Suggest a Topic

I know I don't write that often, but sometimes I really can't think of anything to say. And of course there is always the pressure to live up to my blog's name. I'm inconsistent, and I own it. But, I do occasionally receive complaints that I need to post more often. So I've decided to be all tricky like and put the pressure back on you all.

Suggest a topic. Any topic. Several topics. Suggest a topic and I will write about it. I will dutifully compile a list and write them, one by one. With great care and all the wittiness I can muster. Even if just a title, such as "Cyndi vs. The Hot Dog Bun" or "Cyndi vs the Belligerent Goat." Email me. Call me. Leave a comment. Send a text. Whatever.

It would be great exercise for me. And I needs my exercise.

So come on people. Help a sister out. What should I write about?

Cyndi

From the Mind of Matty

Sunday morning, roughly 11am. Cyndi is making breakfast at the stove. Matty, having already eaten, heads for the door.

Matty: I'm going to see if my friends can play.
Cyndi: Okay, but before you can go out, I need you to brush those fangs of yours.
Matty: So you mean I can't go outside till I brush my teeth?
Cyndi: That's correct.
Matty sits down at the table, begins to remove his shoes.
Cyndi: I thought you were going to go play.
Matty: I was. But I don't want to go THAT bad.

HAPPY SUMMER SOLSTICE!

Today is summer summer solstice. Go out and do something pagan-y!

Pagan-y activities Cyndi recommends:
Pick flowers
Go camping
Watch the sunset
Play in the rain
Have a barbecue (this is a delightfully practical way of sacrificing an animal and burning its flesh without those pesky satanic undertones that plague a work-a-day pagan).
Frolic in a meadow (If you've never frolicked, think Bambi in the part where he and Thumper discover the meadow. 'The MEADOW' the shout as they jump and roll about. This is before Bambi's mother snuffs it of course. And do avoid fields with stinging nettle. They tend to be frolic-inhibiting. And let's face it, you don't want to be in the ER explaining how your rash was acquired in the act of frolicking.)


Pagan-y activities Cyndi does not recommend:
Dancing naked outdoors: (Your neighbors won't appreciate this. Police tend to discourage it as well.)
Leaping naked over a fire: (I shouldn't have to tell you that this isn't a good idea. Unless of course you have been longing for a Brazilian wax. I imagine singeing the hair off your nether regions might be even more effective, though the potential for pain expands exponentially depending on your lack of coordination).
Sacrificing a goat: (Unless the goat has insulted you in some way. In which case a sacrifice might me acceptable. But mostly I recommend that you give the goat a good talking to.)


It is also my and Andy's anniversary. We will be sacrificing some french cheeses in a red-wine fig reduction, followed by a Roman style grilled quail agro dulce, and then finally a mascarpone cheesecake with a apricot hazelnut crust. *mouth waters. Cyndi dabs her keyboard with a tissue.

Yes, well. Solstice. Go out and be glad to be alive.

Cyndi

Only Humans can Treat Chickens Humanely

Wha?? See, I know what you are thinking. But the title of this post was taken directly from a Foster Farm's billboard that I encountered this morning on my way to work. "Only Humans cans Treat Chickens Humanely" it touted. To the left of this slogan a family portrait bragged of Foster Farms' obviously impeccable value system. Mom, Dad, charming country house behind them. Three little ones, glossy and well fed presumably on humanely treated chicken parts.

I snorted as I passed, considering the ramifications of this statement. The Webster's dictionary defines humane as " marked by compassion, sympathy, or consideration for humans or animals." I'm almost positive that having the flesh gnawed off your bones after being economically snuffed, bled, hung and plucked would not qualify as humane in most circles. Don't get me wrong here. I'm not all activist-y and I do eat chicken. My roast chicken kicks ass, if I do say so myself. And I do. Because it's delicious. And I rock. Woo!

Okay, back to what I was talking about. Humanely killing chickens. This kind of sentiment bugs. Can't they just be honest about what's really going on here? Here are some alternative slogan suggestions.

"Foster Farms: Only Humans can Kill an Animal and Consume its Flesh while Still Convincing Themselves it's Humane. Aren't You Glad You Are a Human Instead of a Chicken?"

"Foster Farms: We Electrocute our Chickens and Chop off Their Heads While They are Passed Out. This Is Much Better than Clubbing Them. Trust Us."

"Foster Farms: Death so Quick You'll wish You Were a Chicken."

"Foster Farms: We Only Killed the Ones who Had it Coming."

"Foster Farms: What to Chickens Have do Live for Anyway? They Don't Even Celebrate Christmas."

"Foster Farms: We Didn't Kill them, they Willingly Sacrificed Themselves for the Greater Good of Humanity. It's As it Should Be."

"Foster Farms: We Eat What We Kill. This Way They Did Not Die In Vain, Thus Making Their Death Honorable."

I'm a hypocrite. The honest truth is that if I could only eat what I killed, I would have to be a vegetarian. I couldn't even kill a turkey, nature's butt-stinking-ugly D-student. In fact, knowing me, I'd cut open a tomato one day and get all guilty when I think how happy it was sitting on a vine in the sun. Slowly I would starve to death as I thought about the various humiliations that produce endures in order to arrive orphaned on a grocery store shelf. I'd end up buying all the rotten and bruised items, feeling sorry that they wouldn't get picked. Instead of eating them I would take them home and make them a little bed from tissues and an egg carton where they could live out their last days in peace.

Then I'd die.

Good thing there are places like Foster Farms that relieve me of the obligation to kill things and do their best to make me feel warm and fuzzy about the way they were dispatched. Yep, I'm glad to be human.


Cyndi

Cyndi vs. The Jetted Tub: An Epic Battle of Wills

*Note: This is a true story. Names have not been changed to protect the terminally stupid. For the purposes of this story, the Jetted Tub will heretofore be identified as "Larry." *

Immersed in the palid half-light seeping under the bathroom door, Larry waited. Many days had he passed thusly, cagey with barely restrained rage and disgust. He was a Windward six foot Whirlpool with integral apron and left handed drain for porcelain's sake. How had ever been brought so low? he mused to himself. They'd done it again today. The male and female both in their turn, pressing their feet in his face, ignoring his luxurious depths in favor of the bargain Walmart shower head. A shower head without massage settings no less. Humiliation burned deep in Larry's plumbing. Soon, he vowed. Very soon they would regret this choice.

Larry's jet-holes squinted at the burst of sudden light. It was the female. Come no doubt to indulge in her pathetic vanities. Typical. But what was this? What was in her hand. Surely these were not cleaning implements. Those had better be for the toilet, he thought. Horror descended in pounding waves on his high grade porcelain. She was turning not toward the toilet, but toward him! And now she spoke!

"Alright you. This is long overdue," she said taking a knee before him on the tile, her yellow gloves glowing like the very fires of hell in the fluorescent light. Frantically, Larry's troubled mind scrambled to think. Long overdue for what? What could she possibly mean? What was the oddly shaped brush in her hand coming ever closer to one of his jet holes? "No!" he shrieked in his mind. "Something make her stop! For the love of porcelain! Please!"


His anguished cries fell upon the cold hearted tiles, deaf to his plight in their travertine treachery. The brush, laden with un-namable horrors was shoved mercilessly into Larry's mouth, then eyes, then ears. Befouled with muck long neglected in his pipes, it judiciously plunged for what seemed to Larry an eternity.


"Much better!" the female exclaimed, mocking his suffering. He peered up at her, silently praying she could see the rage and injustice in his eye. Feel my pain you skin bag! he implored. She seemed not to notice the waves of hatred emanating from him; instead she turned his plug closed and began to fill him with frigid water. Had she no mercy? No ounce of compassion? Could she not at least make the water tepid to ease his tortured joints and u-bends?

"Now, the British cleaning ladies say to fill you with water, then drop in a cup of bleach and turn the jets on." In her vile hand she clutched a smooth white bottle, measuring out a draught of the toxic liquid.

She's trying to kill me, Larry registered with shock. She trying to kill me. His mind fought against the chilly waters threatening to numb him of all thoughts. Think Larry! he screamed. Think or we will die! A single thought slithered across his frantic mind, his revelation registering with a plop. Turn the jets on. She'd said she was going to turn on the jets. Could it be?, Larry thought with elation. Was salvation really at hand? The water was climbing higher now. He felt his pipes beating wildly. Would she do it? Would she?

Her gloved hand broke the surface of the water and depressed the jet button. NOW! screamed Larry. Larry drank deeply of the bleach tainted frigid water and with strength beyond his experience, forcefully ejected it through his jets. Geysers of bleach and sludge erupted skyward, scoring a direct hit in the female's eyes. She hadn't even had time to blink. Glorious fountains erupted, soaking the floor and the shower head, repaying them for every ounce of indignity he had suffered their hands.

The female shrieked, covering her eyes, spitting the tainted water from her mouth, blindly slapping at his jet button with one hand, trying to plug his jet holes with the fingers of the other. She she sputtered at the awesome fury of Larry's revenge, his heart soaring upward with his streams of justice. With one last desperate push, she jammed her finger into the jet activator button.

The filth-laden stew fell earthward, Larry's joy crashing downward with its descent. The female panted wildly, soaked to the skin as she stood in the great puddle Larry had created. "That wasn't nice," she finally managed, eyes narrowed at him.

"I can see that we're not going to friends after all," she said, flipping the plug to drain him. No, thought Larry fondly. We are not. The water drained away leaving a scarred wasteland of pipe gunk on Larry's underbelly. Battle wounds, he thought, puffing with pride. He peered over the edge of himself and watched as she used towels to sop up the spreading filth on the floor. She turned back to him and reached toward the detachable shower head.

What is she doing, Larry wondered. What can she possibly be doing? She reached down and turned the water to scalding, pulling the lever to guide the water to the shower head. She was spraying him down! With the shower head! Taking away his hard wrought sludge, subjecting him to further humiliation.

"Yes, well. At least you're cleaner now, even if I can't use you," she remarked idly. Larry reeled with hatred. All this, and still he would go unused. Despair took him as she gathered her things and left, returning him to the semi-darkness. Just you wait, he thought clearing his throat of the hair wad gathering there. Just. You. Wait.

Larry giggled sardonically, allowing himself the luxury of a grin before closing his jets. Until next time, he whispered, drifting into blessed oblivion. Next time.


Hope y'all enjoyed!
Cyndi