Subourbon Mom

Cannibalism – Why Roadkill is Your Best Option
January 7, 2016, 2:27 am
Filed under: Misc. Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,


First let me say I am not a hunter – I know I could never look an animal in the eyes and shoot it, unless a) I was starving, b) the animal was suffering, or c) it was attacking me. (Hubby disagreed and said I couldn’t even then.)  With deer hunting season in its final throes, there’s been a lot of discussion where I live about the different tactics for hunting and cleaning deer to keep the meat from tasting gamey. The same day as one of these discussions was going on, while in the gym I saw one of those documentary channels feature stories on cannibalism – it must be the impending cold weather that makes producers think people are considering it. So, as I was listening to yet another dissertation on hunting, the two subjects merged in my weird brain, and I wondered if the same principals of keeping meat form being gamey would apply to cannibalism.

I have the answer to that particular problem, and it could apply to both regular hunting and Cannibalism – not that I’m taking part in a Donner dinner, or planning on hangin’ with Hannibal.

To be brief, I learned that to prevent gaminess in your meat, the animal should be killed quickly, and not chased for long – too much lactic acid builds up and creates the gamey taste. My solution? Road kill.

It’s the perfect solution – it offers the element of surprise, no chasing (unless you’re a really bad driver), and the convenience of having carcass transportation at your fingertips.

Note to self: Just because you are thinking about something doesn’t mean you should Google it.


I now have images in my head that can’t be erased. This must be how Daniel Tosh feels after a season of Tosh.0.

First, there was a link to “Why Cannibalism is Bad for You.” Um…were enough folks actually considering this that someone had to write an article on it? The main reason that stuck with me (and there were quite a few), of course, is that Americans as a culture are not a lean protein. In fact, I think we’re probably the bacon of the Cannibalism diet.

Second, I had it confirmed that there are some sick, sick people out there. Apparently, one guy in Germany put out an ad for another male, 18-39 who might be interested in having him eat him. Now maybe it was a colossal miscommunication, but somebody answered it – AND AGREED TO IT. Maybe it’s just me being naive, but wasn’t there a point in that evening when maybe it was time to say, “Hey man, I don’t think this is what I signed up for?”

And finally, there was an actual recipe site. I won’t print it here because I have to draw the line somewhere. But it was actually pretty funny.

So what did I really learn from all of this? Stop watching cheesey documentary channels while I’m at the gym, and get to work losing some weight – I definitely do not want to be bacon.

My Beef with Ben and Jerry’s

Unknown-1I’ve got a serious issue with Ben & Jerry’s.  Twenty-five years ago, Hubby and I spent a lot of our college dating time riding around in the shuttle he drove for extra money, eating Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch.  This year, on our 20th anniversary, Hubby went out for some Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, and came home with…Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Toffee Crunch.

It was NASTY.

We Googled why they changed, and apparently they were feeling guilty about the state of America’s health, and of developing country’s economies, so they changed to a healthy version from a free trade country.

Um, news flash, Ben & Jerry’s:  if I’m eating Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, chances are I’m not too worried about my health.  And just for you capitalists out there, Ben & Jerry are missing a major point: if it tastes nasty (and it does), people won’t buy it. Then you’re not helping anybody.

Hubby sent a nasty-gram to B&J, and they kindly sent us some coupons. But what we really want is our flavor back–so please, Ben & Jerry, stop researching ways to make “Fish Food” flavor out of salmon for those good omega-3s, and bring my Coffee Heath Bar Crunch back.

What A Crock

In the days immediately following Christmas, I turned the national news on and saw that the scrubs were in for the usual anchors.  I should have known right then to just turn it off, but like a driver passing a wreck, I couldn’t look away. I watched as some intern’s work went out over the air, and I cringed.


The anchor was reporting on the delays UPS and Fed-Ex experienced during the holidays, explaining that bad weather, a shortened shopping season and the massive on-line purchases contributed to the delays. Naturally, it followed that they would interview someone who had been inconvenienced. Unfortunately, they chose to interview one of their employees, who was complaining that the dozen or so fresh lobsters she’d ordered for her Christmas Eve dinner were delivered after the event, and her Christmas was ruined.

I’m sorry…a dozen fresh lobsters?

Wow. Her life is HARD.

Nice choice, editorial staff. Way to make a point.

Disgusted, I turned off the news and continued to avoid the holiday clean-up ritual by incessantly playing Candy Crush and Pet Rescue Saga.

A few days later, I was surfing FaceBook (more procrastinating), and I came across the following news report:

Ohio Wife Torches Husband’s Truck After Getting Crock Pot and Cheap Lingerie for Xmas  (

DAYTON — Police arrested 34-year old Tracy Waters yesterday morning after she allegedly set fire to her husband Dave’s 2013 Chevy Silverado Crew Cab in a rage over her Christmas gifts.

“He gave me a slow-cooker and these red nylon crotchless panties with a push-up bra,” Mrs. Waters told police.

“The bra had tassels for fuck sake. Tassels.”

Police have charged Mrs. Waters with arson, assault with a weapon (“a 4-gallon ceramic crock pot with corn-on-the-cob pattern”) and using foul language in public.

Mr. Waters told the Dayton Daily News that he was excited about his gifts for his wife and doesn’t understand why she became angry and turned violent.

“Good food, good lovin’, and a good truck were all I wanted for Christmas,” said the 37-year-old warehouse worker sporting a swollen-shut right eye.


Seriously, you can’t make that stuff up.

These are the people I want to see being interviewed on the national news. When I read the article out loud to Hubby (before thinking it through that our daughters were also in the car), nobody asked why nylons would be crotchless, or why anyone would want tassels.  I was grateful and horrified at the same time.

Hopefully, they also now know that a crockpot counts as a deadly weapon.


My Cups Runneth Over

The other day I heard someone say “my cup runneth over.” The expression (which comes from Psalms 23:5) means having more than enough for your needs.  Well, I’ve begun to think we all have cabinets full of cups, but not all cups have good things in them—some of them are delicious, and some are just nasty. Too bad those things aren’t kept in shot glasses.

We all have the cup of good luck and good times, which I like to picture as a flute of champagne, bubbling over the rim onto a dinner jacket or down the front of a cocktail dress, especially at weddings and celebrations (for celebrators on a budget, make it pink Asti Spumante). It makes us happy and laugh a lot, and dance inappropriately at weddings—best of all, it rarely leaves a stain.

The cup of jealousy is a no brainer–crème de menthe. It’s a vile shade of green, and can even ruin something as sweet as vanilla ice cream.

The cup of anger can be filled with lots of things, but my choice would be beer. There might be some arguments, but hear me out.  Beer makes people loud, and sometimes aggressive. If beer drinkers don’t get aggressive, they get tired and go to bed before the party’s over. When someone’s red solo beer cup is too full, the beer slops out over the edge and onto someone else’s flip flops, pickup truck, or stadium seat.  It leaves a sticky residue that stays around for a long time (have you ever smelled a fraternity house?) and makes your shoes squeak, reminding you of what happened.  And when you try to empty your red solo cup by drinking it, beer makes you feel bloated inside, and keeps you up all night when you finally break the seal and try to let it out.


The energy cup is filled with…what else? Coffee! When your coffee mug overflows it’s annoying–probably as annoying as you are to those whose cups are only half-full. It’s even more annoying when you spill a $4 cup from Starbucks–then you’re annoying and out $4.

The cup of youthful sex is filled with peach schnapps or Boones Farm. Lots of people drink it when they’re younger, and never really get over the experience. Their stomachs still curdle at the memories.

The cup of mature sex is bourbon, in a highball glass—sometimes it makes you laugh, sometimes it makes you loud, and sometimes it makes you sleep when you’re done emptying it.

We also have the cup of love, which for me would be filled with hot chocolate—it’s warm, sweet and makes you feel happy and full inside. It also helps you sleep at night.

Everybody has a cabinet full of cups, and at one point or another, they all runneth over. When it happens, choose wisely who you spill the contents on—friends don’t mind a little beer every now and then, people will laugh and grab you into a giddy hug when you spill your champagne, and most folks will be okay when your hot chocolate runneth over, because even your residual chocolate tastes good when they suck it out of their favorite shirt.


Magic Turkey (or How I Lost My Mind On My Family)

IMG_0888Ah, the end of the school year approaches, and with it comes the total loss of control over my schedule. Along with drooping peonies and humidity that makes me move around like an amoeba, comes the inevitable barrage of end-of-the-school-year-things-to-remember: sports banquets, teacher gifts, coach gifts, graduations, overlapping sports teams’ schedules, and the ever-popular “We-Must-Get-These-Done-Before-Exams-Projects” that require a dozen trips to the craft store and something called foam board.  Add to that the end-of-year-things-to-remember as a teacher, and my brain just about exploded. (Even the hyphens are on overload this time of year!)

So, I did what any normal, southern mom would do.

I lost my mind on my family.

I’m a big fan of the phrase “control what you can control.” Apparently, what I decided I could control this week was the distribution and consumption of deli turkey meat in our home.

Historically speaking, every time I’ve bought it in the past, the family might eat a little of it, then leave it alone until it turns an odd, greenish hue, roughly the same shade as the sky before a tornado. Even The Dog turns her nose away.  For months, I have refused to purchase anymore deli meat, and for months my loved ones would periodically remark that I never buy the “good turkey” anymore, and they would LOVE to fix more meals themselves if only I would provide them with the means to do so—the magic ingredient? Deli Turkey.

The other day, in a fit of generosity and optimism, I bought the Magic Turkey and announced that it was awaiting their pleasure in the fridge.  Two days went by and I made another announcement. On the fourth day, the Magic Turkey still lay there, neatly wrapped and taped.  Nobody touched it.

Finally, Hubby pulls out the Magic Turkey and decides to use it on a BLT, exclaiming, “Hey! I’m going to use this turkey. Does anybody else want to?”

Then he sniffed it.

“Are you sure you want to eat it?” I asked, arms crossed, a dangerous glint in my eye. “It’s been in the fridge for FOUR days. I know how you feel about leftovers.”

Hubby looked puzzled. “This is the first time I’ve seen it,” he said.

“Seriously?” I snapped. “I’ve been announcing that it’s in the fridge for the last four days, and no one could be bothered to use it.”

Sensing he’d messed up but not sure why, Hubby wisely went quiet.

From the couch came Daughter #1’s helpful voice: “You only told us two days ago. You never said four.”

And from Daughter #2: “You’re under-exaggerating it.”

I stomped around the kitchen, thinking how ungrateful they all were, how thoughtless when I was trying to work within a budget, and arguing out loud with them over when I informed them the Magic Turkey was purchased.

Trying to smooth things over, Hubby asked, “Does anyone else want some turkey on their BLT?”  Daughter #1 raised her hand, and Hubby commenced making her one.

As I cleaned and wiped and slammed things around to make myself feel better, I heard Hubby say, “There’s only one piece left—anyone want it?”

I stopped and spun around and shrieked, “You can’t eat it all at once!”

There was a moment of silence—only Carson Daly from The Voice could be heard in the background.

Finally, Daughter #1 peeked over the couch and said, “What’s wrong with you? Do you want us to eat it or not?”

Daughter #2 chuckled, and the absurd moment was over.  I still felt vaguely put-upon, as my mom would say, and swiped at the counters some more. What was wrong?  Nothing.  I was just overwhelmed and chose the wrong thing to try to control.

I recently told one of The Daughters that you can’t control what other people think or say about you—you can only control how you react to them.  Next time, I think I’ll try to take my own advice and control my temper. After all, they’re the people I love the most.

Bless their hearts.

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