This year I’m thankful for the shit-wiches I’ll be consuming all week made from the leftovers of today’s fine and Fancy Feast.


My two grandmas always used Thanksgiving, funerals, and graduations as opportunities to whip out their five gallon serving tanks and concoct their showiest aspics to proudly flank the colorless yet edible Midwestern buffet spreads featuring the inevitable ham, German potato salad, hard rolls, and pickle-olive plates. Shimmering and shaking grandly like peacocks with bum legs, the mounds of hoofy pea-and-cocktail-onion-filled delights would be manned at opposite ends of the table with the competing grandmas each behind her own home made bridesmaid-dress-ugly abomination.

As the frantic efforts to out-serve therefore out-do the other escalated and the ladles of forced servings and grimaces grew larger and heavier on each resigned face and reluctantly held-out plate that inched down the buffet line, both grandmas would grow increasingly drunker and more enraged at the swelling size of the heap of chunk-filled Jello in the trash can that, despite everyone’s best combined efforts at concealment, could never be hidden by the smattering of shitty unabsorbant party napkins whose feeble tissue content wasn’t even enough to upholster the framework of a cocktail umbrella, let alone disguise Mount Grandma-Fail.

Wagers would be quietly and furtively exchanged among the family members as each octogenarian’s face grew more mottled and purple while their shrieked detailed accounts of the time, number of canned goods, and amount of (wasted on all of us ingrates) love that went into their culinary masterpieces increased steadily and sharply in volume. We would all hold our breath as the tension reached a crescendo and the inevitable breaking point would draw close enough to be almost tangible as it hovered enticingly in the air.

Eventually one of them would completely snap and lose their shit and scream that next year we could all just go eat at the fucking Sizzler before slamming the remnants of her losing entree into the trash can with its slimy brethren and storming off to fume in the passenger seat of Grandpa Bing’s Cadillac. Breath would collectively be exhaled from the bettors in either disappointment or glee, money would pass from the losing hands to the victorious, and Triumphant Grandma would smile graciously and give a short, succinct victory speech that was basically just a complete listing of what Loser Grandma had done to fuck up her Aspic Wapatuli before tossing her serving shovel onto the table and abandoning the results of her own hard labors in favor of Aunt Midge and her bottle of dessert whiskey.

Speculative murmurs would emerge from the bettors who were gazing out the living room picture window while gauging the intensity of Losing Grandma’s rage vibrations and the likelihood of Grandpa Bing forgetting to disable the Caddy’s horn two years in a row. Odds would be calculated, bets placed, and chairs pulled up to the window as Losing Grandma’s furious trembling exploded into sheer fury. As her muffled screams about all of our individual short-comings shook the car windows like a firm yet delicate mold of Jello, a fight broke out among the uncles over which of them had filched the last hard roll, Great Grandpa Kurtwood dropped an n-bomb in front of Cousin Karen’s new boyfriend, and the dog puked a rainbow-colored Jello puddle onto the eight square inches of carpet that Aunt Joan had not strapped down with CSI grade plastic sheeting but had protected sufficiently with a chair that was no longer covering her shame because it had been moved to the window to observe Losing Grandma’s.

Happy Thanksgiving. May all your aspics be victorious.


It’s going to be Sally Season if she doesn’t knock this shit off.

ew7“HONEY, I’m home! Golly, I’m famished. What’s for dinner?”

“Oh, just something I picked up off the floor of this crazy dive bar I discovered down the street that I encased with gelatin.”


“I sincerely hate you, Sally. I’m going to go find that dive bar, and God help you if I meet a six-breasted woman there because it’ll be over for you. Jabba said I could crash at his place whenever I want. In fact, give me that plate. I’m going there now because that’s the only place in the entire galaxy where this monstrosity will have a chance in hell of getting eaten. Oh, you know what, just screw it, I don’t feel like hanging out with a roomful of sideshow freaks. What’s the address of that bar? They better have good music.”


“We have enough beautiful food for the content, Phil, so just put the butt-ugly mistakes on the cover.”


How to make beautiful food in a mold! How to compose soothing symphonies using only recorders and kazoos! How to look magnificent in a bikini by gaining two hundred pounds! How to win friends in a crowded elevator using only your taco lunch and Irritable Bowel Syndrome! How to improve your looks with Donald Trump’s beautician! How to spice up your sex life with habanero peppers and razor wire!

Betsy don’t play that!


That’s the American spirit, Ms. Ross! Fuck the loom, just kick back in your rocker and suck down a cigarette in sheer disgust at the amount of time you wasted on that befouled hemorrhoid ring your accursed husband demanded for dessert. His fat ass can barely gird up his knickers, his horse’s back is caving in, and he hasn’t seen the fancybuckles on his heeled slippers in a bleak fortnight yet he demandeth of thee a doublage of sugar-vittles on top of the stitching of a flag for which no pattern doth exist. Well guess what, Ms. Ross…today doth be your Independence Day! Pack that flag like a hobo pouch, write him a note telling him to fuck yeself, and burn all his daguerreotypes on your way out the door to your seventeen year old spinster sister’s house.

Orange You Glad People Have Slightly Better Sense These Days?


This work of culinary art looks like it’s been taken over by one of those horrifying parasitic organisms you only see in National Geographic magazine, like there’s an evolved species of Mandarin orange that lays its fruit babies inside your skin and three days later you’re covered in tangy pustules and uncontrollably shitting citrus slices.

I have a sinking feeling about this…

Cruel and Really Fucking Unusual

Poor Pacman. These situations never turn out well. Send us a message from heaven because I’m dying to know what ‘lamb’s brawn’ is and how it can magically turn cat food into something acceptable for human consumption. OK, I’m not really ‘dying’ to know, but there’s no reason why we should both be sacrificed for this mystery. Hell, maybe everything will turn out OK for you.





yikes1Shit. Well, at least Luke made it out.

Stop looking at me, swan!!!


There’s a few ways to interpret the swan’s expression coupled with the drippy beak.

1.This disgusts me and your smorgasbord deserves to be spit upon.

2. They’re exploiting a young and desperate and ashamed swan who just needs the money. Nobody will ever see these pictures, right? They won’t end up in some cookbook for everyone to see? No one will ever find out?

3. naam