Killing Me Sweetly Part II- Sugary Tooth Extractors

There are some things in this world that even when they are not all that good, they are still somewhat enjoyable. Examples would include pizza and sex. Even less-than stellar intercourse that does not result in multiple orgasms is still better than no sex. At least that's the way I feel. You would think candy should fall into this category. After all, it contains sugar, which is the universal feel-good compound that makes all the right chemicals surge through our beleaguered brains. Unfortunately, there are items in the candy world that take us down the road to saccharine perdition, and often times, that road is paved with the expensive dental work or cavity-laden molars of their victims.

The Gouda today will chastise the candies that try hardest to keep the world's dentists in business:

Milk Duds and/or Riesen
JuJubes, Starburst, Now & Later

I mean... what the fuck? Where does the joy lie in rigid, sweet clumps of misery adhering to the cracks and crevices of one's chompers? These virulent rogues of the confectionary world violate the one rule I have for the enjoyment of any foodstuff:

If more time trying to get the crap out of my teeth or out of its natural encasement must be spent than actually chewing, swallowing, and enjoying said foods, it's not worth eating. Life is short, people. I'd rather spend it living off the nourishment I'm putting into my body than fighting with it before ingesting it. Other foods falling under this category include sunflower seeds in the shell, shellfish that has not been cracked open in advance, ribs, and corn on the cob. It's not that I don't eat these things, it's just not something toward which I tend to gravitate first. But let's save those offenders for another post and focus on the sweet stuff.

It's not that the above-mentioned candies don't taste good. I love the combination of caramel and chocolate. No- check that- I want to drown myself in it. I also enjoy the fruity fakeness of the Jujubes and Starbursts, although they don't really trigger in me the "I'm going to die from the sheer lust I'm experiencing from eating this" vibe.

So even if it tastes alright, the act of eating a piece of Riesen, for instance, is akin to using a pair of hedgeclippers to trim my fingernails. Why go to all that trouble and potentially disasterous result by eating that when I could so much more easily swoon myself into the titillating utopia of sucrose saturation by eating one or two (okay, a dozen) of something like, say, a Hershey's Kiss?

I do have a grudging admission, though. Maybe one good thing about candies like this is that by their very irritatingly laborious nature, they halt the tendency to binge. Of course, my tendency to binge (or eat, period) would also be halted if I had to make an emergency trip to the dentist to have the amalgam shoved back into my upper-right bicuspid. I'd rather just not go there.

I almost convinced myself to concede defeat on my own point, but not now!

No... no... Molar-adhering candies are officially dead to me, and I'm sticking to it, dammit!

Now... where are my Kisses?

An Annoyance of Apocalyptic Proportions...

Getting goods from Point A to Point B often involves some kind of insulation from the shock of transport, be it a bumpy ride in a truck or the rough hands (or boots) of a disgruntled shipping clerk. There is an array of options at our disposal, from bubblewrap to these little strung together bags of air I've been seeing more recently. Those are all well and good. Bubblewrap can be rolled up and stored away for later use. Or popped during one of those fits of boredom that seems to require a form of repetitious stress relief. There is something particularly pleasing about that latter activity. So pleasing, in fact, that bubblewrap might be considered a Talisman.

But there is one packing substance that causes me to go through convulsions of disgust, frustration, and downright irritation from the tips of my toes to the ends of my eyelashes every time I open a freshly shipped box:

Ah yes, the stryofoam peanut. You know, maybe I am just having mental issues with things that pretend to be peanuts that really aren't, but there is something so inherently disturbing to me about these viscious little vittles that makes me want to scrape my throat raw with screams of outrage. I wouldn't call it a phobia so much as a source of unending irritation at their lack of practicality, their considerable bulk in that they cannot be stored compactly, their tendency to break apart and stick to your clothes when you're rooting through them, and worst of all- that squeaky rustling sound they make when the kernels rub together that produces needly little vibrations that worm their way in through my ear drums, tickling the little hairs of my inner-ear, making me writhe in revulsion.

Seems kind of extreme, I guess. I'm certain that this is a little quirk of mine that many people do not share. All I know is that any joy I feel when I receive a long-awaited package is drained away like a plug pulled too soon from a warm bath when I see the goods swimming in a sea of styrofoam. In fact, clouds of wrath gather across my sunny psyche while tiny, silver little blades of fury shoot from my pupils. I am even hesitant to reach in and pull the item out of the box because I know the fucking little pellets are going to go spilling out everywhere, and then I have to wonder how in the hell I'm going to get rid of them.

So I really really dislike these Nuts of The Apocalypse. In fact, I absolutely loathe them. I appeal to all those who have to ship a package to my house to please have mercy on me now that you know how I truly feel about them. I know I can probably do something creative with them. Some goofy craft project with the kids, or maybe break them apart and cover my lawn in fake snow. I can probably even drop them off at the UPS store or some other place that deals in domestic styrofoam terrorism, but I'm just saying that I don't even want it to get to that point. At the risk of sounding like one of those crazy people on Maury Povich who belts shrieks of terror at the sight of a cotton ball, I'd rather not have to be forced to touch them.

Go ahead and laugh. Just... go ahead!

Killing Me Sweetly Part 1: Circus Peanuts

Is that title not confusing enough?

I figured that there are several candies out there that need to die a painful death, and there are too many to fit in a single post. So Memoirs of a Gouda is pledged to do a multi-part investigation on Friday's Leave it Dead column on the legion of tooth-rotting gastronimic nightmares from our childhood. As opposed to the tooth-rotting, gastro-orgasmic treats of love that we want to keep.

What inspired me to go down this path, you ask? Well, as I was swooning through a mental climax that can only be inspired by creamy mashmallow covered with chocolate and cashews, otherwise known as a Rocky Road Bar, I found myself wondering what could possibly kill this moment.

And out of nowhere, a Circus Peanut popped into my head. You know what they are- the fake, foamy, formidably funknacious, fucking GROSS candies that look like this:


I know they aren't "dead" in the sense that my regular Friday entry typically requires, but I think I need to work this bit of mental anguish out. To not "leave it dead", but to once and for all make them "dead to me". I saw some of these disgusting capsules of evil dangling in a cellophane bag in the corner gas station just last night, and I had my typical flashback involving my first bite of the pugnacious puffy peanut. It was in the third grade, and the girl at the desk next to me asked if I wanted a piece of candy. Upon my eager nodding, as any healthy child in elementary school is wont to do, I accepted in my hand the finger-like, flesh-colored morsel and took my first bite, whereupon the dire urge to vomit assailed upon me like a pair of rough cops on Rodney King. I remember looking at my friend, grinning sheepishly, placing the entire peanut in my mouth, and feigning joyful chewing with all of the skill of a taster on the Iron Chef who has just sampled a spoonful of salmon roe ice cream. When she looked away, I immediately removed said peanut, now tacky with sucrose-laden juvenile saliva and tried to figure out what to do with it. In a fit of ingenuity that would only befit an 8-year-old, I plastered it to the underside of my desk, where I promptly squashed it with my fingertips, like a giant piece of chewed bubblegum. I flattened it as much as I could, and there it stayed for the remainder of the school year, and as far as I know, for years after that.

I imagine that desk now lies rotting in the bottom of some landfill, but that mutilated, petrified circus peanut remains as intact as ever, holding my DNA like a solid piece of amber, only it's been avoided by every specimen of bug, mold, and vermin that exists in such places. Nature will not reclaim what is not of this planet, I am convinced. And I'm also convinced that the Circus Peanut should forever reside in the Hall of What Should Never Have Been and What Never Again Will Be.

Stay tuned next week when The Gouda investigates another conspiracy likely cooked up by evil dentists. The Easy Tooth Extractors known as Ju-Ju-Bees and Milk Duds.

Melons of the Apocalypse That Aren't On Pam Anderson's Chest

It's like the little fucker is grinning at me...

Awhile ago I talked about how olives were Satan's dingleberries, and I seemed to get an equal amount of validation and disagreement on that to help me realize that I am not, in fact, crazy.

Now I need your concensus on another food item that rankles my gastronomic sensibilities to the very core:

Melons.

Namely, cantaloupe and honeydew. Watermelon is just on the brink of being acceptable, but I have to be in the mood for it. It has a fibrous texture that has a tendency to bother me on occasion, but on a hot summer day, its abundant, mildly sweet juiciness is a godsend.

Honeydew is a step below watermelon but only moderately so. I recently made a fruit salad that had honeydew, blueberries, and mango all tossed in a lime-ginger reduction that was fantastic. The dressing had a way of masking what I have come to view as a "garbage" flavor emanating from these dastardly orbs.

This brings me, however, to the ultimate offender. The Hannibal Lecter of fruits, otherwise known as... Cantaloupe.

Oh killer of joyous sustenance consumption!

Oh vile, malicious melon of mirthful malevolence!

You reek of rot, and taste like taint! Be gone from my presence, oh orange-hued perniciousness, and leave only in your wake a withering rind to remind the world that there is such a thing as elemental evil, for that is your only value!

Perhaps when I've restored my smiting power after this little rant, I will go after the citrusy Damien to the melony Satan: Grapefruit. Until then, I only have this left to say to the melons of the world:

You're dead to me.

3 Car Fads of Shame...

A car is often someone's platform of self-expression, and people will spend thousands of dollars customizing their vehicles to set them apart from the other motorists out there. Sometimes, you come across real works of art, usually indicative of someone who put thoughtful consideration not only into the modifications, but whether or not they suited the vehicle. Often times though, customization ends up being outright automobile abuse, and if the car had the ability to speak, it would be screaming like Pat Robertson in a gay bar. Right now I'm just going to single out a few aesthetic offenses, and I'll let you all try to come up with some more. Lord knows, there is no shortage of them out there.

Like Pamela Anderson, there's something a little fake up top...

1. The Fake Convertible Top: Face it folks, you're not fooling anybody. Having a car with a roof that looks like it might come down is not making you look as cool as someone who has a car with a roof that actually does. In fact, it's making you look like a downright nimrod, but I am not just going to attack the driver on this one. Perhaps he/she bought the car used and they had no choice but to accept the blunder. Fair enough. How about the guy who actually said: "Hey, it would be too much work to make an actual convertible, but we can getcha halfway there!" Yeah, halfway to Dumbville.

Are you faux wheel?

2. Wheel Woes: In most cases, outfitting your car with a new set of rims isn't terribly cheap, particularly when you have the desire to get all fancy. A lot of people can't afford to plop down a few grand on the set they really want, but rather than be content with the factory standard while saving the dough, there are some folks who are willing to commit the equivalent of basting a poop kabob with a urine marinade and that is: Plastic Wheel Covers. Oh the humanity. Getting caught with these bad boys is like your girlfriend finding a sock in your shorts. Is there really a factory wheel that is ugly enough to require the attachment of these fancy frisbees? My advice? Wait it out for the real thing, people.

Hey, won't you just go? Away?

3. Pissed to Death: How many damn things can Calvin pee on? Seriously. When I see one of those decals, I don't care what the kid is pissing on, I just want to grab my sharpest key and scrape away. Or at least find a decal of Calvin just peeing so I can place it above the OTHER peeing Calivn. Now that would do the trick!

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Moviegoers I'd Like to Assassinate With Poisoned Darts Blown Out of My Giant Coke Straw

It's inevitable that when you stick several dozen strangers into a dark room together, there will arise an occasional situation where you will get to imagine your deepest, darkest fantasies about what violent acts you'd like to perform on another human being, and then hate the fact you live in a society that insists on a system of law and order which prevents such fantasies from coming to fruition. At least without an accompanying prison sentence.

Freakin' law and order! Gosh!

Let's break the offenders down into categories and I will let you the readers choose the proper, befitting punishment.

The Loud Talker: Do you ever notice that The Loud Talker is a species of sub-human who only likes to perform its visciously infuriating mating call while behind people who are trying to actually pay attention to the movie? Why is this, exactly? Years of research have yet to bear this answer out, but I'm beginning to think that they and their close relatives, The Loud Joke Crackers, have been left out of the latest clinical trials on drugs for the treatment of advanced Dipshitosis, and that is truly a shame. Perhaps it's because scientists are reluctant to enter the ethical gray areas associated with testing meds on retarded people, but that is only a guess.

The Snorer: I can think of so many other places I'd rather take a nap, especially if I was aware that when I slept I sounded like a rhino choking on a puppy. I could blame this problem more on the makers of boring films, but if you are actually snoozing through Mission Impossible 3- a movie that plays on the nervous system like a three year old on a diet of Jolt and crank, you have a serious problem and you should stop making the rest of us suffer with you.

The Bringer of Children: This is not a generalized complaint. This is dedicated to the assclowns who bring their 5 year olds to a screening of Sin City because it's a "comic book movie." Perhaps they think the R stands for "Romping Good Time." And maybe they think that the kid will feel as happy as daddy does watching Jessica Alba dance that way (and maybe mommy too because let's face it, that was pretty damn hot) and that they are being "cool" parents by not being so uptight about what movies the kids watch. Look, I'm not going to debate the merits, or lack thereof of letting kids watch R rated films. I watched plenty of them with my parents when I was growing up. It's just that my parents let us watch whatever we wanted at HOME because they realized that some people don't feel comfortable watching folks getting their brains blown out while knowing a freaked out or bored second-grader is sitting next to them. This also goes to the parents who took their kids to The Passion of the Christ because somehow the Precious Moments bible stories weren't effective enough in the whole indoctrinating business.

And finally:

Cell Phoners: I must address you directly, because it's that important. I know maybe you're thinking that the endless requests by the movie theater to turn off your cell phones before the movie starts are just about as meaningless as the invitations to visit the concession stand for some $6 popcorn, but please- for the love of all that is good and right in this world (and you know such things are beginning to dissipate faster than our oil supply), STOP pissing on my weekly moviegoing experience by thinking that your phone call is more important to the 10 people sitting near you than what is on the giant screen with the moving picture on it. I don't care how much the movie sucks. Your Sir Mixalot ringtone will never be a better alternative.

Ever.

Thank you for your courtesy. Please enjoy the show.

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Celebrities Who Give Their Kids Stupid Names...

It's a given that most rich, famous people have ids that make my three-year-old appear patriarchal by comparison. Of course if I had enough money to buy God, I'd probably think I should be a character in the Bible too. But that's all beside the point.

Living life by the pleasure principle might make for a fun night out on the town, but these short-sighted people are failing to recognize that they are spawning a generation of children who are going to grow up having their asses beaten senseless by the offspring of people who live in the bubble of reality.

It's not that it's bad to have a name that is unusual, if not distinguished. There are certainly a ton of Allisons in the world, so it can be refreshing to hear something different from time to time, but it takes a real ego trip into the stratosphere for someone (like Sylvester Stallone) to name their kid Sage Moonblood. I actually like the name Sage. But Moonblood? Why do I envison some kid with pointy teeth drinking thirstily from someone's carotid? Okay, so that one is relatively mild. How about Rob Morrow naming his daughter Tu? Tu Morrow.

Cute. Thankfully she's a girl with the option to take her husband's name, if she so chooses.

Then... there is Gwyneth Paltrow. Already naming her first child Apple (imagine in high school all the guys who are going to be talking about getting a piece of "Apple Pie"), her newest addition has been blessed with the moniker Moses Martin, making her a two-time offender for wishing repeated lunch money theft upon her children.

But let's get down to the weirdest of the weird:

Jason Lee (who is now claiming his name is Earl) begot Pilot Inspektor. Penn Gillette of the comedy duo Penn and Teller named his daughter Moxie Crimefighter, because apparently he thinks his daughter isn't an actual person who will have to grow up with that name, but the object of some inky comic book fantasy.

But who knows- maybe some of these kids will grow up embracing their unusual labels. Already the offspring of people who are outside the mainstream, they might use it as a way to further distinguish themselves as a separate entity from their parents. But I'm also being optimistic. Parents who are hellbent on branding their children with the hot irons of their own selfish desires through naming choices and other rituals best not mentioned here are essentially playing dice with the feelings of actual people. It's a way of thinking that is more myopic than my 75-year old grandmother. I mean, come on- Audio Science? Yes, that is a real name.

Save the funny name for your dog and cat. Speck Wildhorse would be a great name for a Chihuahua.

Not John Mellencamp's son.