Why I Love Wonder Bread

He’s Delicious!

Why I Love Wonder Bread
by Antenna Wilde
12/3/09

It’s like biting a flour-cloud. Softer than a marshmellow, yet strong enough to hold your turkey in place. Leftover Thanksgiving turkey with lettuce, tomato and mayo… pinch of salt and pepper. Yes, Wonder Bread, that malleable-fluff-bread, complaisant actor in the movie called, Sandwich! Where would we be without it, as a society, a culture, a people?

I remember as a child, my father bringing it home; held soft and safe under his arm like a fragile Christmas package. My mother, however, was aghast. She said it had no fiber, no nutrients, no validity. My father flipped the plastic bundle around, red-white-and-blue, revealing the vitamin-enriched “fact” sheet: Vitamin D, calcium and Riboflavin; Iron, Thiamine and Niacin.
“Hogwash!” she cried, “It’s unnatural!”

Mother was right, it is unnatural, and father was right, it is vitamin enriched, but they’re both wrong. They missed the point, which is that, Wonder Bread is not made to be healthy, or natural, or even delicious. Wonder Bread is made to be a carrier for deliciousness, the altar upon which we lay our sacred fillings and processed deli meats. In essence, it merely amplifies that which you put within it. On its own, Wonder Bread isn’t that great, but add a mere slice of American cheese—or any kind of cheese you like—between two of those white fluffy pillows of Wonder, and grill it with butter in a frying pan, well, wait… I’ll be right back!

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llama Kill by Cousin Inbred

Antenna Wilde welcomes special guest blogger, Cousin inbred from Myspace.com

llama Kill, a Retort
By Cousin inbred
11/21/09

So Purdy Poo done think she can go steelin the spot-lite wit her storeeze of poopin lambas, and how rightieous she is by settin ‘em free? Well, yer cuzins got sumpthin to say bout that., cuz it just so happens that I waz the one drivin the pick-up truck that killed them lambas, and i didn’t feeel bad about it one buit. Fact is, I fed my whole family wit thos lambas, cuzons and all.

I waz drivin the trusty ol Chevy on route 2, same as any night after workin the night shift. It waz 6AM i rememebr cause that’s when I always have a “just-got-off-werk” shot off Jaxk Dansliels (special reserve) And these giant turkeys come staggering stupid-like across the road, and I hits em intenshunal-like cause i’m all happy when i gets a good road kill fer free, no worries on the highway gettin it fressh right there. But these lambas were big ol heavy fuckerz! HA! You shoulda seen them smack dab BAM fuckin SLAM on the hood and roll on out over to the sides of the road. One was dead fer sure and the other was brethin coughy rasp until i took my shotgun an plugged his head real good and overflow.

So i skinned em at home, gut em clean an fixed up the periferals. We called lots of people, lotz came. Cuzon greg came by wit some grease form Amy Bahkers and we made all kinds of funny edibles. Point is, you can feed a great many peoples with 2 llambas. Purdy Poo’s gota keep that in mind, how to see it in the true lite of nature; we being hungry animals and all, and needin feedin. Llamba poo may smell horrendible, but the meat is purdy sweet marinarded in beer and spices, put on the spit a while. Come on down, Purdy! We wont bite —much! heh heh heh.

Couzin Inbred

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Llama Poo, by Pretty Poo

Antenna Wilde welcomes special guest blogger, Pretty Poo, from Myspace.com

11/20/09

Llama Poo
by Pretty poo

Let me tell you something about Llama poo, like, something that you probably don’t know. It totally stinks! Llamas have smelly, scruffy brown hair, like a dusty old floor mat, one of those dirty tan hemp mats. BTW, have you ever flipped over a hemp floor mat? Nothing but dirt and dust!
But ANYWAY, llama poo is the worst smelling poo I’ve ever known, and believe me, The Poo knows her poop!

I was house sitting for this crazy old animal talker. That’s someone who talks psychically with animals,—or so she tells people. (But people DO talk psychic with animals, I talk to my cat all the time—and she listens! I say, “Here Sheeba here” (in my mind) and she’ll prance over, then up onto my lap, “Yeay Sheeba!” And she’ll purr in my ear, and I’m pretty sure she’s saying, “Luuuvvvhyuu Rrrr.” So that’s like, psychic communication.)
But ANYWAY. This crazy old woman had nine stinking cats who poohed all over the house, and a couple dogs who poohed regular in the yard, and then there was the two llamas, and they poohed in pebbles; big pyramids of poo-pebbles cascading onto the floor of the fenced enclosure. (And I hate caged animals!) They had nowhere to run! No fun! No one to save them,—except Poo!

I made the decision after catching one whip of that stink… that horribly pungent STANK! Llama poo is so offensive it’s like putting your nose under a warm crock-pot full of methane and ammonia; burning your nose with it, hearing the crackle of mucus! They should tap into the essence of llama poo instead of drilling for oil in foreign countries. Give Poo a chance!
But ANYWAY, the llamas natural habitat is not to be enclosed in a 10 x 12 space, and these two llamas were already up to their ankles in ammoniated-methane-poo, so I made the decision to set them free. It was better for them, the environment, and yours truly (who has an especially sensitive olfactory system.) You should have seen the look of joy on their camel-like faces!

But those llamas died. I don’t know when they died, just that it wasn’t long after I set them free. I heard about it later on, when the crazy old woman tried to sue me, (until I poohed in a newspaper, rolled it up, snuck into her room while she was sleeping and left it next to her head on the pillow. She saw it there the next morning, and knew. She knew not to fuck with The Poo!) But ANYWAY, I was pretty sad about those llamas, I didn’t realize they had no survival skills in the wild. But don’t judge the Poo, I’m telling you some things you didn’t know—and don’t think that I should feel bad—up yours! The Poo has her pride! Those effing llamas never had it so good as when I set them free. And even though their llama-lives were cut short, remember this: the start that burns twice as bright burns half as long. So you’re WELCOME llamas, and PS: your poo stinks!

Sincerely,
P.P.

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The Death of David Carradine : NOT the Way of the Grasshopper

What, would Master Po say, “One must be mindful, young Grasshopper, of choking oneself with a belt while jerking off in a hotel closet.”

Oh? NO! This is NOT the way of the Grasshopper!

David Carradine was 72 years old—and looking pretty good for his years, I mean, the man got puntang. So then why… WHY, when he was doing what he loved, had the world as his oyster; had friends, fans and loved ones, did something prompt him —something so strong and persuading— to strip naked, wrap a curtain cord around his neck and hang himself in the closet? (Reports now indicate it was a shoe string). But still; so odd, so disturbing, so unlike Kwai Chang Caine.

The latest reports are indicating the cause of death was autoerotic asphyxiation, yet Chuck Binder, Carradine’s manager, said he was found “with his hands tied behind his back”. This contradicts a newspaper report from Thai Rath which includes a photo of the actor with his hands tied behind his back.
But check out the photo: looks like the body of a female hooker to me. What gives? I don’t buy it. Rumors are circulating that Carradine was in the process of uncovering some Kung Fu underground, a claim stated by his attorney on Larry King Live, but this sounds to me more like a family’s attempt to create controversy and uncertainty around an otherwise unsavory fact: Carradine was kinky, and whoops—he fucked up. Two of his ex-wives have stated that he enjoyed a little S & M now and again, including bondage, but the jury is still out as to what the The Grasshopper’s real fate was. What do YOU think?

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Banana Leaf Tamales: A Letter to the Chef

Dear Chef,

I tried very hard to control myself, managing only to leave the house before devouring all but the last of those delicious, banana leaf tamales, which only got better as they sat in the fridge overnight, longing to be consumed. I even tried to eat the leaves themselves, as they were calling to me, or perhaps it was the hungry gnome who lives in my stomach (he also likes, and requires, tequila). Please tell me what corn paste, chicken/chili foodstuffs you need to create more and I will buy them immediately. I know you are busy this weekend, but sometime soon thereafter—and before I wrap a towel around my head and explosives to my chest, demanding tamales in retribution for… uh… for a lack of tamales, that is—could we make more? And when I say could I mean, really, God damn it, we need more fucking tamales! —sorry, that was the gnome, not me. ANY hoo, back to the tamales; would it be possible to make a few more, when convenient; and by more I mean many, and by convenient I mean, as in ASAP? I could be an assistant of some kind, in a bartender-like capacity perhaps, or at least a dishwasher thereafter. We could videotape the event and post it on uTube, and then, when you’re famous like Martha Stewart (minus the whole tax-evasion/sent-to-jail “thing”) I could receive a stipend for my services, in the form of seven tamales a day, for example. Why seven? I don’t know, seven came to mind… but then again, how about nine? Alright, great, it’s settled: nine tamales in exchange for a uTube video of you making tamales,—and of me then eating the tamales, I think that would be fabulous. I’m pretty sure there’s a Top Chef on the horizon here… so then, what else… there was something else… did I mention the tamales?

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Bankers Eat Babies

It was a shock—at first—to see James L. Dimon, CEO and Chairman of JP Morgan Chase, feasting on the flesh of a new born baby girl, but after getting a small loan from Chase last month, the cannibalism seemed mild in comparison. Dimon, known for ass-raping small boys during JP Morgan’s “Fuck the Little Guy Festival” in Bangkok, Thailand, has been a strong proponent of theft since he was a youth, when his Greek grandfather taught him how to steal from the Turks in 1962. Although many bankers deny the eating of babies at such reclusive events as the semi-annual, “Raping of the Citizens” at Bohemian Grove in Guernville, California, some admit to the practice readily.

JP Morgan Chase stock has fallen in recent times, but Dimon (pronounced Demon) recently assured his shareholders that profits would increase by intensifying time-honored traditions such as the increasing of fees, initiating arbitrary late fees, charging interest on those fees after the fact, falsifying records, the sudden changing of terms and, naturally, the indiscriminate increasing of APRs. At a recent press gathering, JP Morgan Chase-big-shot Austin A. Adams added, “And we will not stop eating babies!” Reporters were confused about what relevance the comment had on the banking industry. One reporter asked Dimon if William B. Harrison was really worth 7 billion dollars, to which Dimon replied, “You’ve never eaten a baby, have you?”

If any of this seems obtuse and confusing, you need only read through the terms (but don’t bother) it’s much easier to eat a baby. And maybe that’s the point. After all, banking—like larceny—can’t be easy. And after all the legalese, a fresh newborn might just calm the nerves, who knows, but that’s Satan’s philosophy (And Satan heads the Illuminati, which all bankers must join before being positioned to take you from behind).
For years I have tried to understand how these strange and foreign entities work, how they think. As you may suspect already, bankers are not, in fact, human. But the question remains: what planet are they from, and how can we get rid of them? :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

The Real Story of Saint Valentine

You may already know that the story behind St. Valentine’s Day is precarious at best, and I think we have all asked ourselves, at some point in our lives, Who was Valentine, and why was he the cause of so much trouble? Some say we celebrate Valentine’s Day because Claudius the Second started beheading Roman priests for marrying Christians, while others simply attribute it to the writings of Chaucer in the fourteenth century. But none of these people know about the very real and politically active Valentine living in Brussels during the late thirteenth century; Baron Archibald Fellini Valentine.

Baron Archibald Fellini Valentine, or “Val” to his closest friends, became deeply immersed in the Sexual Renessance that was taking place in Belgium at the time. Repression of the Christian faith had caused an adverse reaction among the people, and soon wild stories began to circulate about the raw and unpredictable sex-capades taking place in bathhouses after hours. Through external forces Valentine was thrust into the heart of these sex-capades, although his politics, personality and endowment alone were enough to catapult him to historical infamy.

Valentine was very well-hung, in fact, and it was said that he once lifted a full-grown pumpkin—still on the vine—with a powerful erection one night outside of Rodderdam.
Rumors circulated, the press became involved, and at some point during a cunnilingus competition/tea-bagging festival on the 14th of February, 1381, he was arrested for buggery with a Llama. Although there was no specific law against buggery with a Llama in 1381 Belgium, Valentine was imprisoned by the Duke of Burgundy, Philip the Bold.

Legend has it that Valentine’s execution was ordered to take place one year from the date of the offense, February 14th, and the Duke himself was there to witness. The Duke was a suspected homosexual and evidence suggests that he was jealous of Valentine’s sexual freedom and massive love muscle, prompting him to—at the moment of Valentine’s beheading—hold a chalice under the flow of blood in hopes of somehow obtaining some of Valentine’s favorable attributes. Many believe this is where we get the robust flavor of burgundy wine.

So there it is. And now that you know the truth, remember to celebrate this Valentine’s Day in the way it was intended; by having a gay Duke drink the blood of a lubricious priest in hopes of getting invited to an orgy, or growing a big dick, or both. Chocolates are optional, the red wine essential.
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CNN Needs Editor, Nobody Cares

Can somebody help me with this one? Here on WordPress, CNN recently posted a blog regarding Harry Reid’s criticism of President Bush:

“Reid pointed to Bush’s failed plan to privatize the Social Security program and also said Bush “has done his very best to destroy Medicare” in order support his assessment of Bush’s presidency.”

“in order support his assessment”? I’ve read that line four times and still don’t get it, but I guess it’s just a rush job. And it seems that CNN, FOX and the other major networks are “blogging” for the sole purpose of extending their already-monopolized influence over WordPress and every other blogging community on the web. Excuse me, but FUCK the major networks. The “article” is two paragraphs long, the essence of which can be distilled into one sentence: Harry Reid said Bush is the worst President we’ve ever had. And big deal, because about a billion people on the planet have been saying that for the past eight years, but the disturbing point is that the “article” is followed by over 300 comments.

In fact, the comments had to be disabled due to the number of people commenting. Why? “I got my name on a CNN thread,” he said. They’re vanity comments, because what’s the point of the “story”? What real “news” is CNN providing us with? It’s a damn shame to have so many educated people spending their time making slave-like slobber-comments on a blog whose sole purpose is to monopolize and control the online stream, gather marketing information and distract you whenever there’s a story that the power-players don’t want you to know about.

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