PLOG was the spawn of a meth bender and a gallon of cheap vodka, followed by an ill-advised trip to the local food market.

Lunching on $2 cans of soup seemed like a stroke of genius at the time, as did resting my naked body on the soft, cool packs of beef in the meat section. Ultimately, both choices proved to be questionable. I have no regrets nonetheless.

I've had my fill of soup, and I've said all I care to say about it. Therefore, PLOG has been taken out to the barn and humanely shot in the face with a 12-gauge shotgun. Twice.

Soup. It. Up.

When I was a mere scamp back in the early-to-late 1900's, I remember dreaming of the day that I could drive a car. Legally.

My dream car was not just any car, but a souped-up chick magnet that would frighten children, old people, and especially the parents of teenage girls. This ride would be an American-made, TADE-approved, steel stallion with an ear-bleed stereo and that would play heavy metal 42% of the time, Skynyrd 64% of the time, and second-base-facilitating rock ballads the other 87% of the time. The ballads would only play when I was in the company of a lady friend, and we'd be totally making out. Obviously.

60% of the time, it would work every time.

My souped-up mullet machine would have an engine that averaged 6 mpg, and provide me the horses I would need to light up the rear tires in a white cloud of smoke rivaled only by the one coming out of the driver's side window.

This rolling piece of rebellion would also have a radar detector that would give me free automotive reign on the streets of your town. But more importantly, it would reinforce my anti-authority attitude. There would be no better way for me to give John Q. Law the middle finger – except perhaps my actual middle finger, which I would also utilize.

This mag-wheeled beast and the music blaring from it would speak for itself, but there may be a place for a bumper sticker – as long as it was classy and spoke to my disposition. Something like "I rule, you drool" or "How's my driving? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT" or "I Heart Kitty Cats."

As you can see in the pic above, I was able to realize my dream.

My play date with Marko

Last Friday, Marko and I left the salt mines behind and went skiing. It was a pre-Valentine’s Day Bromance Extravaganza. The kind that dreams are made of.

Here is some footage I shot of Marko carving up the mountain. He has skill and grace that are unrivaled.

Additional documentation of our man date is shown above. That pic was taken of Marko and I on our last run before we headed into the lodge for some aprés-ski soup.

Our manes are untamed and we don't care who sees.

That's. Just. How. We. Roll.

Simply tragic.

Anyone who knows me knows that I like my chicken separated manually. In fact, It’s probably the one thing you’d walk away knowing about me if You and I were share an elevator. I doubt we’d even have to converse.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like robots and most things they contribute to society. I especially like how they scare old people. But I must draw the line when it comes to the mechanical separation of poultry.

Maybe I’m only saying this because my best friend died tragically in a chicken-separating machine at age 16. Or perhaps my opinion has been skewed somewhat because my college sweetheart left me for a guy who made millions by inventing a machine that separates chicken. Or maybe I’m biased because I am the child of a Guatemalan chicken separator and I saw first-hand how robots can take chicken-separating jobs away from hard-working, chicken-hating Americans. Especially the Guatemalan ones.

Tearing chickens apart by hand was probably the only thing my father really liked. Sure, he enjoyed going to bullfights on acid, and he was quite fond of black dress socks with compromised elasticity, but nothing brought him joy like his craft. Of course he "liked" his family, but he didn’t “like us like us.” At least not the way he liked his work.

The invasion of robots into the chicken separating industry tore my family apart like a chicken caught in some sort of device designed to mechanically separate it.

It’s tragic, I tell you.

Simply tragic.

I've been told that I'm full of it.

The epic poet Homer (Simpson) once said:
“I’m a rage-aholic. I just can’t live without rage-ahol.”

As YOU, my only reader pointed out, my postings of late have taken an angry turn. That’s because soup has turned me angry. And by angry, I mean a tightly wound ball of white lightning and rage that destroys everything in its path. And by tightly wound ball of white lightning and rage that destroys everything in its path, I mean a 5000 lb. bowling ball made of barbed wire and razor blades that’s been lit on fire and thrown down an alley of quadriplegic orphans on its way to smashing a house full of puppies.

And by that I mean I’m tired of canned soup. There is no variety that will cast crepuscular rays of soupy sunshine back through my gullet and into my totally ripped stomach.

This should not be a surprise. When I started this Journey, there was no guarantee that it would take me to a shiny, happy, special place where Lynyrd Skynyrd plays live 24/7 and monkey servants feed me wine from a lambskin bota bag. In fact, I was prepared to go into some of the darker depths of my soul along the way. In doing so, I hoped to gain more of an understanding of myself and my place in the Universe and perhaps become a better human being.

Not really though.

But I am tired of canned soup.

WEDNESDAY!! WEDNESDAY!!! WEDNESDAY!!!! A Caloric Cage Battle Royale!

The above pic was taken of me just before lunch today. It may be tough to tell by my facial expression, but I’m having a difficult time deciding between Price Chopper Fake Chunky Steak & Potato, and Price Chopper Fake Homestyle Chicken & Rice. It may also be difficult to tell that I’m wearing a sweet pair of leopard-skin grape smugglers with matching leg warmers. My apologies to YOU, my only reader, for not being able to share that visual. Your imagination will have to suffice.

Back to the Caloric Cage Battle Royale that happened in my mind and also for real...

It’s time to declare a victor. Only one can of sludge shall prevail! Due to federal statutes, a draw is not a possibility. Will Chicken & Rice put the Sleeper Hold on Steak & Potato? Or will Steak & Potato take Chicken & Rice down with its signature Souplex move? Which can of sodium-laced goop shall take the Glory and have the privilege of becoming solid waste in my lower intestines?!

Whichever can wins, one thing is certain: I lose.


Also, I stole the theme for this post from George.

At least it’s not fucking cabbage water.

I uttered those seven words to myself with each bite as the self-fulfilling prophecy self-fulfilled itself today. I may have even spoken those words aloud to a slack-jawed, sweater-vested passerby named Marko that gazed upon me in pity as I slurped my slurry.

At least it’s not fucking cabbage water.

Or brussels sprouts with balsamic vinegar and feta for that matter. What the F did we do to deserve such an olfactory pistol whipping? Nothing is what.

If this makes no sense to YOU, my only reader, fear not. For it makes no sense to me either.

Finally, Part II of a Plog-sanctioned competition that still isn't dwarf tossing.

A 50 lb. bag of industrial-grade disodium guanylate goes to the person who can tell me what's wrong with this advertisement.

To see a larger version, click here.

To see my family on vacation, click here.

To see Meghan's Puerto Rican love interest, click here.

Finally, a Plog-sanctioned competition that isn't dwarf tossing.

A 50 lb. cube of industrial-grade beef bouillon goes to the person who can tell me what's wrong with this advertisement.

To see a larger version, click here.

To visit the live webcam in my living room, click here.

To see a chicken with a beer shoved up its ass, click here.

You get nothing! You lose! Good day, sir!

CHARLIE: Is this your supper, Grandpa?
GRANDPA JOE: Well, it's yours too, Charlie.
CHARLIE: I'm fed up with cabbage water. It's not enough!

Oompa loompa doompa dee dawesome. That fucking line is totally awesome. If you don’t know what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks I’m talking about, watch this. (It happens at the 7:54 mark, so you may want to go grab a whiskey sour while it loads.)

According to my math, cabbage water is one step down from water with actual cabbage in it. This makes the dysenteric bowls of sludge that I’m forcing down on a daily basis seem quite extravagant.

Here's a conversation I can foresee having with myself:

SELF: Is this my lunch? Campbell's Old-Fashioned Vegetable Beef?
ME: Well, it’s yours too, Self.
SELF: I’m fed up with Campbell's Old-Fashioned Vegetable Beef. It’s not enough!
ME: At least it’s not fucking cabbage water!

Note to Self: I think I’m going to start a band just so I can call it Cabbage Water. It will be an a cappella metal band with Tejano influence. We will have unich go go dancers. We will have a sweet van. We will tour extensively throughout the western portions of the Dakotas. We will have an Icelandic contortionist as our opening act at select venues. On occasion, we will be far too inebriated to perform.

I said GOOD DAY!

Let's keep barley where it belongs.

In the hands of children. And the hell out of soup.

If you’re anything like me, you’re dangerously good-looking. And you like nachos. And macramé. And balloons. And dolphins. And balloons with dolphins on them. And stretchy pants. And the ease in which you can do karate kicks in stretchy pants. And you own a Bedazzler. And you have several pair of Bedazzled, stretchy, karate pants. And you like Mexican soap operas. And birds that play guitar. And you like sea shell sculptures. And Suzy, who sells sea shell sculptures by the sea shore in order to support her oxycontin habit. And you like mariachi bands. And vans with sweet airbrushed murals of howling wolves on the side. And you like Glenn Tipton more than K.K. Downing. And you like Black Pudding. And long lists. And starting sentences with “like” and “and.” And not making sentences complete and/or grammatically correct for that matter.

And you like standing up for causes you believe in. Like keeping barley the hell out of soup.

I feel we've done all we can do for this cause.

The best part about standing up for something is sitting back down.

Science you can actually use.

There’s some crazy shit that happens in the natural world. Like aurora borealis, red tide, and how a choice cut of free range clown meat can sometimes resemble the actual clown it was harvested from.

A more common occurrence is animal mimicry. There are three types of mimicry in the natural world, and I will make an argument for a fourth.

First type: Batesian mimicry. Named after some dude called Bates. This is basically when one punk ass species rides the coat tails of another species that is capable of totally f’ing up your program. For instance, the harmless king snake that looks like the venomous coral snake. You’re probably familiar with the old Scout saying: “Red and yellow: turn your vital organs to Jell-O. Red and black: total hack. With no game whatsoever.” King snake... pfft. King of what? King of Lame, that’s what.

Second type: Muellerian mimicry. Named after some dude called Mueller. This is when a whole group of critters (in this case, colorful rainforest frogs) get together and say: “Most frogs are total pansies, we admit. But a few of you hold third degree black belts, have hot girlfriends and sweat frikkin’ poison. Sooooo, we pansy frogs got to thinking and decided to start dressing like you badass frogs in the hopes that predators will stay out of our grills. And also, we think it will help us get laid.”

Third type: Self mimicry. Named after self. This is when a creature, usually a creature with low self-esteem, gets a sweet tat to make it look like something else. An example is a butterfly that gets its wings inked to make them look like eyes of a larger creature. This is the butterfly's way of saying to a potential predator: “At first glance, you may think I’m something bigger, but if you look closely, you’ll see a butterfly that’s lonely and hurting inside. And probably quite delicious.”

Proposed fourth type: Price Chopper mimicry. Named after Brazilian paleontologist Llewellyn Ivor Price, who rode a sweet chopper. I'm guessing. This type of mimicry is when a food store chain makes their private label soup look very similar to a brand name soup, and then places their private label products on the shelf right next to the brand name products in an attempt to fool their loyal customers. For shame, Price Chopper, for shame. May you get bit by a coral snake while licking a poisonous frog as insecure butterflies peck your eyeballs out.

Full disclosure: While soup shopping, I was fooled at first glance. Was I wicked hammered on SoCo? Probably. I decided to try a few of the counterfeit offerings nonetheless. While they both were significantly cheaper, they both were significantly disgusting.

To the Scouts of America and certain parts of Canada, this may one day save your life:

It may say “Chunky,” but it’s probably made from monkey.
A label that’s blue can make a fool outta you.
And you may save a buck, but they’re nasty as can be.

Sing it with me.

Plants on the ground
Plants on the ground
Lookin' like a fool witcha plants on the ground.
Hey, get them plants off the ground.

And get that can of soup off the ground while you're at it. That's a less-than-optimal place to store food items.


Fuck, if I'm not running out of material.