A Totally Half-Assed Post

I’m trying to get a project done before tomorrow and so I’m distracted this evening from enlightening posts and witty banter.

I am contemplating, though, the awesomeness of rap music and my continued love for David Banner. Did you see him on Cribs wearing his “boxer drawers” this weekend?

Okay, just me then.

Advertisements

And this surprises who?

Today must be the most boring day in the history of twenty-four hour infotainment as just about every article I’ve perused during my lunch hour has caused me to exclaim “Well, duh.”

Here are the stories that most failed to seem like news (in no particular order):

  1. Colin Farrell is on drugs. Yes, why else would he have done DareDevil?
  2. Iran’s president expresses doubts about the Holocaust again. The first time he doubted the Holocaust, it was the least surprising “news” ever. I don’t know what to call the fact that it’s a story again that he’s doubting again. The least, least surprising news? But do two leasts make it a most? Hmm.
  3. You soon will be able to pay to go down to New Orleans and look at the extent of people’s suffering. I can’t wait to see the t-shirts “Grandma went to tour the devastation in New Orleans and all I got was this stupid t-shirt, which, I guess is more than the folks who lost everything have.”
  4. You should marry someone you like. Let’s not even get into what a nice girl like me is doing poking around Townhall.com.

Okay, but let’s at least consider this: apparently, there’s a large enough group of people who are smart enough to work the internet, but stupid enough to not realize that, if they don’t miss the person they’re considering marrying when that person is not around, there’s a problem, to give this Prager dude an audience.

Shoot, you’d like to believe that people are smart enough to figure this shit out on their own, but look at the recalcitrant brother. He once showed up at my door with my future crack whore sister-in-law and proclaimed, “Our friends are trying to kill us.” Perhaps Dennis Prager could have explained to him that, once they’re trying to kill you, they are, by definition, no longer your friends.

Walnut Pie

When I was in grad school, I once went to the Farmer’s Market. I think I was looking for flowers, though I can’t remember why.

What I found instead was this ancient man in overalls sitting on a bench with a flimsy card table in front of him loaded up with what his hand painted sign claimed was “Walnut Pies 50 cents.”

Well, Citizens of Earth, I don’t know about you, but I find a sign like that intriguing. So, I came over to peruse his pies.

“Walnut pies?” I asked, picking up the palm-sized dessert.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pointing with his cane towards the boxes next to him, which were also filled with tiny pies. “I make them myself.”

“I don’t even know what a walnut pie is.”

“My son don’t let me work no more and I got nothing to do all day but sit around his house getting old. So, I make walnut pies.”

“What do they taste like?”

“You got fifty cents?”

“Well, I have two dollars.”

“Good enough. Here’s four pies. I even got you a little bag. You like that? My daughter-in-law found them.”

“That was nice of her.”

“You enjoy them.”

“Are they like a pecan pie?”

“Pee-kahn?” He thought that was hilarious. “Pee-kahn? No, they ain’t like a pecan pie.”

“Okay, well, thanks.”

I wandered back to my car, got in, and opened one. I bit in. It was amazing. Unbelievably good. Like walnut brownie batter in a crust. I’ve never had one since, but damn.

Anyway, as part of my fantasy of running away to the outer banks, I would like to believe that there’s a small community of very old Southern men who all know how to make these delicious pies and, if I ask sweetly enough, they will teach me.