THE SURFING PIZZA

The Kinds of Slurpees That There Are

July 12, 2009 · 1 Comment

Yesterday was Free Slurpee Day at 7-11, and in honor of this national holiday, I wanted to muse a bit on the meaning and miracle of the Slurpee. Let’s start with the history. Slurpee’s origins are obvious enough–one day the soda fountain broke, so the owner stuck the sodas in the freezer to cool them down, causing them them to become slushy. And people dug it. So a magical machine was invented with air conditioning parts and sold to 7-11. The word Slurpee was coined when someone noticed it made a slurping sound when you drink it.

Every year, on July 11th, 7-11 gives away free slurpees in a 7.11oz cup.

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There it is with a few other items for scale. How you look at this free size depends on your outlook on life. If you’re an optimist, you’re perfectly content with any free serving. If you’re a pessimist, you scoff and complain at the cup smaller than a plastic head full of alien goo. If you’re a go-getter, you hit up all the local 7-11’s to get enough Slurpee to equal one regular size. And if you’re a teenage mother loitering outside the store, you complain loudly that you can’t get a free Slurpee because you’re “not allowed inside after being caught shoplifting last year.”

I probably would have complained about the size of the cup myself, had I someone to complain to, but I went alone. But I guess that’s why I have all of you to read this, and I had plenty more to complain about. My Slurpee options weren’t the best–the Coke flavor, some Crystal Light shit, something with mango, and blue–which today had been renamed in honor of the upcoming GI JOE film. So I chose blue–Liquid Artillery, like blueberry bullets in my mouth. I always pick a yellow straw too. That’s the color of my car, The Simpsons, banana flavored candy, and Pac Man. It’s a good color.

In my mind, I’ve been developing a list of Slurpees. A very important list.

The Kinds of Slurpees That There Are

Here’s what I’ve got so far.

The Pee Slurpee

There’s always 4-6 flavors to choose from in every store, but it’s a rule of nature that half of those flavors will be out of order, the stalled windows revealing the tentacle-covered inner-workings of the Slurpee machine. Other times, the out-of-orderness isn’t so clear. You pull the knob, the machine spatters and spits, and then pees Slurpee syrup into your cup. This is known as the Pee Slurpee.

The Tundra Slurpee

The opposite of a Pee Slurpee is the Tundra Slurpee, where there is an overabundance of ice to syrup. Pretty much, you get a glacier. You won’t realize it right away, until a few blocks away when you’re happily a-slurping, and then you realize there’s nothing but ice left in the cup. Hey man, who sucked out the flavor?

The Lid Fail Slurpee

I hate when this one happens. You can’t find the matching lid for your slurpee cup. Matching the square block to the square shape was the lesson on your first day of first grade, but right now you just keep trying to fit the large lid on the medium cup. What’s so hard about it? You throw it down, picking up another lid. Another large. Stupid lid. This is more than the failure of spacial-temporal reasoning. This is the lid’s fault.

The Volcano Slurpee

Back in the 70s, the lowly clerk poured your Slurpee from behind the counter. Now it’s self serve, and all its perils. Think back to all those times you were too conservative with your pour, and when you get up to the register, you realize you coulda fit a lot more Slurpee in there. Then you think, well, that’s not gonna happen this time, no sir. You pull the knob and let ‘er rip into the cup, not letting up until the whole cup is full and the lid dome too. Pack that shit in. Except the Slurpee expands too quickly, overflowing. It’s an eruption!!! Run!!!

The Adult Slurpee

Adult Slurpees are not really Slurpees, but the knockoffs that every place sells catering to the mature, adult crowd. It’s like the Arch Deluxe on Fun Dip. Think Coolattas, Frappicinos, or that non-alcoholic crap at the state fair that they’re passing off as “margaritas” for $7.50. Meanwhile, 7-11 is laughing, because the average age of the Slurpee consumer is 29.

The Above Ground Swimming Pool Slurpee

64 ounces of air-injected soft-serve soda. You can drink it, and the cup is so big, you could swim in it. Summer’s great, ain’t it?

The Not-So-Collectible Cup Slurpee

Every big movie now has a Slurpee tie in. Collect all 86 holographic cups, and come back next week for a different movie with 92 other cups to collect. Someone needs to tell 7-11 that their cups don’t look that great for starters, and when you release an onslaught of 100s of collectible cups every summer, they’ll be no demand. The other thing that sucks is that the collectable cups only come in the above-ground-swimming-pool size. You pay an extra 2 bucks for the cup and another 2 dollars for accompanying collectable straw. 7-11 just bled $4 extra bucks outta you, sucker.

The Mixed Together Slurpee

The first time you ever mixed together flavors, you thought you were pretty ahead-of-your-time. You bragged about it, mixing together blue and red and grape and orange. You showed it off. It was your Lucas Barton Power Glove moment. You mixed Slurpee flavors. You were beating the Man. Your were cheating the system. You were fighting the law. But the law won. Because mixed Slurpee is gross and instead of tasting like a rainbow of flavors, it just tastes like no flavor. Doing this does not make you a rebel.

I’m not sure why I have so much resentment of this. I guess some kid pissed me off bragging about their GrapeCokeRedBlue mixture, when all I had was straight blue. Sometimes blue is enough, okay? OKAY?

I know I’ve left out quite a few Slurpees, so if you know of any, please add them and help me expand my list. My very important list. I’ll be submitting this list to peer reviewed journal. And look, I’m just saying, but your journal ain’t shit unless it’s peer reviewed.

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The Saga of the White Chocolate Lamb

July 7, 2009 · 6 Comments

It was the long weekend, the day when everyone was making the final flourishes on their cookout plans for the 4th, doing stuff like mobbing the grocery stores, frosting the cupcakes, and setting out the patriotic napkins. We decided to spend the day visiting one of the historical main streets–a cobbled street with odd shops and antiques, a street that seems to conjure the lyrics of Penny Lane.

Although this Main St/Penny Lane is small, only 4 or 5 blocks with shops, I’m always up for a stroll. I’ve been in each of the shops a hundred times, but I never tire of looking in them. There’s always something new, something odd to see, and this day would be no different. From afar, I saw it–a brand new store. The sign read Candles.

“Candles!” I exclaimed. I could picture it–I don’t even care about some country-ass grandmother candles, but it was a new store. A new adventure. I could smell them all and make clever comments about what they really smelled like. Lilacs. Smells like a funeral home. Vanilla. Smells like cheap perfume from the pharmacy store. It would be so fun and I would be so clever.

“It doesn’t say candles. It says candies,” the girlfriend said. Oh, a new candy store.

EVEN BETTER.

And so, these were the events that led up to…

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I floated across the cobble street to enter CandIes with the I that looked like an L. Like all the stores on Penny Lane, it was humid and crampy inside the store, like entering a cave. Instantly, I began picking candy up. Rock Candy. Cowtails. Something called Zoygs. Any candy beginning with Z has to be worthy. A tray of fudge. Perhaps that’s overdoing it. Put the tray of fudge back.

Then I picked up a bowl of dog kibble.

“Look, they even have candy for dogs here!”

But wait. Though it looked exactly like kibble, it wasn’t candy for dogs. It was candy for kids.

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See? It goes out of the way by putting it in bold that it’s for kids.

I’ve always wanted to eat dog food. Not like, literally or actually eat it, but just figuratively hypothetically pretendedly eat it.

I have a history with dog food. I was always pretending to eat milkbones in front of the dog, pretending they were delicious while the dog cocked her head and puzzled at me, worriedly–as though I’d actually eat it. Then there were Pluto’s bones in the cartoons, which always looked tasty. And the fact that my first word spoken was not “mama” or “dada”, but “bone”.

And now, a small part of that dream could come true, with Kooky Chew.

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The kookies were graham cracker tasting, and not bad. But there is something unsatisfying in eating cookies in kibble form, bit by bit. Cookies are meant to be devoured in 1 or 2 gulping bites–much like dogs scarf their food–but I wasn’t about to eat the Kooky Chew like a dog. I thought about it, yes. But the one time I had done that with my bowl of cereal had ended badly.

And then of course, there were the Zoygs.

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Not just candy beginning with a Z, but candy in the formation of aliens. Add in the line “an invasion of sour taste” and consider the fact that the word Zoygs would be money points in Scrabble, and now the candies have taken their own orbit path in greatness.

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However awesome as they look–and however much hyperbole I just threw into that last paragraph–these things were freaking gross. They were more like an invasion in the flavors of potpourri.

Much like milkbones, potpourri was another childhood fascination, if only because my mother treated the potpourri burner like the Ark of Covenant–an item that could not be touched, gone near, or breathed upon.

“Get away from potpourri burner,” I’d hear anytime I’d try to deeply inhale the fragrances of lilac and vanilla. Smells like a funeral home anyway.

But the good candy was yet to be found in the candy store. In the corner of the store, I saw a bargain bin. The sign advertised “Holiday Candy! STILL GOOD. Only $1.” Not deterred by the sign’s overeager emphasis on the candy being still good, I dug through. And that’s when I saw her–raising her above the other candies in the bin gently, holding her up to be closer to God–the white chocolate lamb.

What a beauty. A massive, one-pounder hunk of white chocolate, in the shape of a goddamn lamb. A lamb of white chocolate. Only for one dollar. And STILL GOOD.

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There were unavoidable questions. When do you eat such a thing? What holiday tradition is there for even partaking in a lamb of white chocolate? What age group is this appropriate for?

I guess I felt a connection with it.

I had to get her home, get her out of here. This bargain bin was no place for her. I was worried; the day was hot as hell. Now we were booking it back up the cobbled streets and to the car, but was it enough? I held her carefully in my hands. She was soft; her fleece molding was flexible. If I handled her too roughly with my boorish thumbs, I could have indented her.

“We have to hurry,” I said. “She’s melting.”

Upon getting her home, I put her in the fridge. She was still perfect. STILL GOOD. I felt relief. But the next day presented another drama when I’d still have to transport her to my house from the girlfriend’s house. And there was one big problem. We were planning to stop at the grocery store in between houses.

“But, we have the lamb! We can’t shop in the store for long. She’ll melt in the car.”

I thought about carrying her around the store with me while we shopped for a feast of cookout food–veggie burgers, chips, and perhaps macaroni salad if it didn’t look sketch. But instead, I packed her in an insulated lunchbag, between two cold Coors lights cans, and a box of frozen sausage patties. I didn’t give this much plan-ahead to what college I went to.

Again, upon getting her home, I put her in the fridge. Still perfect. STILL GOOD.

Later, it was her time in the spot light, her centerstage. She would have to look her best, and at the perfect angles. I took too many pictures. About 36. It just had to be right.

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This was just one of her many closeups. I was enchanted with her expression–her sunken, strange and creepy eyes, her smooth dome head, her knowingness, her queer smile.

And then, it came time to eat her. Blessed though she may be by the Easter Bunny and eternal gods of Freshness, STILL GOOD all these months later, I had to eat this thing. That’s what lambs of white chocolate are for. Saving the earth, curing the disabled, and eating.

But in my overzealousness to preserve her, the fridge made her too hard to cut.

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Now she was hard as sheet metal and I could barely cut through her white chocolate neck. I chopped and sawed and sweated, until the girlfriend warned me I would cut a finger off.

So then I set the knife down, sighing. I picked her up in my hands, the same hands that had so gently held her earlier, and broke her head off.

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And then I ate the head. I wish I hadn’t. Contrary to the sign, she was not STILL GOOD.

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Sprinkles For Dinner, Finding Jesus in Gumball Machines

July 2, 2009 · 4 Comments

I open the freezer, staring inside. A microwavable pasta–a Lean Cuisine–stares back, this block of flash-frozen fetticini with bits of broccoli. I close the freezer. I look in the fridge, but there is only 3 half-drank quarts of vanilla soymilk, mustard, beer. Always beer. My stomach rumbles again. I give the freezer another try. I hope for another dinner option to spontaneously appear, but nothing does.

Every week, it’s the same story. During the weekday slug-a-lug of 9-5, beltway commuting, hitting the gym, and writing The Pizza, I just dethaw a frozen meal and dinner is served. One day, yes, I’ll learn to buy food in proportions and learn to cook. One day, yes, I’ll live with the girlfriend, and she’ll cook dinner for me–though her cooking skills are questionable–but one day, yes, we’ll learn together. I’ll have fancy spices with Emeril on the bottle. I’ll take pictures. I’ll write about crazy casseroles which may involve pineapples. One day, yes, pineapples.

But for now, this is life. Each week, I thoughtfully pick out 4-5 of these frozen dinners, carefully balancing the ratio of frozen pizzas to things proportedly containing a serving of vegetables. But invariably each week, one of these will become my nemesis. The one that makes me think of puking. The one that makes me hate all food everywhere. The one that I absolutely do not want to eat. This week it was the fetticini with bits of broccoli.

It was time to take a stand. I didn’t have to eat it if I didn’t want it, so I decided to go to the grocery store. I was in the mood for nothing. In fact, I was a bit depressed, and it wasn’t just the fetticini haunting me. It was something about Michael Jackson being dead. It’s like they told me that there was no such thing as cake and ice cream anymore. The King of Pop is gone from this world, and cake and ice cream now tastes like vinegar and jelly. Get used to it, kid.

I passed a display of single hunks of cake. I guess these hunks are mess-ups that can’t be sold as whole sheetcakes, so they divide it into hunks and sell ‘em for $1.99. I’m thinking about the kind of person who would buy a single serving of cake. Someone who didn’t have a party. Someone who didn’t have a friend to bake them a cake. Someone who just wanted 900 extra calories to eat alone. Someone without a special occasion.

I’m thinking about a lot of stuff, thinking about that cool ass white suit on the cover of Thriller, thinking about that lean in Smooth Criminal, thinking about how to break it gently to the kid inside of me that MJ is in Neverland now. Fighting pirates with Tinkerbell. Watching the tube with Elvis in the bunker below Graceland. I’m thinking about having that cake for dinner.

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It has pearly orbs and red and blue stars. This makes it better. And for a buck ninety-nine, woooooweee. You can’t beat it. I just hope the frosting is thick. Some days, it’s all you can hope for.

But cake alone cannot suffice–for breakfast maybe–but not for dinner. I’m going to need an appropiate sidedish. That’s when I find a display of a new type of Cookie Crisp.

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It’s becoming clear that God wants me to eat sprinkles for dinner. The world is going to be OK. Until they make the cereal, Little Frosted Balls of Pie, this is pretty much the next best thing. For health reasons, and because I am a responsible adult, I also choose a banana with my meal.

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In Cookie Crisp tradition, they are nothing like actual cookies, and the “sprinkles” are just specks of food coloring.

On my way out of the grocery store, I stopped to check out where the gumball machines and toy machines gather, alongside the free magazines for apartment hunters and flyers that advertise working from home. I can feel some loose change jangling in my jeans. I think a small prize is in order here. I could use a little something. Let’s just see what we’ve got:

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Mini Aliens are pretty freaking cool. That sign alone is awesome. Coming for YOU. And only for a quarter.

I got this guy:

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He’s a rare silver mini-alien among a bunch of greens. He’s a special alien, and I think he’s dancing. I’ll consider him a friend of Michael’s. They must have met earlier, when Michael was flying spaceships with ET and ALF.

I survey the other machines. There’s the miscellaneous machine that boasts Spongebob digital watches in the display, but there isn’t a single watch to be found in the machine. Just a buncha bracelets and temporary tattoos. Until I notice something very special:

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That is (I think) a wolf in an Indian headdress. And I’d give anything to have it–well, except the 45 dollars in quarters it would cost to get the Indian Wolf out. But anything, ANYTHING else, I WILL GIVE FOR INDIAN WOLF. Maybe there were other hidden gems inside the machine. I pulled out two quarters. I could hit the jackpot, or I could end up with a gimp bracelet. The suspense was worth fifty cents to me.

I got this crap–

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I do love myself, but I wouldn’t wear a pink button proclaiming it. I have a shirt for that. It could also be I love Maine. Either way, I hate this button.

I was down to my last two quarters, and fortunately, there was another good piece of crap to buy. Glow crosses.

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Again, Glow Crosses. Are they Creepy? Tasteless? Tacky? Jesus Campy? Nah, it’s just a glow stick in the shape of a cross. And it comes in a top secret, black plastic container:

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Feel the power of that cross. I have nothing to say about it really, except that the world is going to be OK. Cake will still be cake. Thriller will still be Thriller. The sun is gone, but I have a glow cross.

And confidential to Mike–thanks for showing us how to Moonwalk.

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Surfing Pizza Visits a Creepy Store

June 19, 2009 · 7 Comments

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Up the street, there is a store named Sandy’s. Sure, from the outside, it looks like it could be an interesting place. It’s colorful and there’s an inviting pink flamingo decoration. But what is Sandy’s? Well, I’ve already spoiled it for you in the title; it’s a creepy store.

From the non-descriptive name, I couldn’t tell what kind of merchandise Sandy’s specialized in, and after visiting the store, I still cannot answer that question. Only one thing about Sandy’s is for certain. Sandy never has bad dreams. Have a look at that Big Ass dream catcher in the front window.

To be honest, I’ve been afraid to go in this store. Let’s just say it’s a “locals” place. Me walking in there is like a rare spotted loon walking in, and everyone will turn to look. And I’m afraid of the locals. Everyone around here looks like the neighbors in The Burbs. And I have no quirky sidekicks like Corey Feldman and that fat guy to help me plot my missions. I’d have to go into Sandy’s alone.
I finally summoned up enough bravery to investigate Sandy’s this past weekend.

I walked in. The bell jangled against the glass door. Then silence, except for the light drone of the air conditionng. At the counter sat a woman I can only presume to be Sandy herself–a woman with a feathering mane of gray hair, four teeth and all gums. And next to her a man. Their conversation had stopped as soon as I walked in. I do not know what this man looked like; instinctually I did not make eye contact.

I had to be tactical. I had to act like a shopper, on foot, maneuvering the place. Back “in-country.” Armed with my camera phone, I pretended to text Corey Feldman, all the while stealthily taking photographs of the merchandise.

To my right was a section I’ll call, ummm, the Sporting Goods section:

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The first thing you notice is there is no order to way the merchandise is displayed; it’s just sort of thrown up there on the wall, everything 5 feet apart, and only one of each item. Here you’ve got a bike helmet, a laser pointer, a couple umbrellas, a recorder, and a bag of bootleg dragon toys from Mexico.

And then underneath of this section is a nearly-empty rack–

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The only thing here is a fourteen year old pog game. We’re only in the first square foot of the store, but I’m already depressed as hell.

With a thickness in the air, a sense that I was not welcome, I had to move fast. Moving right down the wall, I hit the toys section:

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So here you’ve got your standard bootleg Barbies and other dollar store merchandise, except everything is marked up to two or three dollars. What kind of store would you call this? A general store? A variety store? A front for a secret back door prositution and drugs ring?

I spun around. Across from the toys, we have the Home Goods section:

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There’s a couple of themes to Sandy’s–everything spaced three feet apart, random, and ugly. I know nothing, except I know I’m going to Heaven, because I’ve spent my time in Hell. And also, each of these statues is worth about a million dollars a piece.

But this next one is worth two million dollars:

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Obviously, there is a philosophical inspiration behind this Albino Buffalo Family Statue. Dad buffalo represents the strong and protective. Mom buffalo represents gentle fire and warmth. Baby buffalo is an innocent lamb child of God. Albino Buffalo family is dramatizing God’s love for small things. That’s my poetic interpretation of this statue. I am a poet as well, you know.

At this point, I had to get in close to take a clear picture of the albino buffalo family. Then–shit–my cover was blown. Sandy remarked aloud to the man, with a speech impediment that sounded as though she didn’t move her lips while speaking, that I must be “interested in the merchandise because I was taking pictures of it.” My palms started sweating.

I looked up and smiled my best smile. “I just like this statue.”

Then there’s the Apparel section—

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The apparel section only has one item, an item so valuable that it’s placed high above on the wall. This Skull and Nautical Star Hoody also has the distinction of being one of the most expensive items in the store, at $20. Shit-colored and striped, this garment will keep you warm in the winter and styling in the summer. With deep side pockets to make shoplifting simple, and menacing skull on the front to make old ladies think you’re a member of the rowdy Skull Gang, you’ll love this hoody.

That’s what I’d write if I was writing the catalogue decriptions for Sandy’s winter line.

Here we have the Office Supplies and Beauty section–

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Calculators. All kinds. Hairbrushes. Bristles cheap enough to snag the hair straight outta your scalp. Lint Rollers. Because when you need to save money, save it on a $1.50 Lint Roller.

Still being watched, I was relieved to have only one more section to peruse, the Lingerie section:

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Oh look, there’s some packages of tank tops that come in two styles: Femme or Giant. But I know your eye only goes to one thing in this picture, that single pair of panties that’s clearly been repackaged.

That was it. I’d seen it all. But I felt I ought to buy something. I looked around. One thing jumped out. I picked it up, studying it, something I’d never seen in my life. Something that seemed like a worthwhile purchase.

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This is a RudeBoyz radio, which according to the package, comes with a free video game. A free video game with radio! It was so crappy looking, I needed it, but not for two dollars. However, everyone knows handwritten prices are not firm. Yep, I was about to price-haggle with Sandy. I asked if she’d take a dollar for it. She looked thoughtfully, and said “yeah.”

Too bad I had only a twenty in my pocket. I couldn’t very well hand her a twenty dollar bill after I’d knocked the price down. I motioned to give me one moment and went outside, where the girlfriend awaited, having refused to go in the store while I took pictures. Something about it being weird.

“I need a dollar,” I said breathlessly.

“Whatever it is, you don’t need it” she said, pained. I didn’t have to time to explain about the creepiness, being watched, my cover being blown, the albino buffalo family, or the gummy woman with feathered hair. I needed a dollar, now.

“Come on, she’s waiting,” a rebuttal that made no sense to the girlfriend, but did instill a sense of urgency. The girlfriend sighed, pulling out her wallet, retrieving a dollar.

A few moments later, I emerged from the store, the proud owner of a RudeBoyz free game and radio.

“Why did you buy that?”

I showed her the extra foot of plastic as the explanation.

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“Look at this, this is hilarious! What is this extra plastic for?”

She didn’t see the hilarity.

“OK, what about this–”what is this game supposed to be? Sideways Tetris?”

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At this, she smiled slightly. Good. Convinced her it was a dollar well-spent. Now to take this thing home and see what it was all about. But first, I needed to stop and pick up some AAA batteries to fire this baby up.

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I can’t say I was surprised when I opened up the battery compartment to discover it actually takes AA batteries, despite the packaging clearly claiming otherwise. I grabbed the remote control to the TV, borrowing the batteries. Without having to press the On button, the game powered up, playing a BEEP BOP BEEP BOP version of Do Your Ears Hang Low at heavy metal speed.

The thing actually comes with 15 or so little games, all with graphics pre-dating LCD games. Try to guess what this game is:

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It’s FROGGER.

As for the radio, they put more effort into the “free” game than they did the radio. There is no way to tell what radio station you’re listening to, and any slight movement will change the station to static. Now I’m wondering if I’ve made a mistake and thinking I should have invested in that albino buffalo family instead.

Or maybe a lint roller. At least I could have used a lint roller.

I need a beer.

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Summer of The Floppy Hat

June 15, 2009 · 1 Comment

First things first. I got tickets to see Paul McCartney. I’m finding ways to work that sentence into every conversation I have. I’m telling everyone I see, even strangers on the street, up to and including dogs and homeless-looking children. You see, you score two tickets to Citi Field, and you’ll even begin speaking with street urchins. They follow each other on the wind you know, because they’ve got no place to go.

But we’ll be talking about Paul more in the coming weeks, including gory details of the repeated Wings listening sessions forced upon the girlfriend.

Right now, I want to talk about summer stuff. Like baseball. We went to the O’s game on floppy hat giveaway night. The annual and much-beloved floppy hat giveaway night. At first, everything was so right–perfect weather, dumb hats, popcorn. But then it all started going so wrong.

First they showed the Hot Dog Race animation on the jumbotron, and I cynically predicted that the hot dog with ketchup would win the race, as it had the last 4 games we went to. And then relish won. Then I got Guess The Year wrong for the first time too. Still, it got worst. Turns out the Guess The Celebrity was not “some guy from Lynyrd Skynyrd”. It was some guy from some other band. That was three strikes for me, a rough night.

And as for the actual game, it was so painful to watch that we actually left early. And I am not the kind of person who leaves early; I demand to stay until the bloody, gruesome end. But even the 15,000 free hats on people’s heads that night couldn’t help the Orioles.

At least I had a free hat. Noticing I looked quite good in it, I wore the floppy hat around town the next day. I wasn’t the only jackass wearing it either. There were hundreds of people rocking their hats. Well, that’s actually an extrapolation based on what we counted, about 3 others. But I got a lot of thumbs up and compliments on the hat too. I felt part of a very cool club. One of the envied. Yeah man, I went to Floppy Hat Night.

Thereby, I’ve proclaimed this summer the Summer of The Floppy Hat:

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Each year, you gotta have your unfashionable summer thing to wear. To everything, there is a season; a time for attire with beer logos, a time for unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts, letting it flap in the wind. The breeze is nice; I swear it’s not too late. Last summer, my thing was slides with socks pulled up to my kneecaps. I had also attempted to make it the summer of the Hanes wifebeaters–er, um, A-Shirts, thinking I’d stay cool and look roughneck. Instead I just looked atropic. But I am training to become strong. And one day, one summer, I will achieve the look to loiter intimidatingly outside of the 7-11. Oh yes.

But while the floppy hat is perfect to wear on the porch drinking Budweiser, or to the fine Italian restaurant where they have real tablecloths made of actual linen, one thing you don’t wanna do is wear it to DC. You could run into the Washington Nationals’ bird.

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Yep, we ran into the Nationals’ mascot in DC, and Screech is a mean buzzard. Also, he smells very sweaty. He stole my hat, pretending to wipe his butt and throw it in the can. NOT MY HAT, BIRD. YOU MESS WITH THE FLOPPY HAT, YOU MESS WITH ME. So I killed it with fire, and that took care of that.

But actually, there is no rivalry between the O’s and the Nats, not when you’re competing for last place and second to last place in the entire major leagues. In the eyes of everyone else, there’s no status or meaning to being one way or the other. It’s sort of like being the pariah nerd in the cafeteria, and yet still avoiding the table with the kids with cleft lips. Everyone will still lump you in with the lowest denominator. We all have cleft beaks.

Yet I gotta say that one of the best games I ever went to was a Nationals game. I had free seats in a special “diamond” section, where they brought you free all-you-can-eat ballpark food. Unfortunately, I was also with my boss, so I had to restrain myself by only getting one of everything, instead of two of everything. Gorging yourself is something you only do in front of loved ones.

But there is one thing that RFK Stadium’s diamond section couldn’t rival: Camden Yards’ ballpark nachos. RFK had ‘em all wrong. Completely wrong. They threw a bunch of stale chips in a plastic tray, and glopped some congealed cheese in a compartment of the tray. That’s not how you do it.

I have a diagram:

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You throw stale chips in a tray with a glop of congealed cheese, but additionally, you have compartments for a glop of tepid salsa, and for a handful of preserved jalapenos. In the nachos rivalry, The Oriole Bird wipes his butt with the Nationals bird’s big sweaty hat. Really, really sweaty. And also, after eating ballpark nachos, he’s literally wiping his butt. But now I’m resorting to childish humor. On the Surfing Pizza.

Hey, what did the tree say to the mountain?
Stop peaking at me.

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Chubby Kids Soda

June 9, 2009 · 9 Comments

Mom had Diet Coke and Dad had beer, and most nights, Mom had beer too. And we had our drinks as well–Mondos, Capri Suns, Shastas, Slices, and of course, King Kool Aid. There was nothing like a tall, refreshing glass of Kool Aid. It felt big to have our own drinks. And sometimes, we’d pretend they were our beers, while also pretending to smoke candy cigarettes.

I always loved my sugar water, and when a display of sugar waters I’d never heard of, Chubby Sodas, appeared in the grocery store, I was intrigued.

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They’re fruity. They’re toxic-bright. They’re sugary, with flavors sweet like candy. Slap on a mascot wearing a sideways hat, and it becomes something evil and genius.

While I don’t drink stuff like this anymore, after many weeks of passing the display in the grocery store, I finally caved and purchased these adorable little sodas. How could I resist? Look at them! They’re like little bottles who think they’re big bottles!

Chubby Sodas visit us from Trinidad and Tobago, and if I recall correctly, those are planets. According to the website, Chubby Sodas were a “world first” in 1993, marketing a “carbonated soft drink targeted specifically to children.” The bottle is genetically engineered to fit small hands; the price is cheap enough that any kid can scrounge up a couple dimes to afford one; and the secret ingredient is pink. Add pink. It makes everything delicious.

So I had to try to a few of these. I started with Reggae Red.

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I measured a pour of Reggae Red into a fine, crystal glass, giving it a swirl, noting the opacity of the soda. Then I took a small sip, letting the flavors roll around on my palate—Nah. I just slugged it straight outta the bottle, just like I drink wine. I detected top notes of red lollypops. And then just the strong, medicinal flavor of red. The more I sipped, the less taste it had, as though my tongue were going numb.

Next, I sampled something called Sorrell.

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What the hell is Sorrell? It’s some kind of berry in Jamaica, which if I recall, is a continent, like Alaska. It almost smelled like a sweet barbeque sauce. I tasted it. It was the flavor of carbonated cough syrup, with licorice aftertaste. Glad we don’t have this berry in America. Don’t these Chubby sodas come in regular fruit flavors?

Ah yes, they do–that perennial fruit, Bubble Gum:

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Bubble Gum was pretty bubble gummy. I’ve never liked this flavoring; it leaves a pitted feeling in stomach, like you just swallowed actual gum or some other forbidden fruit, like toothpaste or mouthwash. It reminded me of this toothpaste we had at my grandmother’s house, Miss Piggy’s Bubble Gum Toothpaste. We used it to brush our teeth whenever we spent the night, and the tube somehow lasted for about 15 years.

Next I tried a real fruit, Pineapple Sunshine:

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This one was pina colada. Coconutty. Extremely sweet. And when I say sweet, I’m saying that each these of babies packs 35g of sugar into just 8 ounces. I could feel the sugar burrowing into my back teeth, scoffing at my fillings. And with 130 calories in every tiny bottle, no wonder these things are called Chubby. Even the website makes note of this in the FAQ, with one question that asks, “Would continuous consumption of Chubby drinks lead to obesity?”

“Continuous consumption of any product rich in carbohydrates or the regular participation in sedentary activities, may lead to the onset of obesity.”

The answer is yes.

Lastly I tried the charmingly-named Rock N Rolla Cola.

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With the flavor of flat, generic soda, this one was the least sweet.

I had to ask myself while trying these if I could ever, in proper conscience, allow my children to drink stuff like this. It’s the question every parents dreads hearing–”can I have a Chubby soda?”

Could I do it? Could I say yes? What about the marketing of these little bottles, which just feels evil? Or the fact that they all taste completely disgusting?

But I’m torn. Kids love this shit. I loved this shit. It still appeals even to my inner-child, though my outer-adult is about to puke. And I wouldn’t want to be the parent who lets their kid eat only organic granola and free range milk. The way I figure it, the kids can eat all the growth hormones and hot dogs they want. I turned out just fine. Kinda. But 8 ounces of blue syrup from planet Trinidad? That could turn you into an alien.

And maybe that will just have to be my answer to the little pizza. “Nope, that’ll turn you into an alien.”

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California Raisin Pillow Person Vs. Stuff

June 2, 2009 · 13 Comments

Pillow People were unleashed on the world in 1986–monstrous, square pillows with decal faces and gangling appendages. I never owned one myself, but I knew of them through their product placement on the television show, Full House. DJ had a Pillow Person, and in fact, there are several episodes revolving around DJ’s Pillow Person–like the episode where the Pillow Person doesn’t fit in on the first day of school because it doesn’t have the right sweater, and the episode where the Pillow Person falls off the horse while riding, suffering amnesia. But my favorite episode is where they are planning a circus themed birthday party for the Pillow Person, except the Pillow Person is afraid of clowns.

About two weekends ago, I got stuck with a giant California Raisin Pillow Person. I was at the flea market as usual, rummaging for old NES games and Surfing Pizza material, but it had been a total bust so far that day. All I had was a Don Post Studio prop bloody ear that I’m saving to scare the crap out of a small child on Halloween. Then I saw it, a few tables ahead. I walked closer. Is that a California Raisin thing? Yes, yes it was a California Raisin thing. But what kind of thing is it? Then I saw it clearly–the biggest, ugliest, and perhaps last existing California Raisin Pillow Person.

With some hesitation and fear, I picked it up, just to get a closer look at it. Right away, the seller pounced. “Two bucks,” he offered it to me. I was still speechless.

“And I’ll throw in this California Raisins blanket too,” he added, desperately. I looked up to see a filthy blanket, threadbare and so faded that the singing Raisins were gray. I could feel the girlfriend shudder in fear that I might take that offer, as one of her rules is “nothing that looks flea-infested”, but even I wouldn’t bring home that blanket. “Uh, no thanks,” I said, also setting the Pillow Person back on the table. “One dollar,” the seller said, “you can have that pillow for a dollar.” I laughed. “Nope, really don’t want it.”

I took a step away. “Fifty cents…no–a quarter!” he said.

I took another step back.

Then the seller picked the Raisin up, shoved him in and my hands, and said, “Free! Take it, I want to get rid of it!” Of course, I couldn’t turn down a free thing, and as we finished the rest of the flea market, I felt exhilarated by GETTING SOMETHING FOR FREE. But as the high wore off, grim reality began to set in. Now I had this thing in my life. It is Huge. No, it’s huger than huge, it’s humongously huge. No–it ain’t humongously huge–it’s RFB. You know what RFB is? Really Fucking Big.

So now, to demonstrate the RFB factor of the humongously huge California Raisin Pillow Person–The Surfing Pizza, your source for complete and utter CRAP–presents: The California Raisin Pillow Person vs. Stuff.

The California Raisin Pillow Person Vs. California Raisins:

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As I photographed this, I didn’t think to myself, what am I doing with my life–but instead I thought, what if there is no God, and we are all just the Big California Raisin’s little bitches? That’s certainly how these little figures must feel. If they had feelings, which, uh, of course they don’t.

The California Raisin Pillow Person Vs. Actual Raisins:

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God creates raisins. God creates man. Man destroys God. Man creates Pillow Person Raisin.

Pillow Person Raisin eats Man.

Woman inherits the earth.

The California Raisin Pillow Person Vs. The Refrigerator:

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Now I’m going to stop being all philosophical about God and raisins, and I’m just gonna shove this thing in our refrigerator. Just to see how it looks. See how it’s taking up the entire bottom shelve? It’s that big. Other observations here include the fact that we seem to have a lot of butter, beer, and mystery items wrapped in foil.

The California Raisin Pillow Person Vs. The Kitchen Drawer:

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OK. That was fun.

I looked around. Where was the raisin gonna go next?

Then my victim sauntered past..

The California Raisin Pillow Person Vs. Roommate’s Cat

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“Hi there Cat, let me just see if I can climb in this basket here with you.”

This cat lets me do anything with it. It just doesn’t seem to mind being held upside down, swung side to side, or put in the mail basket with a giant Pillow Person next to it.

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They tried to squeeze in together, but the Raisin was too big, and the basket too small for two. So the Raisin just sat on top, crushing the cat’s skeletal structure, which of course, the cat did not seem to mind. Because this cat minds nothing.

We had a cat growing up named Cuddles that was mean as a snake, and would claw at you just for looking at her. I’m used to cats like that. This one is a lamer.

The California Raisin Pillow Person Vs. The Front Window:

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You ever look out the window and wonder what the hell your neighbors are doing?
This is what your neighbors are doing.

The California Raisin Pillow Person Vs. Widescreen TV:

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I took this picture to really show off this thing’s wingspan, which is about 3 feet across. Amazing. If you feel the sky above you beginning to darken, make sure it’s not the California Raisin Pillow Person closing in on you.

If you recall, that’s also what happened in the series finale of Full House. I think the Beach Boys were in that one too.

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