Slap Chop Area 38


Okay, I admit I am scarily obsessed with Vince from Sham-WOW and Slap Chop fame.  Even after his little brush with the law regarding “kissing a hooker.”  (Dude – everyone knows you never kiss the hooker!)

Anyway – some brilliant guy made this little ditty with the Slap Chop video and created a great rap o rama.


(you’re gonna love my nuts!)

Seinfeld: He Took It Out!

Another one of my absolute favorites from Seinfeld.  “Oh, it be!”  Kills me every time.  

(And, dammit –  I want to know the whole pachyderm story!)

I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of having someone “take it out” when it wasn’t invited – unless “it” is unwanted engagement rings.

Hair by Walgreens


I have an embarrassing confession to make…  I color my own hair.  In fact, I’ve been coloring my hair myself since I was 16 and I haven’t looked back.  I don’t really even know what my real hair color would be if I were to let it go au natural.  (Well – I have an idea, but let’s not go there…)

I have never once gone to the salon and had my hair done “professionally” – not even for our wedding – much to the chagrin of hairdressers all over the Chicago region.  Hairdressers just can’t fathom that my $15.00 hair color can look just as bad as their $215 hair color.  

Once I was getting a haircut at a well known chain of Chicagoland salons and the owner and salon namesake happened to be visiting the day I was there.  His #2 was also there and, according to my hair stylist, was the Directing Vice Manager Of Hair Styling Stylists or some such dumbass thing.  Mr. #2 came by my station and asked me if he could cut my hair that day like he’s doing me some sort of fabulous favor to show some of his visiting students how it’s done.  Hey, why not?

Because he’s a flaming asshole, that’s why not.  He didn’t listen to anything I said about what I wanted and ended up giving me some completely idiotic haircut where it was way shorter in the back than the front, kind of like some ‘V” thing.  I looked like a cross between Clara Bow and something out of Blade Runner.

After the ass desecrated my hair, all the underlings were oooohing and aaahhing over his butcher job like Jesus himself had cut my hair.  I was almost in tears, but let them fawn over my awful hair.  Then, one of them ran his fingers through my hair and remarked, “Ooooh!  That color!  It’s just geeeeouuurgeous.  Such a unique color.  Did Andre create your color as well?”  I guessed Andre must be the Man.  

“Nope – Walgreens!”

The looks on their faces were one of collective horror.  I think one of them may have actually gasped.

“Well, actually,  L’Oreal Coluleur Experte Express – Toasted Coconut.”

Andre suddenly hightailed it out of there, as did all his underlings.  My regular hair stylist looked pissed off and disappeared as well.  

I didn’t get charged for the pleasure of having to grow my hair out for the next six months. I’m sooooooo  worth it!

Island Food: Beef Pate Recipe


One of my favorite things to be found in the Caribbean is pate (pah-tay – not to be confused with French pâté).  Known all over the Caribbean by many different names: patties, empanadas, pastelitos – they are known as pates in the Virgin Islands and Haiti.  Basically a Caribbean Hot Pocket, the pate can be stuffed with a variety of fillings such as chicken, conch, saltfish, goat or cheese – but my favorite is the beef pate.

The best place is St. John to get pates is Hurcules Pate Delight, located in a small white shack across from the Lumberyard in Cruz Bay.  The proprietors aren’t always the nicest, but it’s worth putting up with a little attitude to get your hands on one of their delights.  Also, the Mojo Cafe has started selling pates, although I haven’t had one from there yet, so I can’t comment on how good it is.  But, hell – it’s deep fried meat – how can it be bad?

West Indian Beef Pates 


  • 5 cups flour
  • ¼ cup vegetable shortening
  • 2 tablespoons baking powder
  • ¼ to ½ cup water

Pate filling:

  • ½ pound lean ground beef
  • ½ small onion, chopped
  • 1 small stick celery, chopped
  • ¼ teaspoon salt
  • 2 tablespoons green bell pepper, chopped
  • Dash oregano
  • Dash black pepper
  • 1 teaspoon Kitchen Bouquet
  • 2 teaspoons tomato paste
  • Dash parsley flakes
  • Dash garlic powder
  • ¼ small hot pepper, chopped (or to taste)



To make dough:

Place flour, shortening, and baking powder into a large mixing bowl. Add enough water to make dough. Knead for 10 to 15 minutes. Let dough sit for 20 minutes.

To make ground meat filling:

Cook beef in a large frying pan with onion, celery, bell pepper, black pepper, garlic powder, oregano, parsley flakes, salt, tomato paste, Kitchen Bouquet and hot pepper. Continue cooking until ground beef is well cooked and vegetables are tender. Stir often while cooking to blend ingredients well. Use a large strainer to remove excess fat from the meat mixture. Divide dough into two pieces. Roll flat and place 1-1/2 tablespoons of ground beef mixture into center of flattened dough. Fold dough over filling using a fork to seal ends so that the filling is completely sealed inside like a turnover. Use dough cutter to cut excess dough around the pate to give an even shape. Deep fry in vegetable oil or shortening at 360 degrees until golden brown.

The Case of the Hot Dog Dickwad – Part II

See Part I here.

So, back to our story.  As I left off last week, Mr. Dickhead is ranting and raving at the bar about his child’s hot dog that he ordered at least 15 minutes ago and is demanding that they bring it out NOW as Little Johnny is getting crabbier by the minute.  All I can think is that Minivan Mom would have never let this happen – you know she has an old stained Vera Bradley tote bag of some kind on her at all times with Goldfish, Cheerios and Gummy Bears – just waiting for any Meltdown Emergency.  But, alas – Minivan Mom is not there and Dad is freaking out because Little Johnny is now completely losing it.  I can’t help but think that what Little Johnny is really losing it about is that he is embarrassed about his stupid Dad, yelling and jumping around like some sort of ape.

Anyway, Dad decides he has finally had enough.  He scoops Little Johnny  up into his arms and finds the first bartender lady he can.  “Okay!   NOW you’ve done it!!  Do you see my son here?  He is CRYING because you people  can’t seem to get a goddamn hot dog out here in a reasonable amount of time!  Just CANCEL the hot dog!  FORGET ABOUT IT!”

The bartender lady is just looking at him with no expression whatsoever.  I love these ladies.  It’s the same group of four West Indian ladies that have worked the Westin Pool Bar as long as I can remember and absolutely nothing can faze them – you just know they have dealt with every type of asshole on the planet – and this guy isn’t even close to the worst.  She begins to make a drink as she calmly talks to Dad in her pretty West Indian accent.  “The hot dog will be out here any minute now.  You can’t cancel once it’s in the kitchen.  Do you want it “to go” instead?”

This sends Dad over the edge.  “NO!  It’s TOO LATE now!  I don’t want the goddamn hot dog now, do you understand?!?  CANCEL it.  I don’t want it!  When it gets here you TAKE IT OFF MY BILL IMMEDIATELY. I mean it!  My ROOM NUMBER IS 3172!  3172!  3172! Take it off my bill!”  And with that he storms off, back to room 3172 I suppose.  And, of course, within 30 seconds, the hot dog comes out of the kitchen.  My husband and I are practically falling off our chairs.  All I can think of is how much trouble Dickwad Dad is going to be in when he wakes Mom out of her nap to explain that Little Johnny has had no lunch at all.

Oh, and I now have his room number.

We fantisize about all the things we could do:  Buy porn at the gift shop.  Charge a big lobster to him at the restaurant.  Drink unlimited Mimosas at the buffet.  Order 50 hot dogs to his room.  Hmmm… Maybe more old-school?  The flaming bag of shit on the doorstep?  Too hard.  Buy 10 packages of hot dogs at the store throw them at his door?  Too much work.  Ring and run?  That means I have to get off my barstool.

So, I wait.  I wait until after our lunch, after our dinner, after our night on the town, after we get back to our house and are ready to go to bed.  It’s about 2am.  I call the Westin and ask for room number 3172.  A groggy man-voice answers the phone – so much more quiet than the last time I saw him.  “H.. Hello?” 

“YOUR FUCKING HOT DOG IS READY NOW, SIR!!!!!”  I scream into the receiver and then slam it down.  And then I laughed and I laughed and I laughed.  I know – it was stupid and petty – but boy, did it feel good!

The Case of the Hot Dog Dickwad


Thinking about cruise ship assholes the other day reminded me of a story that happened a few years ago on St. John.  My husband and I were hanging at the Westin Resort having some lunch at the Pool Bar.  Now, the Westin on St. John attracts a special kind of asshole – the type that is either accumulating and/or using some sort of Points and therefore think that they are something special.  Hey, you’re not special.  Am I special because I ate 10 sandwiches at Blimpies and got one free?  Well, sir – you are just a giant Blimpie Guy, so get over yourself already.

Anyway, there’s a lot of good people watching at the Westin Pool Bar – a lot of obnoxious East Coasters with their stupid Boston Red Sox hats, usually towing one or two small children, whom – of course – are also wearing some sort of Red Sox gear.  Harried Minivan Moms, who really thought that bringing their 2 and 4 year old on vacation was going to be, well – a vacation – and soon discover that in fact, it is not.   Fat, hairy, unusually tan dads who sneak up to the bar when Minivan Mom isn’t looking and pays cash for that 10th secret beer.  Spoiled tweens that think every summer comes with free vacations to the Caribbean, etc. etc.

On this particular outing we were privy to one of these annoying couples, who had obviously been fighting before they arrived at the Pool Bar. The Mom decided she’d had enough and told her husband that she was going to the room to take a nap, and he was now in charge of Little Johnny, their three year old son.  “Make sure he eats lunch before you come back to the room for his nap,”  the Mom said on her way out.

Turns out Little Johnny is a pill without Mom around, so Dad thinks he better order his lunch sooner rather than later.  He puts an order in for the Kid’s Meal Hot Dog at the bar and then goes on his merry way back to the pool with Little Johnny.

Five minutes later, he’s back, and Little Johnny is not happy because he wants his hot dog.  Where is the hot dog?  Dude – it may be the Westin, but it is still the Caribbean.  Have you heard of  I-S-L-A-N-D   T-I-M-E?  Soon come, mon.

Five minutes after that he’s back again and now Dad is pissed, too.  “Where is my son’s hot dog?!”  He yells at no one in particular at the bar.  “My son needs his hot dog!  He wants his hot dog!  He is a hungry little kid and he wants the hot dog NOW!”  This went on and on and I wondered who exactly the three-year-old was here.  My husband and I giggle in our Rum & Diets… this will be good.

Five minutes later he’s back again and this time Little Johnny is whining and crying about his missing hot dog.  Dad is panicked, so naturally he yells at the bartenders some more.  “Listen!  This is BULLSHIT.  Now I want that god damn hot dog and I want it NOW!”  The veins in his fat bald head are bulging.  “Where is my son’s hot dog?  He WANTS HIS HOT DOG, WHERE IS IT?????”

Oh, you’ll get your hot dog – and then some, pal.

to be continued.

Foods I Love: Biscuits & Gravy


Lord help me, but how I love a big plate of Biscuits & Gravy.  Could there be anything worse for you on the planet?  No, that’s why it tastes so good.

Biscuits and Gravy is the quintessential Southern breakfast – made with fluffy hot biscuits and white floury gravy over the top.  The gravy must have the perfect mixture of grease and spice, as there is nothing worse than gloppy, tasteless white glue atop your biscuits.  And, you must have your biscuits and gravy from either a well-versed Southern home cook, or a small greasy spoon diner – if you eat biscuits and gravy out of a box from the supermarket, then I am afraid you are a tool.

I searched the web for a good biscuits and gravy recipe, and figured the best one would be from Southern Living as their readers wouldn’t stand for an inferior version.  Enjoy!




Makes 2 cups


  • 8  ounces  pork sausage
  • 1/4  cup  all-purpose flour
  • 2 1/3  cups  milk
  • 1/2  teaspoon  salt
  • 1/2  teaspoon  pepper


Cook sausage in a large skillet over medium heat, stirring until it crumbles and is no longer pink. Remove sausage, and drain on paper towels, reserving 1 tablespoon drippings in skillet.

Whisk flour into hot drippings until smooth; cook, whisking constantly, 1 minute. Gradually whisk in milk, and cook, whisking constantly, 5 to 7 minutes or until thickened. Stir in sausage, salt, and pepper.




Makes 2 dozen


  • 1/2  cup  cold butter
  • 2 1/4  cups  self-rising soft-wheat flour
  • 1 1/4  cups  buttermilk
  • Self-rising soft-wheat flour
  • 2  tablespoons  melted butter


1. Cut butter with a sharp knife or pastry blender into 1/4-inch-thick slices. Sprinkle butter slices over flour in a large bowl. Toss butter with flour. Cut butter into flour with a pastry blender until crumbly and mixture resembles small peas. Cover and chill 10 minutes. Add buttermilk, stirring just until dry ingredients are moistened.

2. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface; knead 3 or 4 times, gradually adding additional flour as needed. With floured hands, press or pat dough into a 3/4-inch-thick rectangle (about 9 x 5 inches). Sprinkle top of dough with additional flour. Fold dough over onto itself in 3 sections, starting with 1 short end. (Fold dough rectangle as if folding a letter-size piece of paper.) Repeat entire process 2 more times, beginning with pressing into a 3/4-inch-thick dough rectangle (about 9 x 5 inches).

3. Press or pat dough to 1/2-inch thickness on a lightly floured surface; cut with a 2-inch round cutter, and place, side by side, on a parchment paper-lined or lightly greased jelly-roll pan. (Dough rounds should touch.)

4. Bake at 450° for 13 to 15 minutes or until lightly browned. Remove from oven; brush with 2 Tbsp. melted butter.



Yes, I Know People Like This


Someone sent this to me a few months ago, and I have to admit I laughed a little.  Well, okay – a lot.  I am sorry to also admit that I know people who completely think like this.  Yes, they are idiots.  

I think my favorite is the “Cruise Ships Go Here” area – only because the Caribbean is one of my favorite places in the world precisely because there are 50+ islands which are all completely different from one another with people, culture, music, food and  other influences.  But, alas – most people probably do think that all the Caribbean is is cheap shopping and giant boat ports with McDonalds and Pizza Huts ready to feed the fat-ass Americans on board.

True Story:  I talked my husband into going on a South American Caribbean cruise a few years ago for New Years Eve.  We went on the Carnival Legend, because, we were told, Carnival is the “fun ship.”  If by fun you mean overcrowded with drunk assholes who want everything for nothing and treat the crew like shit, then you got that right. 

Anyway, one late morning when we were at sea, we made it to the breakfast buffet and were standing in the throngs of starving tourists with their plates filled to the brim with all the breakfast delights of the world.  At one point were were in the Breakfast Meat Line, where one waits for bacon, ham, sausages, etc.  There was an older gentleman in front of us who was holding up the line because he decided he wanted his bacon cooked more, even though it came out of the giant Bacon Trough with everyone else’s.  Now, as anyone who has been on a cruise can tell you, many of the workers on the ship are from places other than Whitebread, NJ and  I can also tell you that they work horrific hours for basically slave wages.  There was one guy behind the Meat Trough whose sole job seemed to be just to keep the Meat Troughs filled with buckets of fresh Meat from the kitchen.  He was the target of my neighbor in line.  He screams at the guy in some sort of Archie Bunker accent, “Hey, YOU!  This bacon is raw!  I want my bacon cooked MORE right NOW!”

The guy looked at him, but I could tell he didn’t understand him because he was from Vietnam or something – and I’m sure his job description did not entail re-cooking bacon for assholes who don’t seem to understand what a buffet is.  The guy stared at Archie Bunker but didn’t make a move for the plate of limp bacon he was trying to give him under the sneeze guard.  Couple this with the growing line of hungry people who want their Meat Products now and things were getting dicey.

After what seemed like an eternity and no movement from the guy, Archie Bunker was pissed.  “Listen, YOU,” He spat out, “You better start speaking English NOW, you son-of-a-bitch!”  Um, like the guy was not speaking English on purpose or something.  I have to say at this point I walked away because I couldn’t take this guy any more, but my husband stayed and then called him an asshole as he passed he and his 300 lb wife at a table.  This pretty much summed up the clientele on the Carnival Legend.

I never did find out if he got his bacon or not.

Sometimes a Piece of Paper is Better



So as you may know, I have been deathly ill off and on for the last six weeks.  This last one really kicked my ass and I ended up giving in and seeing a doctor.  Well, turns out, not a doctor, but at least someone who can give me some drugs so I can finally join the world of the living again.

I didn’t want to go to my normal doctor, because it would take a week to get in and he kind of creeps me out anyway.  So, I think it will be a brilliant idea to go to the new clinic they have at our local Walgreens.  It seems quick and convenient as long as you aren’t having a major heart attack or something.

I get dressed for the first time in four days and go to the Walgreens.  They have a little clinic area set up in the corner, next to the Pharmacy.  I check in via computer and everything seems OK.  I had to wait a few minutes to get in the exam room, but nothing major.  (Better than the regular doctor who keeps you waiting endlessly with a Readers Digest from 1982.)

Turns out that the person that treats you is not an MD, but a Nurse Practitioner, which I guess means they aren’t a doctor but can prescribe meds.  The lady I have seems slightly nervous, like it’s the first time she’s seen someone with the flu and she totally looks like wide-eyed Amy Pohler.  She keeps telling me she doesn’t know…  it could be viral or bacterial.  No shit, Sherlock!  Finally, I decide I am going home with some drugs whether I need them or not and tell her that I think I should get the Z-Pac. (I used the Z-Pac once before when I got deathly ill before our wedding – it literally wiped out whatever I had in one day and I had been fighting it for 2 weeks.)  Her eyes light up and she says, “That’s totally what I was going to recommend!” like she just won the kindergarten spelling bee.  Whatever – I’m getting drugs and now I just want to go home.

Everything in this place is computerized, you never touch a piece of paper.  Even when they took my insurance card, they scanned it into the computer.  I was thinking it was kind of cool as compared to my dentist who still has an entire wall full of paper files that is three rows thick, even though he thinks he is “cutting edge” because he’ll sedate you with crazy Halcion pills for a crown.  (I think you now know why he is my dentist.)

Anyway, Nurse Pohler tells me she is going to put my prescription in “The System” and I can pick it up at the pharmacy “in a few minutes.”  Great, thanks!!!!!

Do you know how long it took for the Pharmacy to receive my request?  FORTY FUCKING MINUTES.  After 20 my husband was like, “Hey, where’s the Prescription?” and we figured out I wasn’t in The System.  They said sometimes it takes awhile to reach them over the network.  Seems plausible, except for the fact that you are LOCATED 20 FEET APART.  It was totally ridiculous, and at this point I am fading fast.  Finally, after 30 minutes I saw the receptionist get up from her desk and WALK 20 FEET and hand the Pharmacist a piece of paper.  It still took them fucking 10 more minutes to grab the PRE-PACKAGED Z PAC and hand it to me. What a cluster-fuck!

My point is that maybe sometimes just the old fashioned piece of paper is better than newfangled technology.  Technology is supposed to help, not hinder.  I learned that the hard way when I spent five hours putting all my address contacts in my new Apple Newton and threw away my address book.  A week later someone pushed the button that reset the entire device and I lost everything.  I still to this day use a paper address book.

Oh, and I’m still sick, but better.  Not sure if it was the drugs or not.  I guess we’ll never know.