Painting With Shotguns #59
Kid-Toucher Writes Book, Internet Shits Its Pants, News At 11
So, yesterday, some foul scumhole self-published a book that was essentially the “best practices for practicing pedophiles” book. He seems to think the book is about creating “safe pedophilia” but is really about being a turd-of-the-earth kid-toucher without getting caught.
The Internet, predictably and perhaps appropriately, acted like a kicked-over anthill.
I figure, “Hey, I’m on the Internet!” Why not devote a few words toward it? Why not contribute my own crazy ant dance?
(Never mind the fact that the search terms on this site will probably get double-vile for a time. Ugh.)
Listen, here’s the deal. What this brings to light, for me, is that people don’t necessarily understand the nature of freedom-of-speech and censorship — and by “people” I do include myself in that department. The rising call to boycott Amazon, and Amazon’s subsequent defense (and then, if the story holds true, removal) of the book is being paraded about as if this is censorship. Amazon does not or should not engage in censorship, blah blah blah. The guy has the right to freedom-of-speech, floo-de-doo.
Censorship and freedom of speech are the provenance of the government. Not retailers. A retailer is allowed to make a choice not to sell something without engaging in censorship or without violating one’s freedom of speech. They are not required to carry every book known to man. By denying the sale of this book (it remains unclear if that’s what they’ve done, yet), Amazon is not stepping on anybody’s rights. Not yours to buy it, not the kid-toucher’s to self-publish it. In fact, what they’re engaging in is exactly the system that allows Amazon to be such a huge deal in the first place:
If the government tells you you can’t write something or you can write this but not this, that’s censorship. That may step on your own personal freedom-of-speech.
If Amazon says, “I won’t sell this,” that’s just good ol’-fashioned capitalism at work.
Some people are asking, “Why draw attention to this? What does this matter?”
It matters because, just as scumhole viledick kid-touchers can write books, those who don’t approve of such books are allowed to — even encouraged to in an active democracy! — protest. We can make a big stink and ensure that the marriage of democracy and capitalism works in our favor (rare though that may be). We can say, “We will exercise our freedom-of-speech to tell Amazon that we will vote with our voices and our dollars to not give money to a company that itself chooses to make profit by selling books about pedophilia.” We can make a loud fuss. We can stop spending our money there. We can write blog posts and tweets incensed about it and get other people riled up, too.
Sure, that confirms that democracy is the child of a mob mentality, but did you really believe differently? Democracy is the will of the mob. It’s just a way of making the mob’s desires more civil and systematic.
That’s what matters. That we can use our speech — our protected speech — to protest and make a fuss and stir boycotts and create civil disobedience. In fact, I wish we did that kind of thing more.
Oh, and for the record, I also have the freedom-of-speech to say that the fun-loving pedophile advocate should not be arrested. He should, however, have his dick shot off by a pellet rifle.
Why a pellet rifle? Why not a shotgun?
It’ll take hours.
Baby Momma Need Sweet Sweet Comfort (Foods)
In, “Creepiest transition ever,” if you missed the news earlier this week, we are having a baby — a fact that is both terrifying and exciting. As the wife is pregnant, she is caught in the throes of a raucous roller coaster of “morning sickness,” one of the most inappropriately-named symptoms of pregnancy ever (since, you know, it goes on all day and all night).
She has already manifested Pregnancy Supernose (she, like a shark, can smell certain odors from miles away) and she also has found herself and this household mired in Acquired Taste Syndrome, where her tastes are both unpredictable and imprecise.
One predictable taste, though, is that she’s totally into straight-up Mom-and-Pop comfort foods.
What does that mean? Well, we don’t know its exact boundaries, yet, but it includes things like: spaghetti and meatballs, macaroni and cheese, meatloaf, chicken noodle soup, hamburgers and hot dogs, etc. We are a couple that deeply enjoys ethnic food but for right now those tastes just aren’t on her tongue. Strong spices and smells agitate the Nausea Gnomes that have colonized her stomach and inner ear.
So, what I’m looking for?
Recipes for essential comfort foods. I mean that in general — I recognize that you may consider Chicken Korma a comfort food (I sure do), but that doesn’t qualify. Think: essential American home-cooking.
Whaddya got for me? Anything will help.
This Chicken Noodle Soup Recipe Will Explode Your Tongue All Over Your Brain
I did make chicken soup yesterday by cobbling together a handful of recipes, and for once, this soup didn’t suck rancid raccoon spit. I’ve never before made chicken soup that was genuinely tasty — it always felt bland, blah, shallow, hollow. But yesterday’s result was a round, full-tasting soup: savory and comforting.
You want to know what I did? Settle down, nerds. Here’s what I did.
I present another…
Recipe (With Profanity) –
The secret, I think, to good chicken soup is to stop fucking around and take the goddamn time to make it awesome. That means it’s a two-stage affair: first, you make the stock, second, you make soup using that stock. Actually, there exists a third stage, the stage where you detonate a delicious soup bomb in the mouths of those consuming your delectable creation, murdering them with the hot shrapnel of scrumdiddliciousness.
First stage? The stock.
Get a rotisserie chicken. A good one. Not some wan little greasy bird, but a clean, flavorful, healthy rotisserie chicken from the best supermarket you have nearest to your tin-roofed shantytown.
Strip the easy meat off of it. (“Easy Meat” was my nickname at soccer camp! True story!) By which I mean, don’t dick around getting all the really-hard-to-reach bits (“the nether meat”) off. Just get the breast and thigh meat and for fuck’s sake wipe off your hands because they’re all greasy. You disgust me.
Into a stock pot pour two quarts of store-bought chicken broth and kick up the heat on that motherfucker. Then drop the chicken into the pot — whoa whoa whoa, I didn’t say put the chicken meat into the pot. Slow down, meth-head. Set the meat aside and use the chicken itself. The part with the bones. Plop that into the broth, and then you’re going to want to bring some additional friends to the party:
Two carrots (choppity-chop), two… I dunno, what’s the technical word for “a unit of celery?” Rib? Wand? Rebar? Two rebars of celery (chopchopchop), one small onion, the green tops of three leeks, two cloves of garlic (roughly chopped, not minced), a bay leaf, a pinch of oregano, a pinch of thyme, a pinch of tarragon, a pinch of sage, and some crack black pepper (grind grind grind). No salt needed: the broth will have it.
Add additional water until the fluid levels are juuuust above the chicken. All wet yet?
Good. Simmer for 45 minutes.
A couple times during the process, skim the fat off with a spoon.
While this is happening, do not rest thine lazy ass. You’re not done, where did you think you were going? You thought you could head off into the other room, play some video games, maybe do a crossword, perhaps sullenly masturbate? Nuh-uh. You have work to do.
Peel and slice three carrots. Chop two batons of celery. Chop three leeks (not the green tops, which you already used). Bisect two cups of green beans (by which I mean bisect each bean, and discard the little jerkoff stemmy bit and — do I really need to explain this to you?). Chop one medium yellow onion. Dice two cups of the chicken meat (both light and dark) — you can save the rest for whatever infernal purpose tickles your loins. Please, just don’t tell me what tickles your loins. Shhh.
Bzzt, your buzzer is going off. Take the stock you just made and first remove the chicken carcass. Then strain the stock through a strainer or sieve into… well, some kind of clean receptacle. I used a bowl but you can use a football helmet. I don’t give a shit. Then, when the chicken corpse has cooled down, you want to pick it apart and rescue any lingering meat (“Lingering Meat” was my nickname in show choir. True fact!) from the bones and set them aside for, again, some other purpose. Whatever makes your grapefruit squirt.
Back to the stockpot. Wash it out, then back onto the range. In the pot goes four tablespoons of butter. Hey, I didn’t say we were making fat-free chicken soup, did I? Fat is flavor, motherfuckers. When that gets wet, throw your leeks and onions into the butter with a dash of salt and a few splashes of water (I literally cup one hand, get some water in the palm, and drop it in). Let them soften for five to ten minutes. When softened, throw the rest of your veggies into there for another five minutes. Let it cook down.
Now, add in the chopped chicken.
Also: another turn of crack black pepper and another dash of salt.
Pour the stock into the pot.
Turn it up, get it to boil. As you’re doing this, you need to add a couple things to kick it up a notch, to give it a rounder, fuller taste.
You’re going to add:
A 1/4 cup of heavy cream.
A splash of soy sauce (and/or Worcestershire sauce).
A meager squirt of Sriracha rooster sauce. If you don’t have this — well, shut up and go buy some.
Taste the proto-soup. You may need to add more salt, one dash at a time.
Stir. Lower heat, simmer its sexy ass for 45 minutes.
BZZZZ. Buzzer again. Goddamn that thing is loud, don’t you just want to kick it in its dumb buzzer face? I mean, for reals. Anyway, now it’s time for a few more final additions to the pot, baby:
Eight ounces of egg noodles. Dump ‘em in there.
With them? A pinch of oregano and a pinch of tarragon (again, yes). You can use fresh herbs for all of this, and I bet it’d be even more super-holy-shit-delicious, but I don’t lead a fancy life and don’t have fresh herbs just hanging around the house. I have mouths to feed. Namely, my own. Also, I’m lazy. Shut up. Dry herbs for now, fresh if you want to get froofy.
Cook for another 15 minutes.
And that’s it, ladies and motherfuckers. Chicken noodle soup.
With profanity. Please to enjoy.
Links In The Great Cosmic Chain
First and most importantly — congrats to John “The Hornor, The Hornor” Jacobs for nabbing a sweet-ass deal for Night Shade Books to publish his novel, SOUTHERN GODS. (Stacia described the book to me and it sounds apeshit awesome, so I really cannot wait to read it.) Go over to his bloggeryspace and congratulate his sexy ass.
Julie Summerell writes a bedtime story and it’s… well. Listen, do yourself a favor and just go check it out. It features the phrase, “Boogeyman loves the taste of chicken.”
And finally, 18 Dogs That Look Like Chewbacca.