REPOST! REPOST! REPOST!

I am about four months into my second pregnancy. I think about food now. A lot. Lately I have been ruminating on the subject of Girl Scout Cookies. Accordingly, I went back a couple years and found this post from spring of 2008.

How self-absorbed does one have to be to giggle at their own handiwork? You are looking at it, baby!

I have also included the comments because in the 3 or 4 years I have been blogging, this is the only negative feedback I have received to date. This is how I know that no one is reading my blog. Except for my mom. Because I told her to.

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The Changeling

It seemed like years ago I placed my order for Girl Scout Cookies. When I learned they had at long last arrived I began daydreaming about that first glorious moment in which I would tear open my box of Samoas . . .





Ahh . . . the texture, the aroma, the crunch . . . the happiness!


But my Samoas never arrived.

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Instead, I had unwittingly purchased a box of Carmel deLites. Since the packaging looked identical, I presumed that the Girl Scouts just changed the product name.

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Sadly, I could not have been more wrong.

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The Carmel deLite (shown above) is, at best, a sad and miserable excuse for a Samoa.

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This goes far beyond a mere name change, this is not the same cookie but an unholy abomination before God and my own taste buds.

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I have done a little digging and it seems that there is a slow and evil encroachment of the Carmel deLite into Samoa territory. Carmel deLites are the carp of the Samoa pond -- an insidious fish of a cookie that is pushing out the more tasty indigenous species.

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This affects all of us, people. Sure, you may be able to purchase the Somoa in your neighborhood today, but next year you may not be so fortunate. Then, instead of a delicious Samoa, you will find a Carmel deLite staring back at you with its soulless eye.

-----COMMENTS-----

Anonymous said...I was sad but for a much different reason. I ordered the same cookies and waited and waited and eventually forgot about them. Then, I started a diet and was very upset when my cookies showed up on my door step cause I can't eat them.

Amy

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Reluctant Kerry said...
Seems to me like you have some Samoas you can dispose of.

You have my address.

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Anonymous said...
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girl_Scout_cookie "Licensed baking companies can offer up to eight varieties of Girl Scout cookies [. . .] Each baking company names its own cookies." Furthermore,"Caramel deLites are also called Samoas."

They are the same darned cookies. Research next time. They only taste different in your head.

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Reluctant Kerry said...Hey Anon. Thanks for stopping by. Two things:

(1) if your are looking for well-researched writing and/or ranting, you have clearly come to the wrong place

(2) You seem quite knowledgeable regarding Girl Scout Cookies, could you hook me up with some SOMOAS (and not any of those gag-eliciting Carmel deLites) ???

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Anonymous said...
They are not the same cookie! They are made by different companies to different specifications and have different names accordingly. For example, Samoas use dark chocolate whereas the Delites use milk.

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Reluctant Kerry said...
Hello Anon, II. Thanks for visiting.

This post was a ridiculously long rant whereby I told YOU that that they are are not the same cookie. That's right. I. Told. You.

So the Carmel deLite has its own spec list? What is that list, pray tell?

(1) Produce product that looks similar to the beloved Samoas.

(2) Use milk chocolate in place of dark chocolate.

(3) Make these cookies as sad and abysmal substitute for Samoa as you can without violating any express provisions of the FDA.

I propose name change: Carmel dePress. They should come with a gooey Cymbalta filling in the center, that's what I say!

Validation!

I was puttering around to determine which search terms would yield this site as the first result on Google.

Oh yeah! I am the web's foremost authority on seepy buttholes.

Now I just need to see what all the buzz is about on the topic of sleepy buttholes.

Mmmm . . . fingers

I first encountered this admonition back at the 2006 Iowa State Fair.

Which made me wonder: whose fingers? my fingers? someone else's fingers? lady finger cookies?

Now that I have a child, it is comforting to know that this ambiguity has been cleared up.

YOUR fingers

Max was moments away from allowing a horse to eat his fingers off, fortunately he received the information he needed before it was too late.

Ahhh . . . Sometimes I Tickle Myself

I went to court today. After the conclusion of trial proceedings, the judge told a strange story of a shackled defendant who shocked the court by displaying a scar, which was located in an intimate area. My own sense of propriety failing, I made the following request:


ME: May it please the Court? Counsel would like to show the Court her C-Section scar.

JUDGE: Counsel’s request is adamantly denied!


I didn’t really want to show off my scar, but I always hate to lose a motion.

Instant Karma

I get bored from time to time, and when that happens I like to reach out and make connections with others. Quite often this means sending feisty, colorful, and sometimes blatantly obscene texts to Matt's pager.

As I send these, I imagine: Matt diligently working when his pager goes off for the thirty-seventh time that afternoon; he casually glances at the display, tries to not to react to my filthy little missive, and goes back to rendering excellent patient care.

It is truly one of my favorite things to do. At this point however, Matt has grown accustomed to my obnoxious prank and I really have to get creative to elicit much of a reaction. So it was that my last text to Matt was a well-crafted work of explicit literature. I will not tell you what the text said; suffice to say that I masterfully wove inside jokes with song lyrics with a healthy dash of crude profanity.

I giggled to myself as I sent off my evil text, and then returned to my work feeling quite refreshed and satisfied.

Then . . . my phone buzzed with a new message from my mother-in -law:

Oh. Sweet. Jeebus.

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While Matt may not have rolled on the ground laughing at my text, he most certainly did when he found out that I had accidentally sent it to his parents.

Who do you think you are fooling?

The item below may be sold in head shops, and the purveyor will swear up and down that it is intended for smoking tobacco . . .
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. . . but you and I both know for that this fine piece of hippie paraphernalia is intended for marijuana.
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Similarly, this interesting item is listed as a wig purifier, which is just insulting to this consumer's intelligence. Let us just call it what it clearly is:
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A DISPLAY BOX FOR SERIAL KILLERS!

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I read it for the articles . . .

I like to peruse Matt's medical journals. Not because I wish to stay abreast of current medical research, but because sometimes they have articles like this!
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Anal Spincteroplasty With Perineoplasty:

Managing Fecal Incontinence

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There is not a single word in that article title that is not hilarious.

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Sadly, if Karma ever catches up with me, I will undoubtedly be smitten with a seepy butthole for laughing at this.

Just Like Real Life

I spotted this ad with a cute little dollar sign couple. It struck a note with me.

The husband dollar sign is clearly the frugal member of the couple (read, tight-fisted skinflint). He is extending an arm around his wife, a patronizing gesture placing her under his frugal wing. The wife makes no attempt to return his embrace. Note the distance between the couple. She is obviously seething.

This is the sad state of this couple's relationship, turned tragically sour and resentful by the husband's oppressive frugality.

ARE YOU READING THIS MATT?!

Buy me a new sofa!

Bushwhacked

Am I just getting old and stodgy, or are commercials for women-specific products becoming progressively porn-ier?

Case in point:

TRIM STYLE?! Seriously?

YouTube, Baby Boomer Style

After receiving another dubious email forward warning me that I face imminent harm as the result of some new gang initiation plot, I headed to Snopes.com so that I could provide the debunking link to the email sender and let that person know they, and their kind, are full of crap.

This is probably why I don’t have many friends.

Anyhoo . . . I came across this ad while visiting Snopes.com:

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This ad is so un-enticing as to render it truly remarkable. What could possibly be more wearisome, more uninteresting than listening to stories on YouTube of the aging population and their insulin delivery mechanisms?

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This one comes close.

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This one is probably more interesting,

but likely more unpleasant.

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I suspect there is a lot of overlap between
Branson vacation stories and insulin stories.

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Grandma and Grandpa explain to young Jacob
that KY Jelly is not for his English muffin.

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These stories have terrible endings.

BYU Merchandising

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Max is too young to know it yet, but he is a University of Wyoming fan. While he was still gestating away, his mom was sewing Cowboy pennants for his nursery.

With potty training just around the corner, I cannot think of anything more suitable for Max to poop on.

I may just buy one of these BYU potty trainers over at Varsity Baby.

Now Max can learn to defecate and desecrate all at the same time!

Wyoming Pride . . . it's probably not for everyone

Let me begin by saying that I am truly proud of my Wyoming heritage, much in the same way President Obama still loves his racist grandmother.

You may recall my post regarding Wyoming’s sub-par Easter Egg. Much as Wyoming's Egg fell short in representing the talent and creativity of Wyomingites, the state continues to elect individuals to Congress who fail to reflect the intelligence of the state populace.

Behold:

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In Lummis' defense . . . the pronghorn is the fastest animal in NORTH AMERICA, which, sadly, may be as far as she considers to be the relevant portions of the world. A weak defense, I must concede . . .

What's up your butt?!

Got somthing irritating you?

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Good chance that you can find an image of that foreign body hiden in your rectum over at Wikidpeia.

Mystery solved!

I'm sorry, I didn't get a word you said, Mr. President

Presently, I am sofa-bound trying to take in President Obama's Address to Congress. I am CRAZY-distracted by Nancy Pelosi sitting behind Obama's left shoulder. She is wearing some retro-70's-fondue-party-avocado-green sweater outfit, blinking far more than is humanly necessarily, and appears to be sucking broccoli from her teeth.

Try as I may, I can't focus on anything other than her bizarre facial tics, and the gleeful way in which she continually pops out of her seat in applause as though her chair were spring-loaded.

Am I just being catty? Did anyone else find her distracting.

(If I find out she is suffering from tardive dyskinesia, I am going to feel like a jerk.)

Matt tells me these kind of things get to me because I have an overactive parietal lobe. I think I would have been better served had he specialized in plastic surgery rather than psychiatry.

Okay. Back to the Address.

Pet Causes

I guess everyone should get behind a cause about which they feel passionately.
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The site e-MANcipate.net is devoted to "accelerating the acceptance of male pantyhose as a regular clothing item"
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Ah . . . I must concede that mantyhose are quite striking!

I don't want to brag . . .

. . . that's not true at all, I most certainly do want to brag! Guess what I get to do tonight. Here's a couple hints:

(1)

(2)

That's right. I get to attend the World Premiere of "Mary and Max" and the Opening Night hoopla for the Sundance Film Festival. HOORAY!

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"Mary and Max" is a claymation feature about enduring pen-pals Mary (an 8-year-old misfit living in the suburbs of Melbourne, Australia) and Max (a morbidly obese 44-year-old New Yorker who suffers from Asperger's syndrome).

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I have my fingers crossed that I will run into Phillip Seymour Hoffman tonight where I will exclaim, "Do you know who I am?! I am a big fan of radio control!" I then look forward to being escorted out by security.

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Overall, this promises to be an exciting night!

Add it to the list

In this third installment of a series entitled "Plastic Surgeons I Won’t Be Using" . . .

. . . I openly declare my personal policy against physicians who use caulking guns as their instrument of choice.

So wrong for so many reasons

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Two words that make my insides churn:

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Hello, I am the office perv. Pleased to meetcha!

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Dear Websense filter personnel:

I am writing this letter in defense of my character and to deny using my office computer for inappropriate purposes.

By way of background, I recently read about a necklace that sold at auction for more than $2 million. Curious to find a photo of this pricey string of pearls, I ran a Google search with the following terms:

Try, if you will, to imagine my surprise when this innocuous search triggered the Websense porn filter.

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I am saddened to find myself in the position where I must affirmatively assert that my search for a "pearl necklace" was, in fact, literal.
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Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you that your first impression of "pearl necklace" was that of hard core pornography. Tell you what: why don't you get back to me when I run a search for something more blatantly disgusting, like "Cleavland Steamer."
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Get your mind out of the gutter Websense.
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Very Truly Yours,
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Reluctant Kerry

Post Sorbet

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There have been a number of things I have wanted to post lately, but I haven't. I just couldn't bring myself to return to my typical coarse and arguably tacky brand of wordsmithery following the last two posts of photos of my sweet innocent kiddo.

This post will serve as a buffer. A palate cleanser, if you will.

Okie-dokie, then. Moving on . . .