I am forwarding this message from a good friend, and if you would like to help, send me a message and I'll give you the address to send your condiments to!
Hey Guys,
I’m asking for your help. I’m collecting condiment packs to send to Afghanistan and I will set a box in my office to collect these.
Please allow me to give you a little background for my odd request. About a month ago my step-son Bill, along with the rest of the 2nd Battalion 8th Marines was deployed to Afghanistan. Bill is embedded with 3 other marines with an Afghan police force of 36 in Marja Afghanistan in the Helmand Provence.
The boys have grown to hate the MRE’s (meals ready to eat), as they are downright terrible. It seems that our Marines are very resourceful, have constructed a makeshift grill and have taken to buying live chickens at the local market. As you can well imagine chicken day after day gets kind of old so they put whatever they can find on the chicken to change it up a little, hence the need for the condiment packs.
They have no refrigeration or running water so the small packets from fast food places work out well for them. If you could help out and think of our boys the next time you’re at Arby’s or McDonald’s and grab a few extra packs of BBQ sauce, etc. they’d be forever grateful. Honestly they will be happy with whatever, ketchup, mustard, soy, bbq, etc, etc. For you corporate guys just let me know if you get some together and I’ll find a way to get them here. If you could enlist the help of anyone else, that would be great too.
Thanks for taking the time to read this, just trying to make a few Marines' day a little less dreary.
Thanks in advance, ooh-rah!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
A Palm Tree Stands Alone
(a poem in the style of Heinrich Heine)
A palm tree stands alone
In the Eastern desert sand.
She sleeps; a golden blanket
Stretches across her land.
She’s dreaming of a pine tree
Far away in a Northern frost.
Lonely and silently mourning
In a sea of snow, both lost.
A palm tree stands alone
In the Eastern desert sand.
She sleeps; a golden blanket
Stretches across her land.
She’s dreaming of a pine tree
Far away in a Northern frost.
Lonely and silently mourning
In a sea of snow, both lost.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Pink House and the Crooked Road
"THE PINK HOUSE AND THE CROOKED ROAD"
Cuddled up by the fire in a woolen blanket, in a huge pink house on a tall, steep hill in a fantastically remarkable neighborhood, Neil came up with the grand idea of trying to figure out how he would design a long, crooked road so that he might one day find a wife. You might be asking: what on earth does building a crooked road have to do with finding a wife? Well, if you saw the hill, and you knew about the pink house, you might begin to understand.
Neil had always been self-conscious about the pink house. His mother, in her later years of dimentia and widow's grief, had spent her days walking down the tall hill to the town's only store to purchase a single gallon of pink paint. She would then walk back up the hill with her gallon of paint, singing old war tunes and whistling dixie, until she returned home to her two young sons. Then she would paint the house pink, upstairs and down, inside and out, one brush stroke at a time, until she ran out of paint. The next day, she would begin her routine once again-- walking, singing, painting, and drinking champagne all the while.
So- that is how the house came to be pink.
Neil's mother passed away when he turned 18, just old enough to inherit his father's grand estate. For Neil had always known that he lived in the biggest house on Sluts Hole Lane, but it wasn't until MRS. HORNEE passed away that he gained access to the 947 tons of gold bars and coins that were hidden away in the pink trunk, in the pink basement of the grand pink house.
I'm sure I don't need to tell you that most women might be offended at a dinner invitation that requests their presence at "Mr. Hornee's giant pink house on Sluts Hole Lane, by way of the mud path". (By the way, the last name is French, and is pronounced /hoor-nay/, but most Americans butcher the pronunciation and say /whore-knee/. This had always been a problem for Neil, who had the utmost respect for women, and especially his mother, Mrs. Hornee.
But, on the rare occasion that a lady might finally look beyond the surface of the pink house, and the horney host on Sluts Hole Lane, and actually accept Neil's invitation, there was no road on the tall hill to walk on or bring a carriage. It was a tall, muddy, grassy hill, and the only way up or down was to walk the trodden dirt path that Mrs. Hornee had stomped out in a zig-zag fashion (for any hill-climber or mountain-dweller knows that the only way up a steep hill is to wind your way back and forth). Mrs. Hornee had spent years walking this zig-zag path, so the foundation was well laid. However, the mud could be slippery and dangerous, and the few women who DID accept Neil Hornee's dinner invitation never made it up the hill. Sadly, one of them was even buried alive in a mudslide after a particularly heavy rainfall... The girl's parents never forgave Neil and he paid them 10 gold bars for their loss.
Now that his mother was gone and his brother was off fighting the war, it was time for Neil to find a wife. This would inevitably be a long process, but one that could easily be broken up into three steps: (1) Build a road, (2) Paint the house, and (3) Change the name of the street. Neil was certain that he could find a suitable mate if only these three obstacles were overcome. And so, he began.
In the lofty name of research, he ransacked dusty bookshelves (and braved the subsequent paper cut threat) for engineering journals and scholarly articles. He studied the road-building techniques used in the Swiss Alps and other mountain villages around the world. The library produced enough articles to keep Neil busy well into the fall. Since he cared about the production of history and literature as much as he cared about architecture and engineering, Neil made sure to consider articles from different time periods, so that he could view how engineering has adapted to surrounding circumstances. Neil figured out quickly that the limits of good taste and fiscal responsibility did not apply to him, since he was the richest man, with the biggest house, on the tallest hill in a small town, and so he began to fervently plan his extravagant new road.
He hired all of the out-of-work townsmen as masons and laborers, which made their wives and the tax collectors very happy. He even built a new public house halfway up the hill, so that weary travelers would have a place to rest halfway up the hill (after all, even with the new, state-of-the-art road, it would still take the average person two hours to walk, or one hour by carriage, since the steep angles required a slow pace). The new pub was known as the "Halfway House" and it became the most popular place in town, spawning an entire "hillside community" off to one side.
When the road was finished, Neil could finally hire painters to get rid of the awful pink decor of his house. Before, no one would take the job, since it meant walking up a mud hill with gallons of paint and supplies. But now, Neil was able to hire five upstanding gentlemen, who had the house painted grey in less than a week. They went, room by room, painting over the pink walls and pink ceilings and pink trimwork. They restored the grand mansion to its original state, just in time for Neil's grand housewarming gala.
He invited all of the townspeople and sent carriages for each "eligible bachelorette" and her family. People loved the road; they loved the pub and they loved the new paint color on Neil's house. And once he had everyone gathered in his fanciful home, he made a short speech:
"I have worked for many years to build this new road and pub, and I have gainfully employed many of my dear friends to help me. I am so happy and pleased, yet there is one thing that would truly make me happy. With the approval of all of the residents of Sluts Hole, I propose that we change the name of this fine city to something much more appropriate.... perhaps 'Queens Hollow'."
Before Neil even finished his sentence, the townsfolk roared with approval and applause!
Now that Neil's master plan had been fully realized, he was finally ready to relax and smile. How fantastic it feels to set out to do something and then DO IT!! How wonderful, the feeling of production and accomplishment, the pride in one's own work and good deeds. And how awesome to finally sit in a NOT PINK room in a NOT PINK house with NOT MUDDY feet!!!! And, as he sat and marveled at all of the beauty around him, he noticed a beauty that he had never seen before.... a beautiful young maiden, dressed in a pink gown, wearing pink satin shoes and pink ribbons in her hair.
Neil had spent his entire life loathing the color pink, and now, here stood a vision to behold-- the woman of his dreams-- doused in pink from head to toe. He approached her and their eyes met. If there was ever such a thing as "love at first sight", this was IT. He bowed gracefully and introduced himself. She curtsied and blushed as he asked for her name.
"Why," she replied, "don't you recognize me?" I've worked in your house as a chambermaid for five years; I used to help your mother up and down the hill to fetch her paint... I cared for her up until the day she died, and she often talked about how much she loved you. My name is Rose Rouge."
That is all that Neil needed to hear before falling madly in love with her on the spot. They were married less than a month later.
Sadly, the building of this grand road, combined with the weight of carts and carriages and wedding guests, triggered a weakness in the natural geographical faultline, and on the afternoon of the wedding of Neil Hornee and Rose Rouge, the earth rumbled and shook, and the giant hill (which we now know was an active volcano.... this is why the natives of centuries prior had never built a village there!) opened up and SWALLOWED the pink house and the zig-zag road, and Neil and Rose and all of their wedding party....
And all that was left was the Halfway House, which remains today.
Cheers!
Cuddled up by the fire in a woolen blanket, in a huge pink house on a tall, steep hill in a fantastically remarkable neighborhood, Neil came up with the grand idea of trying to figure out how he would design a long, crooked road so that he might one day find a wife. You might be asking: what on earth does building a crooked road have to do with finding a wife? Well, if you saw the hill, and you knew about the pink house, you might begin to understand.
Neil had always been self-conscious about the pink house. His mother, in her later years of dimentia and widow's grief, had spent her days walking down the tall hill to the town's only store to purchase a single gallon of pink paint. She would then walk back up the hill with her gallon of paint, singing old war tunes and whistling dixie, until she returned home to her two young sons. Then she would paint the house pink, upstairs and down, inside and out, one brush stroke at a time, until she ran out of paint. The next day, she would begin her routine once again-- walking, singing, painting, and drinking champagne all the while.
So- that is how the house came to be pink.
Neil's mother passed away when he turned 18, just old enough to inherit his father's grand estate. For Neil had always known that he lived in the biggest house on Sluts Hole Lane, but it wasn't until MRS. HORNEE passed away that he gained access to the 947 tons of gold bars and coins that were hidden away in the pink trunk, in the pink basement of the grand pink house.
I'm sure I don't need to tell you that most women might be offended at a dinner invitation that requests their presence at "Mr. Hornee's giant pink house on Sluts Hole Lane, by way of the mud path". (By the way, the last name is French, and is pronounced /hoor-nay/, but most Americans butcher the pronunciation and say /whore-knee/. This had always been a problem for Neil, who had the utmost respect for women, and especially his mother, Mrs. Hornee.
But, on the rare occasion that a lady might finally look beyond the surface of the pink house, and the horney host on Sluts Hole Lane, and actually accept Neil's invitation, there was no road on the tall hill to walk on or bring a carriage. It was a tall, muddy, grassy hill, and the only way up or down was to walk the trodden dirt path that Mrs. Hornee had stomped out in a zig-zag fashion (for any hill-climber or mountain-dweller knows that the only way up a steep hill is to wind your way back and forth). Mrs. Hornee had spent years walking this zig-zag path, so the foundation was well laid. However, the mud could be slippery and dangerous, and the few women who DID accept Neil Hornee's dinner invitation never made it up the hill. Sadly, one of them was even buried alive in a mudslide after a particularly heavy rainfall... The girl's parents never forgave Neil and he paid them 10 gold bars for their loss.
Now that his mother was gone and his brother was off fighting the war, it was time for Neil to find a wife. This would inevitably be a long process, but one that could easily be broken up into three steps: (1) Build a road, (2) Paint the house, and (3) Change the name of the street. Neil was certain that he could find a suitable mate if only these three obstacles were overcome. And so, he began.
In the lofty name of research, he ransacked dusty bookshelves (and braved the subsequent paper cut threat) for engineering journals and scholarly articles. He studied the road-building techniques used in the Swiss Alps and other mountain villages around the world. The library produced enough articles to keep Neil busy well into the fall. Since he cared about the production of history and literature as much as he cared about architecture and engineering, Neil made sure to consider articles from different time periods, so that he could view how engineering has adapted to surrounding circumstances. Neil figured out quickly that the limits of good taste and fiscal responsibility did not apply to him, since he was the richest man, with the biggest house, on the tallest hill in a small town, and so he began to fervently plan his extravagant new road.
He hired all of the out-of-work townsmen as masons and laborers, which made their wives and the tax collectors very happy. He even built a new public house halfway up the hill, so that weary travelers would have a place to rest halfway up the hill (after all, even with the new, state-of-the-art road, it would still take the average person two hours to walk, or one hour by carriage, since the steep angles required a slow pace). The new pub was known as the "Halfway House" and it became the most popular place in town, spawning an entire "hillside community" off to one side.
When the road was finished, Neil could finally hire painters to get rid of the awful pink decor of his house. Before, no one would take the job, since it meant walking up a mud hill with gallons of paint and supplies. But now, Neil was able to hire five upstanding gentlemen, who had the house painted grey in less than a week. They went, room by room, painting over the pink walls and pink ceilings and pink trimwork. They restored the grand mansion to its original state, just in time for Neil's grand housewarming gala.
He invited all of the townspeople and sent carriages for each "eligible bachelorette" and her family. People loved the road; they loved the pub and they loved the new paint color on Neil's house. And once he had everyone gathered in his fanciful home, he made a short speech:
"I have worked for many years to build this new road and pub, and I have gainfully employed many of my dear friends to help me. I am so happy and pleased, yet there is one thing that would truly make me happy. With the approval of all of the residents of Sluts Hole, I propose that we change the name of this fine city to something much more appropriate.... perhaps 'Queens Hollow'."
Before Neil even finished his sentence, the townsfolk roared with approval and applause!
Now that Neil's master plan had been fully realized, he was finally ready to relax and smile. How fantastic it feels to set out to do something and then DO IT!! How wonderful, the feeling of production and accomplishment, the pride in one's own work and good deeds. And how awesome to finally sit in a NOT PINK room in a NOT PINK house with NOT MUDDY feet!!!! And, as he sat and marveled at all of the beauty around him, he noticed a beauty that he had never seen before.... a beautiful young maiden, dressed in a pink gown, wearing pink satin shoes and pink ribbons in her hair.
Neil had spent his entire life loathing the color pink, and now, here stood a vision to behold-- the woman of his dreams-- doused in pink from head to toe. He approached her and their eyes met. If there was ever such a thing as "love at first sight", this was IT. He bowed gracefully and introduced himself. She curtsied and blushed as he asked for her name.
"Why," she replied, "don't you recognize me?" I've worked in your house as a chambermaid for five years; I used to help your mother up and down the hill to fetch her paint... I cared for her up until the day she died, and she often talked about how much she loved you. My name is Rose Rouge."
That is all that Neil needed to hear before falling madly in love with her on the spot. They were married less than a month later.
Sadly, the building of this grand road, combined with the weight of carts and carriages and wedding guests, triggered a weakness in the natural geographical faultline, and on the afternoon of the wedding of Neil Hornee and Rose Rouge, the earth rumbled and shook, and the giant hill (which we now know was an active volcano.... this is why the natives of centuries prior had never built a village there!) opened up and SWALLOWED the pink house and the zig-zag road, and Neil and Rose and all of their wedding party....
And all that was left was the Halfway House, which remains today.
Cheers!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Drink of the Day: The Marilyn Monroe Cosmo
Anyone who knows me knows how much I ADORE Marilyn Monroe... So far, this is my FAVORITE martini creation:
In a martini shaker over ice, combine:
-1 1/4 oz. Stoli Citrus
- 1/2 oz. white grape juice
- splash of cran-raspberry juice
- splash of sour mix
- squeeze one lime wedge
Shake & Strain
Top with 2 oz. Champagne & garnish with a lime wedge
Monday, September 20, 2010
ODE TO THE TRASHY WHITE GIRL
Ode to you, oh trashy white girl in my Lit. class.
The one who sits three feet from me and makes me want to vomit.
Do you really have to be so loud when you pop open your sugar-free Red Bull and three bags of chips?
Do you really need to take four breaks during class? Every time you get up I can smell your FUNK.
You gulp your soda pop like an animal and half of it is runs down your face. Instead of reaching for a napkin (or even a sweatshirt), you simply smear your dirty hand across your face and let the soda drip to the floor.
Your grimy fingers and cheap acrylic nails are like a bad train wreck that I just can’t look away from. Over and over and OVER again you shove your nasty hand in the bag and pull out a handful of potato chip crumbs. You don’t even TRY anymore, you just shove the palm of your hand into your face and you seem perfectly content with the fact that only half of the chips end up in your mouth; the rest have fallen down your raggedy black wife beater that you have so stylishly paired with white denim coochie-cutter shorts.
Your ugly tan headband and your pink Blackberry and your three mismatched fake silver earrings… everything about you just screams “trashy”, including that nasty $3 lotion that smells like scented tampons.
The tramp-stamp, the thong hanging out of your pants… the ten giant rings on your ten unwashed fingers… it all just makes me want to scream out:
“WHAT FUCKIN’ TRUCK STOP WERE YOU RAISED IN?”
And now that you are done feasting on your loud, greasy chips, you spend the last hour of class picking the dirt out of your fingernails and toenails, then pulling your shorts out of your crotch and chewing on your nails.
I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
I’m so glad I’m paying all this money to sit here next to you every week.
Thanks, trashy white girl, for being all that you can be.
Ode to you, trashy white girl, for making me look so good.
The one who sits three feet from me and makes me want to vomit.
Do you really have to be so loud when you pop open your sugar-free Red Bull and three bags of chips?
Do you really need to take four breaks during class? Every time you get up I can smell your FUNK.
You gulp your soda pop like an animal and half of it is runs down your face. Instead of reaching for a napkin (or even a sweatshirt), you simply smear your dirty hand across your face and let the soda drip to the floor.
Your grimy fingers and cheap acrylic nails are like a bad train wreck that I just can’t look away from. Over and over and OVER again you shove your nasty hand in the bag and pull out a handful of potato chip crumbs. You don’t even TRY anymore, you just shove the palm of your hand into your face and you seem perfectly content with the fact that only half of the chips end up in your mouth; the rest have fallen down your raggedy black wife beater that you have so stylishly paired with white denim coochie-cutter shorts.
Your ugly tan headband and your pink Blackberry and your three mismatched fake silver earrings… everything about you just screams “trashy”, including that nasty $3 lotion that smells like scented tampons.
The tramp-stamp, the thong hanging out of your pants… the ten giant rings on your ten unwashed fingers… it all just makes me want to scream out:
“WHAT FUCKIN’ TRUCK STOP WERE YOU RAISED IN?”
And now that you are done feasting on your loud, greasy chips, you spend the last hour of class picking the dirt out of your fingernails and toenails, then pulling your shorts out of your crotch and chewing on your nails.
I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
I’m so glad I’m paying all this money to sit here next to you every week.
Thanks, trashy white girl, for being all that you can be.
Ode to you, trashy white girl, for making me look so good.
DRINK OF THE DAY: "Welcome to the V.I.P. Room Martini"
In a martini shaker over ice, combine:
- 2 oz. Three Olives Cherry Vodka
- 1/4 oz. Cointreau (or triple sec)
- tiny splash of sour mix
Shake vigorously, then add:
- splash of ginger ale
- splash of Red Bull
Stir & strain into a chilled martini glass, then top with 2 oz. of Champagne.
Garnish with a cherry.
THE PASTOR'S ASS
The Pastor entered his donkey in a race and it won.
The Pastor was so pleased with the donkey that he entered it in the race again and it won again.
The local paper read: PASTOR'S ASS OUT FRONT..
The Bishop was so upset with this kind of publicity that he ordered the Pastor not to enter the donkey in another race.
The next day the local paper headline read: BISHOP SCRATCHES PASTOR'S ASS
This was too much for the Bishop so he ordered the Pastor to get rid of the donkey.
The Pastor decided to give it to a Nun in a nearby convent.
The local paper, hearing of the news, posted the following headline the next day: NUN HAS BEST ASS IN TOWN.
The Bishop fainted. He informed the Nun that she would have to get rid of the donkey so she sold it to a farmer for $10.
The next day the paper read: NUN SELLS ASS FOR $10.
This was too much for the Bishop so he ordered the Nun to buy back the donkey and lead it to the plains where it could run wild.
The next day the headlines read: NUN ANNOUNCES HER ASS IS WILD AND FREE.
The Bishop was buried the next day.
The moral of the story is . . . being too concerned about public opinion can bring you much grief and misery . . even shorten your life.
So be yourself and enjoy life. Stop worrying about everyone else's ass and you'll be a lot happier and live longer!
The Pastor was so pleased with the donkey that he entered it in the race again and it won again.
The local paper read: PASTOR'S ASS OUT FRONT..
The Bishop was so upset with this kind of publicity that he ordered the Pastor not to enter the donkey in another race.
The next day the local paper headline read: BISHOP SCRATCHES PASTOR'S ASS
This was too much for the Bishop so he ordered the Pastor to get rid of the donkey.
The Pastor decided to give it to a Nun in a nearby convent.
The local paper, hearing of the news, posted the following headline the next day: NUN HAS BEST ASS IN TOWN.
The Bishop fainted. He informed the Nun that she would have to get rid of the donkey so she sold it to a farmer for $10.
The next day the paper read: NUN SELLS ASS FOR $10.
This was too much for the Bishop so he ordered the Nun to buy back the donkey and lead it to the plains where it could run wild.
The next day the headlines read: NUN ANNOUNCES HER ASS IS WILD AND FREE.
The Bishop was buried the next day.
The moral of the story is . . . being too concerned about public opinion can bring you much grief and misery . . even shorten your life.
So be yourself and enjoy life. Stop worrying about everyone else's ass and you'll be a lot happier and live longer!
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