, just amputate my leg or some shit next time. FUCK.” (It sounded like “buk-buk buk, buk-buk,” but if you understood ghost chicken you knew that’s exactly what the fuck they were complaining about. And they had every right to.) Nowadays, thanks to AMR, the ghosts of recently evacuated chicken carcasses don’t gotta waste time checking a meat cutter’s work. They get to fuck around doing the shit chicken heaven was made for while AMR makes sure we get every dead bit. Good for the chickens; good for us.

ALB™ cold droppin the knowledge on the AMR.

You’re welcome.

P.S.: Now if I showed you the running sores that give us Honey Mustard Dippin Sauce, I could totally not blame you for keeping that shit out your mouth.

pimper than pimp

So you've memorized the book of pimp moves, you know the game, and you get this next-level, ultrapimp notion to have the germans make you an ultrapimp platinum car—not stainless steel, which was so like done in the 80's, but straight up platinum—and with that you're all superconfident you got the pimp sweepstakes won. every organization responsible for making lists of leading pimps will put your shit at the tippy top. a platinum car. blue-ribbon, first prize-at-the-county-fair-winning PIMP. you're so fucking pimp you can wear a dress all day and people still be all, "Daaaamn. Pimp." and then some motherfucker safely lands a plane on the motherfucking hudson river.

as shown above, all your shit can do is drive to the mall. order an Orange Julius. front like some pilot didn't just leave a slap mark on your face so deep CSI can I.D. his fingerprints.

crap

"I'm dead, Will Robinson."

keeping y'all up-to-the minute, supplying the breaking 411 as frequently as every 6 or 8 months, sometimes means sharing hard news too. like a choice hot dog, you have to eat the asshole with the loin. that's just the nature of remnant meat. and news. (sorry, i don't make the rules. i just rule.)

the boring-ass version:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/21/arts/television/21may.html?_r=1

I apologize for fucking up your day. No i don't.

fuck me.

Mecca:

http://www.harryshofbrau.com/reviews.html