From the Archives: Arms Smuggling

There comes a time in a young man's life in which his instinctual need for migration comes to a head. The need for adventure is too great for me to ignore for long: I live off of movement. And bacon, but that's besides the point.

It's a fine line I walk.

When I was 15, I began a grand adventure. My high school had arranged a France trip, to occur during February vacation (for those not living in MA, a week in February is taken off of school, likely originating from that time being the most likely for flu outbreaks).

We flew directly from Logan International Airport in Boston to Paris, France, where I immediately saw a sign that said "surrenderez-vous." I'm not kidding. And this was in the time of "freedom fries, fuck yeah!" Of COURSE you'll be surrendering to some pimply 15 year old.

Now, during this trip into an ancient land, we went to a city called Mont Saint-Michel. Long story short, a bunch of monks saw a big rock a few hundred meters off the shore, and when the tide went out, walked over to it and build a monastery. This was because France is France, and while their vow of poverty didn't permit them to escape the nation of a thousand smells via ship, no one said they couldn't simply walk the fuck away.

Sadly for the monks, every other nearby French person also wanted to get the fuck away. So, slowly but surely, the giant random rock with a church on top became a giant random rock, property of France.

The monastery became a town. The town became a castle. And the castle still stands as is very cool to visit.

So, visit we did.

And naturally, the place had become tourist-ized to hell. "We're a castle. What do people want... bread? Food? Actual culture? FUCK NO, get me some swords n' shit!"

And so, we come to the next phase of a young boy's life: Weapon Fascination.

I was so easily allured by all the shininess. And so, I bought a *few* things.

"Yaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy"

And, naturally, every single one of my classmates also on the trip got a bunch of swords. Honestly, we could've started the next Crusade just for shits-n-giggles.

After spending a great deal of money adding weight to my airline luggage, it was time to break the law by transporting undeclared weapons into post 9/11 America  go home.

Now, in the airport in Paris, there was a small desk set up where an American official asked us, oh, just a few questions. One in particular stuck out to me.

Something must have tipped them off, because on the back of my passport I had an orange sticker. Everyone else had a white sticker on theirs.

So naturally, I was concerned.

So we went through, hopped on the plane, and went back to the states. And of course, we had to go through customs.

I went through as the TSA serial rapist inspector took my passport and directly looked at the back for the sticker that would determine my fate.

And it was in that moment, when I felt my first heart attack coming to whisk me to the underworld, where I became really thankful of TSA educational requirements.

I'd apply there if the coworkers wouldn't melt my brains.

And so I walked probably the fastest I ever have through the door and onto the bus to take us back to school and to home.

All in marvelous liberty-loving contempt of federal and Massachusetts state weapons laws.

God Bless America.

Have you ever been on an international trip? Tell me about it in the comments. Be sure to like and share this on Facebook like the attention-seeking whore you are.

The Story of Watson: The Breakfast Thief

I've talked about cats and dogs before, but this time it's personal.

This is the story of Watson, a mini wired-hair dachshund.
Here he is.

Isn't he cute?
Isn't he nice looking?
Doesn't he seem like a nice, fun, awesome dog?

It's a lie. All lies.
He's a double agent. A traitor.
Let me cartoonify him first.

Because you deserved it. Traitor.

One day, I decided to take some time and make Eggs Benedict for breakfast (point of information: this was at my parent's house, and Watson is my parent's dog).

What is eggs benedict, you ask? Let me draw it out for you.

So I just finish making this concoction of deliciousness, this edible monument to engineering. I place it on the table, and go to quickly clean the dishes before eating it, as I don't like to eat lava.

Now is a good time to mention that dogs are simple creatures with very simple minds...

This dog, with a height or like 8 inches, JUMPED onto the chair, HOPPED onto the table, and ATE BOTH EGGS BENEDICT I MADE.

And then ran off.

All before I even freaking realized what was happening.

It was gone. All the work (which is more than you think) was eaten in the space of a minute. By Watson the dog.

And the plate was licked clean.

It was a most grievous error. I spent the rest of the day playing Indoor Safari with a nerf gun, stalking the Puppy Errant and shooting him with the foam darts.

Because, well, you can't actually be angry at a dog that cute.

"Soon I shall be the Bacon King!"

Comments Welcome!

Thankfulness in Fruitlessness

Ah Thanksgiving, the only holiday where we claim we’re thankful, and then spend the next few days literally killing people to get more stuff we want.

It’s the American way! Whoo!

When you’re jobless, the sales and bargains don’t apply to you because you’re already thankful for what you have you can’t afford anything anyways.

So, naturally, one has to get creative as to what to be thankful for.

It’s the simple things, really. And, yes, before MaterBaconia and LavaGirl and assorted friends, family members, and talking sinks start yelling at me: Yes. I am supremely, and very very VERY thankful for each and every one of you. You’ve molded me into the (psychotic) person I am, and you keep me going.

Thank you for being who you are, and for helping me figure out who I am.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Breaking the Ice Through Brute Force

The Interview.

If you didn’t shutter or nervously chuckle at that, there’s something wrong with you.

Interviews are like the Final Boss of the job search. If you win, music plays, you open the big chest, and DOO-DOO-DOO-DOOOOOO! Your job offer hovers above your triumphantly raised hands rotating.

It's your eviction notice.

This is a tricky place, however. You get asked questions and you’re expected to come up with good answers. Not *just* good answers, but AMAZING, SURPRISINGLY ELOQUENT answers that would make Cicero jealous.

"You leave me out of this."

And, naturally, when you’re away from the high-pressure area of Mr. Boss’s office, you can come up with some pretty good answers.

But when you go there,  you’re going to fuck it up. Royally.

Oh yeah. All the fucking time.

Yeeeah, there can be some pretty catastrophically awkward moments in an interview. And they are damned near unavoidable. One misstep, and it’s into awkwardland you go.

And no one can prevent it.

It’s impossible to avoid the ensuing onslaught. The best you can do is to follow some sort of procedure in order to either get out of the awkwardness or to brace for impact…

Everyone faces awkward moments. Just most don't completely implode when it happens. 

... this *might* be the reason I'm still unemployed...

Comment and share below! 

And Upon this Bacon I Shall Eat More Bacon

My brain is ceasing to function right now, so today is all about one thing.

BACON.

Congratulations. You are now a full member of the Church of Bacon (fully compatible with most religions). Welcome aboard.

To fully appreciate Bacon, however, it is clear to me that there need to be certain rules...

And now, onto the Proper Handling and Cooking of Bacon (I'd call it "kosher," but that'd be too ironic).

HANDLING AND STORAGE

1. Always handle your bacon lovingly and tenderly, like a newborn infant.

   

   And Patriotic

2. Be sure to refrigerate your bacon if you're going to use it before the expiration date. Otherwise, put it in cryogenic stasis.
   

MOST CORRECT METHOD OF COOKING BACON.

(And yes, I said cooking. Do NOT buy "precooked" bacon. Equate "precooked" with "subpar bacon-like substance taken from the unholy offspring of a turtle and a lobster." If you used precooked bacon, may God have mercy upon your soul).

1. Take an oven-safe tray (baking sheet, car hood, etc.) and cover it with tin foil to prevent the aliens from locking onto your bacon signature (and making clean up easier). 

2. Place bacon on the tray.

3. Place it in the oven.

4. *NOW* Set the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit, or 204 degrees Celsius if you're one of those pesky metric unit people. [Special Note: This is considered "a bit chilly" by LavaGirl]

5. Set a timer for 15 minutes. Once that's up, check the bacon. If it is doesn't look done or you want it crispier, leave it in, but be careful as you approach the 20 minute mark. If it looks good, it IS good. Take it out.

6. Eat your Bacon in its glory.

Yes, I know I've been completely off-topic these past few days. It's just that my brain has been rebelling against ever attempt to wrestle it into control.

~BlueCru