Wednesday, November 16, 2011

When I Say Hillshire, You Say @#$%!

THIS IS NOT today's lunch. This is a picture of Sebastian Vettel, this year's winningest F1 pilot, behind the wheel of his wounded RBR7 after spinning out due to a tire puncture in the second turn of the Abu Dhabi Yas Marina course. Due to the fact that I cannot not watch the re-runs of the race any time they come on, I have now watched Seb spin off the track and dig in the dirt three times now. It hurts. Every time.
Today's lunch was a tuna quesadilla, which is a weird-ass thing I like to do now and then for the sheer hell of it. Yesterday's lunch was-- well, lemme get to that in a minute.
First, I want to apologize for having been gone a month. I could cite many things, but the fact of the matter is that my sister in law has absconded with my camera, and I have not been able to bring myself to blog here without a lunch pic. Yesterday, however, lunch was not something that I feel I ought to foist pictures of upon an unsuspecting public. For whatever reason, I thought I had an obligation to see what Hillshire Farms' laboratory workers thought this thing called "pastrami" was supposed to be like. After determining that the result was a peppery, vaguely beefy version of ham loaf, I decided I could better my odds by adding American cheese and grilling it on rye. I eventually concluded that, at the very least, I couldn't lose by adding anything to it. When I say Hillshire, you say @#$% those @#$%ing @#$%ers! Go Meat Like Substance!

This very much wasn't the film of the day. One of Hitchcock's last thrillers, made in the 70's, taken from a book which was very clearly set in the immediate post war London-- but still, set in the 70's!-- from source material that dates back to the 30's and 40's, including the notion that continental cuisine is insanely complicated and easily ruined by incompetent British housewives . . . Alright. That last part is probably true. Anyways. I have tried to get through this about a half dozen times over the years, to almost no avail. As Hitchcock flicks go, this is one of the most disturbing, not least because the psychology is so dated and dodgy, but more so because Hitch finally had leave to include nudity. So we get plenty of opportunity to ogle the breasts of women who are dead. Or about to be dead. Just plain creepy. This time I managed to cringe my way through about 75 or 80% of it, meanwhile washing dishes, checking the mail, and generally wandering about the house, with the result that I managed to sit through most of the long, talky portions and skip most of the murder scenes, before noticing that Dear God! Oh, dear God, NO!!!-- the thing still had forty five minutes of bad European fish stew jokes to go. (And that scene where the killer tries to retrieve his tie pin from the corpse of his latest kill while trapped in the back of a moving potato truck! HILARIOUS.)

So do I re-- oh, who the hell am I kidding? If you know what meat tastes like, you won't like anything Hillshire Farms makes. And I think Hitch was trying to be funny-- I HOPE Hitch thought he was being funny-- but the naked bodies of fetishistically murdered women just aren't all that amusing, no matter what kind of funny faces he got the actresses to make. Or maybe I'm just not getting the joke. Because there's eels in the soup. Those whacky French! Go Mush!

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