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Tresckow

5 Things Society Would Give Up If It Was Serious About The Environment

By Adel

Far be it from me to associate myself with Roode or any of his articles, but I felt the need to expand upon his Earth Day piece (of shit). It got me thinking. No, not thinking about how Roode has kept out of prison for this long. Not this time. I started thinking about how, exactly, would society have to tackle environmental issues in a way that matters. Then it occurred to me, most of the big changers would never be done, because society is only willing to go so far. Sure, some will toss a plastic bottle into a recycling bin, but you bet your ass someone will drive a block to buy their lottery tickets and cigarettes instead of undertaking such an arduous journey of walking.

Sidewalks? Are we savages?

So, what would society REALLY have to do without in order to actually make an impact on the environment? Check that; a POSITIVE impact. My list of ways to make a negative impact is pretty much never-ending.

Setting a river on fire is way #23, in case you were curious Ohio.

So what would the Earth's population have to sacrifice to make a dent? I have a few ideas. But, we all know none of them are ever going to happen....


1. Make Country Leaders Give Up Personal Jets
Right out the gate I'm taking a swing at politicians. Well, sort of. I'm not talking about government policies. I'm talking about the non-stop, gas guzzling trips made by most of the world's leaders.

General air travel has skyrocketed after that pesky Luftwaffe was grounded in '45. The "lower prices" and bigger airline fleets made air travel a practical reality. Until the early 21st century, that is. Now it's nothing more than nickle and diming, TSA strip searches, and big shiny targets for terrorist groups.

Our world leaders need to be able to travel at a moment's notice. They have to tour earthquake areas to acknowledge that, yes, buildings have been reduced to rubble. They need to attend state funerals for people they never knew for PR and, during election season, be able to drop themselves in whatever state they need to whore themselves in for electoral votes. But, isn't this all outdated and nonessential? Let me answer that for you. Yes. Yes, it is.

This is the modern age, you silly pillack. Everything's virtual or digital... and other things that end in "al" I imagine. First, invest in a Skype or WebEx account. You don't have to physically be everywhere to give your partisan speeches. Pipe that digital goodness into the Brazilian government's multi-purpose room. You don't see Bin Laden jetting all over the West to distribute his messages of death and infidel fueled rage. It's all recorded, baby, and posted online. Yes, he's got a blog and their whole operation is hiding in a cave!

Second, downgrade the bollocks out of the fancy pants transportation. Air Force One, do you really have to be the size of a jumbo jet? I'm thinking more of a Cessna or a Piper Cub. What? It's just as secure as a gigantic jet aircraft. In fact, it's even better. Everyone knows that small planes are infinitely harder to hit and easier to land when damaged (The Big Bopper thing was a fluke). Cram the president's entourage into one of those things with a WiFi ready system and, Bob's your uncle!

Trust me. I will look a lot better with the Presidential seal on it. Maybe a little less yellow.

2. Stop driving.
We've all heard the non-stop ramblings about how the individual driver is really the cause of much of the Earth's pollution. So? Billions of people drive every day. China and India have just started the joys of modern auto travel (modern for 1955, that is). Trust me, they're not going to stop anytime soon. If anything, nations that are just entering their automobile phase are going to rape and poison the Earth in a fraction of the time it took North American and Europe. It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Let's face it, if China can't be bothered to NOT add antifreeze to cough syrup, what makes you think they give a shit about emissions testing?

Mmm. Breathe in that fresh city air, Beijing.

Are you really serious about saving the environment, society? Then stop driving, unless your vehicle is hydrogen powered. What about the Toyota Prius? It's rubbish. If the only alternative to good old fashioned fossil fuel burning automobiles is a car with a glorified D cell battery, it's best not to drive at all.

Alright, fine. I suppose some vehicles could be allowed. Service vehicles like, trash trucks, UPS vans, and pizza delivery wagons. But, in the spirit of maximizing efficiency and radically lowering emissions, they all have to be the same vehicle. Just think of all that o-zone we would save with our trash-UPS-pizza delivery trucks!

In some cases, the pizza may actually taste better.

What about the children? Surely, they need transportation to school. Why bother? Each generation is getting progressively dumber. Society might as well admit defeat now and end schooling of any kind. Not only would it save billions of dollars, it would finally usher in the downfall of society we've all been waiting for.

3. Stop using electricity. Everywhere.
You read that right. I'm not talking about simply turning the lights out when you leave a room. I'm talking about turning the lights out forever. Do you know how much fossil fuel is used to generate electricity to run our televisions and industrial strength A/C wall outlet powered marital aids? Neither do I, but I'm guessing it's a lot.

Imagine the money your average Joe would save by jumping off the grid. Citizens of nations everywhere would save thousands of dollars a year without electricity bills! Alright, so some of that money would have to be invested in glow sticks. I suppose most households would have to find an alternative heat source, too. Our ancestors managed without electricity. They used fire for warmth, light, and cooking. What's that? Burning wood is still polluting the environment? For fuck's sake! You can't have your cake and eat it too.

Not that you're really going to be able to make too many cakes in our new electricity free world.

Kicking electricity to the curb may even enrich our society. Without electricity there will be no computers. Without computers there will be no blogs. It will no longer be easy for any half-witted dipshit to vomit typed out retardation for the masses. It will be like the old days, the sheer expense and effort weeding out the posers. We'll have to go back to reading actual books and newspapers. I hear you, an increase in newspapers means the death of more trees, yadda, yadda, yadda. Well, society is going to need to wipe their asses with something. Newspaper is one hell of a multi-tasker! Just be sure to read BEFORE you wipe.

Wait until you read and wipe with the first print edition of The Fuse Was Too Cold.

4. Wipe out big chain stores.
Nothing embodies the crushing of the very soul of world commerce like the Wal-Mart or Target empire. Mom and Pop stores went the way of the Utah Raptor and Hammer pants. At first, we all cheered. Finally, there is somewhere to go for our economy sized enema needs! Want to buy a pair of boxers and a head of lettuce? At the same store? Well, my friend, you can do that. Never again will you have to make multiple trips to buy condoms, baby lotion, and duct tape.

Well, I guess you're not really serious about healing the planet, then. These gigantic chain and bulk stores are generating enough waste and energy consumption to make Mr. Burns blush. According to this article, states have accused Wal-Mart stores of polluting their water with shitty construction practices. Do you know how much electricity retailers need to refrigerate food, to power lights, and operate the exit theft alarms that go off for no apparent reason? Our research tells us it's a shit load [citation needed]. Even when the store is closed the energy consumption keeps trucking on. Do we really want to hurt our environment for a cheap 12 pack of socks and a case of Dr. Thunder? Well, I'm fine with it, but that's just me.

What WOULDN'T we do for a 12 pack of Dr. Thunder?

Bring back the Mom and Pops. Not only will that diversify the market, it just might bring scurvy back in style. Quick, it's the middle of winter in northern Saskatchewan and you want an orange. Tough luck. I guess you should just get used to those bleeding gums. Mom and Pop stores, although romantic and quaint, probably won't be able to carry anything out of season. Your average corner shop may never be able to buy and stock anything outside of an affordable geographical radius. If a store owner was lucky enough to get a hold of a crate of Spanish clementines, they would have to jack up the price to, about, $10 an orange. Scurvy is cheaper.

5. No more concerts, rallies, or protests.
How many of us have a brilliant sexual, drug, or cop beating concert story to tell? Maybe at that Screaming Trees concert the midget next to you projectile vomited so hard at he actually propelled himself through the air. Or what about that rally/protest for something or other you'll remember for the rest of your life? There's nothing like showing up somewhere, en mass, to support/protest the troops/president/lactose/soap.... Seriously, there are rallies for anything these days. You don't really have to know what you're protesting about.

Be warned, Betty White.

It's nice to know that people out there are willing to express their opinions and use their right to free speech while punching the environment in the face. The millions of people around the world that go on pilgrimages to see Winger live are also killing the environment. Well, in addition to murdering musical taste.

If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem, Stewart.

Think about it. For your average concert you'll have one bus for the band, 10 or more trucks for the equipment, one bus for the whores, a catering entourage, a couple more buses for the crew, and a huge power supply for all those trippy lights. Take all of that and add the thousands upon thousands of cars driven by the attendees. Well, why not just set a baby deer on fire?

Go on. Do it. Get the lighter fluid and have at it you monster.

Protests pretty much cover the same ground. Perhaps, the pinnacle of contradiction is when thousands of people, rock bands, and politicians blow a million tons of fuel to attend some sort of global save the world rally. The environment would be better off if everyone stayed home and live streamed Bono's pretentious egotism on YouTube.

Little known fact: Bono's ego and sense of self-satisfaction can power a city the size of London.

Post Wedding Moment of Clarity; Lessons to Learn

By, Adel

It’s said that every little girl’s dream to have a storybook wedding. Ignoring what some would call an obviously sexist ideology, we’ll agree with this to avoid any argument to the contrary. Take one for the bloody team for the sake of this article! I don’t have time to cater to every bleeding feminist war cry out there.

Yes, bearded lady, your point of view will be heard... eventually.

So, if a storybook wedding is every girl’s dream, then the one I just had must be the anomaly. I’m not saying it was bad. Quite the contrary. The result was the same; the groom was blessed with me as a wife until he dies. That’s how I understood it, at any rate. There was something in the ceremony about loving, honouring, and cherishing me. I am pretty sure there was an “obey” in there somewhere.

I've been taking some pointers from "They Live" - strategically placing OBEY in various locations to reach his subconscious. And you thought it was just a bad movie with Rowdy Roddy Piper and Keith David.

Not being the stereotypical fairytale wedding, mine was unique. Not jug band, hillbilly unique, but a definite type of crazy one usually has to tune into the tele for some sort of Gary Busey fix.




It was a peculiar mixture of me looking absolutely stunning in my dress, the bridesmaids being beautiful, (but not on my level of beauty, of course), Tresckow attempting to kill one of my bridesmaids, and mini bar shenanigans. This concoction still isn’t volatile enough for you? Well, add a healthy dose of motorcycle gang and ex-IRA and you have the uranium core of a marital super weapon that could take out most of the Pacific Northwest.

Bugger. There goes Yakima.

As you may remember from Tresckow’s article he bitched and moaned about traveling to my wedding. Piss off, mate, it’s a small price to pay to get a front row seat to the performance of a lifetime. Tresckow and Ren have a type of antagonist relationship that could, possibly, end in the death of small children and the elderly. Don't get me wrong, it's cute. She constantly bugs the ever loving shit out of him and he prays for death. Awwwwwww.

Tresckow is my self-adopted brother. Yes, I admit that. Don’t try to understand it, just accept it. Ren, being my husband’s sister (poor bastard), believes that she and Tresckow are brother and sister-in- law via some sort of muddled drunken Mick logic. Whatever the whiskey induced mathematical equation she used to arrive at that conclusion, the result ends in constant emotional and physical pain for Tresckow. It makes me laugh. What? Siblings should revel in each other’s misery.

Pictured: Irish logic.

With the combination of Ren, my mother, Tresckow, Roode, a plethora of alleged “one percenters,” and visitors from the UK (Northern Irish and British- another explosive combination) the event had no choice but to be the Poseidon Adventure of weddings.

Come to think on it, this may have been the only way to get some of those Micks upright.

It's no secret that my wedding exploded beyond control. What was supposed to be a small, quiet affair ended up in the newspaper and a blip on the local news. Half of Northern Ireland attended (those legally allowed to leave British soil and otherwise) and a might more bikers showed up than originally thought. To top it all, I actually had a good turn out with my family. That was a surprise. Oh, and Tresckow, my self-adopted brother, was there to be my therapist, confidant, and giver-awayer [insert another obligatory mushy "Awwww" here].

So, out of all this beautiful mess, what have I learned? I'm so very glad you asked. I've broken it down into 15 short tidbits of knowledge you may not have known. Also, for my enjoyment (and I suppose for some of you), each lesson is presented by a woman wearing the naughty teacher outfit I wore on the wedding night. No. There will be no photographs of that anywhere near this website.


Hitting someone in the head with a hymnal during a wedding ceremony will make a significant sound that echoes. As will the "Bloody Mary, OUCH" that follows.

You would think this is common sense. Ah, but common sense took a vacation during my wedding ceremony. Long of the short of it, some of the boozed up Northern Irishmen got into a Three Stooges-esq slapfest towards the end of the wedding vows. I hope God laughed, because I did not. Wankers.


It's not the best idea for your (soon-to-be) sister-in-law to give directions to the groomsmen and have them repeatedly lead to a strip club.

Ren, fancies herself a funny girl. She's good for a chuckle, I'll give her that. I suppose that's why she doctored the directions to the after- rehearsal boozing to lead Tresckow, Roode, and the others to the "Gentleman's Club" in town. Did I mention they were on foot, hoofing it through a town none of them were familiar with? After the first hour of wandering through the streets, repeatedly passing the same strip club, they started to catch on. In, yet again, another page from the Three Stooges play book, they blamed each other and started a street by street snowball fight. From what I'm told, it was a slightly less organized, slightly more destructive Battle of Berlin. What IS funny about all of this? None of them wanted to call for directions. Why? MEN DON'T NEED TO ASK FOR DIRECTIONS! Bloody retarded.

They did all this with snow?

Fist fights should not break out in public; let alone, in front of a patrol car.

There's really not much more to say about this. All out brawls should be done in the privacy of a back alley or in the elevator in a hospital. Come to think on it, ANYWHERE that isn't in front of a police patrol car is a better place for a fist fight. Why in crikey fuck couldn't they wait ten more feet until filling the air with fists and broken whiskey bottles?


Ham sandwiches should not be thrown off 15th story balconies.

Do I really need to go into further detail on this? Here's a simple mathematical formula:

Drunken Micks + hungry motorcycle enthusiasts + ham sandwich x 15th floor balcony = very surprised octogenarian on the ground



Two 90 pound Malamutes WILL sleep in your bed, regardless of your personal preference.

This is true no matter who you are. It will happen and you're powerless to stop it. Keep in mind, if you protest too much, they can crush your windpipe.




Your brother yelling "It's show time!" before rushing your (soon-to-be) sister-in-law in her father's bar for giving him directions to the previously mentioned strip club instead of the correct location is entertaining, if not slightly psychotic.

Again, there really is no call to go into this any further. Ren cannot be stopped. Tresckow was a fool for trying.



It is a bad idea to give the aforementioned (soon-to-be) sister-in-law access to your hotel key.

This wasn't my room. Quite frankly, I would have tossed her off the balcony. This was, once again, Ren's attempt to be sisterly to Tresckow. Of course, the sisterly thing to do is steal a copy of your "soon-to-be sister-in-law's self adopted brother[in-law]'s" room key. It's also sisterly to empty the mini bar fridge, fill the empty alcohol bottles with water, and sneak into his room at 2:30 in the morning to jump up and down on his bed to check if he's asleep. I'm not quite sure how that rowdy Mick survived. Tresckow must be getting soft in his old age.


When an Irish biker tells a bartender to give him the entire whiskey bottle, the bartender better do so.

This is just good self preservation instincts. It isn't worth getting castrated, then stuffed in the trunk of your own car for a job that only pays minimum wage. Leave that to the executives.



Slam dancing shouldn't be done at a wedding reception. Tables will break.

No, no, a thousand times NO! Wedding receptions don't have mosh pits for a bloody reason. I'm never going to get that deposit back now.





Repeated threats made against the groom by the bride's brother as a warning to treat his sister right probably shouldn't be made as part of a toast during the rehearsal dinner. Or in the church rehearsal. Or at the reception... or in notes nailed to his parents' door.

Nailed to the bloody door! He Martin Luthered my in-laws' house.


It may not be a good idea to wake up at 3:30 AM the day of your wedding and make your brother go on a three hour drive to your house, "just cause."

Let's just say discovering the bride is missing on the wedding day puts a damper on things. I reckon it also looked like Tresckow kidnapped me. It's the bride's prerogative! I wanted to talk to my brother and go on a drive. That drive ended up being a three hour trek to my house, across the border, into Montana. I don't know why. Maybe I thought I left the iron on. Just let it go. We almost hit a moose and, actually, backed into a big horn sheep. That's penance enough. Besides, I came back; with an hour to spare, thank you very bloody much.


Loudly discussing how to make pipe bombs from every day household items to blow up the British in Belfast isn't suitable conversation for a hotel gift shop.

Need I say more? I'm not sure I legally can.






Never let your sister-in-law connect an ipod to the DJ's computer.

"Detachable Penis" [music link] isn't traditional wedding music. It just isn't. Anytime a mother has to explain to her son the concept of a detachable penis during a wedding reception is just an investment in future therapy bills.




Songs about suicide probably shouldn't be requested at a wedding reception.

I love Alice in Chains. I really like their new album. As much as I like "Black Gives Way to Blue" I wouldn't say it's ideal wedding reception music. Tracks like Check My Brain and A Looking In View cause the slam dancing/mosh pit I spoke of earlier. But, the depression filled, suicide mourning, melancholy lyrics of Your Decision and Black Gives Way To Blue probably won't provide the appropriate wedding ambiance.

Seriously, guys. I love you, but your music doesn't exactly say "Marriage! Whooooohoooo!"

It is quite disconcerting when your mother seems to fancy a biker.

I really don't want to talk about this one.







Oh, and just in case you were curious (I was), there is a Staring at your hot teacher during class Facebook page. You can find your own hot teacher related porn.

Pandora's Pizza Box: Pizza Massacre of '09

By Adel

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me in three dimensional reality that I am not “domesticated” in any way, shape, or form. If being a mother required more than getting knocked up and taking amazing drugs during labor, I would have just bought a kid. Or a dog. I probably would have bought a dog. You can lock those guys in the house or in the back yard all day and child services won’t get all bent out of shape about it.

My original plans for daycare.

One thing I found out relatively early on was that a kid has to be fed daily. Sometimes up to three times a bloody day. Apparently society frowns on just tossing food in a bowl with your child’s name embossed on the outside. Society insists that your child be feed regularly and from human serving ware. When did this get so buggery complicated? Don’t get me started on the whole diaper thing. Letting your child crawl around your back yard and encouraging him to drop his eye watering baby scat wherever he happens to be is a touchy subject.


Fine. I can adjust. I’ll deal. I made an agreement with my son as soon as he was able to consume solids; Mommy doesn’t cook. Mommy can re-heat, warm up, microwave, and order out. Cooking from scratch is completely unrealistic for someone with my skill set. I can research, I can write, I can teach, I cannot cook. It’s something passed down throughout the generations of women in my family. Some genetic traits relate to being good with electronics, public speaking, or artistic capability. Not my family. The complete inability to cook, along with aesthetic perfection, is the dominant genetic trait in our womenfolk.

When you’re this hot, you don’t need to cook.

That having been said, I still decided to go against the very structure of my DNA and give it a go, anyway. My son, my wonderful, understanding, and oh so forgiving son was just about to have a birthday. He’s a toddler and is relatively easy to please. My boy is also far more realistic and practical than his mother. But, damn it, I wanted to pretend to be one of those mothers for his birthday. The kind to make a meal with actual ingredients instead of just piercing holes in the microwavable package and pressing “start.” This was my son’s birthday, damn it! I will do this! Failure is not a bloody option!

Sort of a culinary kamikaze mission.

I began to plan. The palettes of most children make for easy meals. The odds that a child will fancy gently seared tilapia with a white wine sauce and a hint of a truffle reduction are pretty remote. More often than not, the kid will want something that can be found on any children’s menu. My son has an affinity for pizza, as most children do. This will lay the foundation for his college years when his low rent apartment is littered with empty pizza boxes and mostly empty cans of Old Milwaukee. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

What mother wouldn’t be proud of this?

Pizza was a good idea. How hard could it be? When you get down to it, a pizza is just a large cracker with tomato sauce and cheese, right? After everything is thrown together, toss it into the oven and program it for bake, or something. I had a plan. This must be how those cheeky women on the Food Network feel on their shows. That’s right, Sandra Lee, I understand now. I’ve learned the importance of correct preparation and following directions. Sort of. To tell the truth, I’ve only really started watching “Semi Homemade with Sandra Lee", because I have a thing for well built blonds. Sue me.

Has my full attention.

Why else would I watch Kendra ? The subtext or riveting character development?
At least I'm honest.

I searched Google to find the best pizza recipe on the interwebs. When I say “best” I mean easy. When I say “easy” I mean basically bakes itself. Going to market for one of those frozen pizza deals was not an option. I didn’t want to cheat. I’m a mother, sod it! Every mother should make a homemade meal for her child at least once in her life. Then, afterward, never do so ever again.

I had a list of ingredients to purchase. I was even going to make the dough from scratch. You heard me. 100% of this birthday pizza was going to be authentic. In one fell swoop, I can outshine all my female ancestors by actually preparing an edible meal. The problem, I found, was the complete and utter lack of confidence my impending meal creation inspired.

One by one, those I care about shook their heads as if I told them I wanted to build my own nuclear power plant out of toothpicks, cupcakes, and a tampon machine. They all cited historic cooking attempts that may or may not have resulted in fiery anger. One smart ass pillock (that’s a British insult, in case you were wondering) gave me a fire extinguisher as a gift. Ha, bloody, ha.

Hilarious.

When it came down to it, not even my own flesh and blood held much hope for this endeavor. I proudly told my son that I was going to make him his favourite meal in the world for his birthday. His eyes got big upon hearing the news. I fully expected praise to be lavished upon mother by son. Instead my son and his inhumane sense of practicality hit me with a perfect storm of guilt and inadequacy. “Oh, Mommy, no.” he said in a tone more serious than most children his age would have used after just being informed of birthday surprise of this caliber. He reached out and touched my arm as if to say

“Woman, my mother. Please do not undertake this challenge. We all know of your limits. Putting pan to burner is beyond them. Spare yourself the eventual feeling of ultimate failure and us from the inevitable wrath that will flow forth from you like spewing lava from an awakened volcano.”

Right, then. The world was against this. It was just me and my master plan. Everyone told Orville Wright he was crazy before he went out and invented his brother, Wilbur. They said the sound barrier could never be broken. It was. I will floor the naysayers by achieving my end goal, flawlessly. It’s no longer just a homemade pizza. It’s a symbol of second chances for shitty cooks everywhere. All that egotistical bollocks aside, ultimately, I want to do this for my son, whether he thought it was a good idea or not. I’m an awesome mother like that.

Think of this as my personal "Great Leap Forward."

I collected the necessary ingredients from the shop with relative ease. There was some confusion over the dough, however. Did you know that there is a plethora of different dough out there? I had no idea. Is there a difference? Where is the dough section? I figured it would be in the baking isle, but was sorely mistaken. Just cookies, brownies, and other shit that had nothing to do with what I was looking for.


I went to the bakery section in hopes that I could find dough there. Dough is bread, right? Well, it will be. It’s sort of like bread fetus, isn’t it? It’s not quite bread, but rather the stage before it becomes something you toast. Does that mean there is such a thing as bread abortion? Breadbortioin? What if someone decides they don’t want a loaf of bread after they have already kneaded the dough? That lump of dough would have been someone’s loaf of bread or bagel. Are there “right to risers” out there that fervently believe once a lump of dough is kneaded, it has the right to rise and become whatever pastry or strawberry jam vehicle it was intended to be. Where the bloody hell was I going with this?

May have never been.

After roughly twenty minutes of going from aisle to aisle at the store, I became visibly annoyed. Being a regular at this establishment (knowing I’m destructive if left to my own devices) an associate came over and straightened me out. Apparently, dough is in the freezer section. Who knew? I expressed my fear that there would be multiple steps involved with said dough. I was assured that it was completely ready for whatever I planned on throwing at it. I want to make my kid a pizza, but I’m not mad enough to make the dough from scratch. Not any more. I came to my senses.

Next thing I knew, I was setting my instruments of destruction up. One knife to cut the pepperoni? Check. Bags of shredded cheese? Check. Dough? You bet your ass, check. I unfolded the recipe and went headlong into it. Lord, there are a lot of directions here, aren’t there? Okay, knead and flatten dough. I have that covered. It’s rather fun beating the tar out of something that can’t fight back. I imagine this is how Joe Jackson felt, without all that mess down the road. I can beat the holy hell out of this dough and not have to worry about it posing for Playboy, exposing its misshapen breast during the Superbowl, or being accused of freely handing out “Jesus Juice” to kids in its bedroom.

Product of an abusive childhood.

My dogs and cat watched me from the doorway. They knew something was going down, but just weren’t sure what it was, yet. When it happened, they wanted to have front row seats. It’s like the extra sense animals have when a tornado is on the horizon. I guess, in this case, I was the tornado. Bloody animals.

"We know you're going to lose it, lady. It's just a matter of time."

Toss the dough? Really? I re-read the directions to make sure I wasn’t going daft. Yes, it says to toss the dough. Alright, I will. I’ve seen it done. You just throw it in the air and catch it, right? How hard can that possibly be?

Following the suggested method, I tossed the dough; over my head and straight into the kitchen sink. Shit! I debated whether or not I should just take the heap of sticky, mistreated dough out the sink and just dust it off. On second thought, I hear botulism is rather nasty. One probably shouldn’t pass along a foodborne illness to her child.

This was a test run. That’s what I told myself when I pitched the vexing lump of dough out the window. Unfortunately, I had forgotten I parked my car underneath. As if it had a mind of its own, the chunk of aborted pizza dough crash landed onto the windshield. Bloody bastard.

This will not help.

I then decided that cheating, without anyone knowing, isn't really cheating. I ran back to the market looking for answers. The same associate made a bee line towards me. It was almost as he expected me to come back, aggravated and defeated. He lead me straight away to a pre-made pizza crust. It was sort of like one of those pre-made pie crusts you buy when all you really want to do is pour filling into a shell. I bought three.

It's brilliant! You just take it out the bag and whop it onto the table.

I wasn't home for five minutes when I realized an important ingredient for pizza is tomato sauce. This time, I went to another grocer. I just couldn't bear to go back to the same one and reveal just how much of a culinary retard I truly am.

Finally. I have all the ingredients AND a pre-made pizza crust. I winged it, doing what I saw on television. Put the sauce on, cheese, peperoni. Thank Jesus. I stood there and looked upon my hard earned, fully prepared, pizza. The instructions told me to set the oven for 350 (or something like that) and throw it in. So I did.


Funny thing about baking; the oven actually needs to be pre-heated. So, essentially, for the amount of time allotted for a successful pizza to be properly baked, one should really make sure the oven is ready to go. Not, I. I had no idea what that little red light was. It said "pre-heat." Logically, I assumed that meant the oven was sufficiently heated. No. It apparently doesn't work that way.

Shit.

It was stone cold. I opened the oven door at exactly the halfway point to check it. The bloody cheese was just starting to melt. What the bloody blue hell? I re-read the instructions. Pre-heat? Yeah, the light was on. It was pre-heated. Right? Ah, fuck!

How the hell was I supposed to know the oven wasn't the proper temperature until the pre-heat light went OFF? That's ridiculous. I don't need a bloody light to tell me something is happening. I need it when that something is DONE. My fuel light isn't constantly on to tell me I have enough petrol. It blinks on when I need to fill the tank. An action is needed and a light flashes to alert me. Tosser.

I only want to see a light when the shit hits the fan- NOT when everything is hunky dory.

By this time my significant other and son came home. the boyfriend came into the kitchen just as I was about to throw the mutinous pizza out the window (completely forgetting about the consequences of doing something similar a few hours before). He quickly explained the logic behind the pre-heat light and talked me down from the proverbial ledge. The boy came in to give me a cheerful "Hello." I had to fake it. I couldn't let on that his mother was incapable of making one pizza in five hours. I know for sure it would come up in one of his future therapy sessions.

"I guess it all started when my mother tried to make me a pizza..."

This time I waited for the bloody pre-heat light to go OFF. Fucker. The kitchen looked like the aftermath of the Battle of Pusan Perimeter. Open plastic packages and remnants of dough were everywhere. Then, the most beautiful sound in the world echoed in the air. The little oven ding telling me that it was over. It was finished. The battle had ceased. Despite friendly suggestions like "Sweet Jesus! It's time to order Domino's" I triumphed. I proved I was better than a circular piece of dough with tomato sauce and cheese.

You smug bastard.

My son didn't get ill and actually liked the hard won pizza creation. I gave him a birthday hug and told him that, next year, he was getting cash.

That's right. One of these every year if I never have to make anything again.