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.