Saltines, Saltines, Saltines, Saltines!

I was having my midnight snack, at eleven, as is my usual habit, of that great Ambrosia, peanut butter and crackers, when this song sprang into my noggin', fully formed, like an epiphany. My apologies to Dolly Parton.

Saltines, Saltines, Saltines, Saltines!
I'm begging of you please don't take my man
Saltines, Saltines, Saltines, Saltines!
Please don't take him just because you can
Your beauty is beyond compare
With flaming locks of auburn hair
With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green

Your smile is like a breath of spring
Your voice is soft like summer rain
And I cannot compete with you, Saltines

He talks about you in his sleep
There's nothing I can do to keep
From crying when he calls your name, Saltines

And I can easily understand
How you could easily take my man
But you don't know what he means to me, Saltines

Saltines, Saltines, Saltines, Saltines!
I'm begging of you please don't take my man
Saltines, Saltines, Saltines, Saltines!
Please don't take him just because you can

You could have your choice of men
But I could never love again
He's the only one for me, Saltines

I had to have this talk with you
My happiness depends on you
And whatever you decide to do, Saltines

Saltines, Saltines, Saltines, Saltines!
I'm begging of you please don't take my man
Saltines, Saltines, Saltines, Saltines!
Please don't take him even though you can
Saltines, Saltines

# THIS IS MY PLATE OF LINGUINI

This is my plate of linguini. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My plate of linguini is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.

My plate of linguini, without me, is useless. Without my plate of linguini, I am useless. I must fire my plate of linguini true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will...

My plate of linguini and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit...

My plate of linguini is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will keep my plate of linguini clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will...

Before God, I swear this creed. My plate of linguini and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.

So be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but peace!

#93 THE GREATEST TOAST OF ALL

Be-cause the great-est
Toast of all,
Is easy to achieeeeeeeeeve,
Learn how to maaaake French toast,
It's the greatest, toaaast of all.

Crack two eggs into some milk,
And mix it up with any utensil,
Add some bread, a frying pan,
You can't take away my dignity!

Be-cause the great-est
Toast of all,
Is easy to achieeeeeeeeeve,
Learn how to maaaake French toast,
It's the greatest, toaaast of all.

# KICKING THE HOT POCKETS HABIT

If they made a movie about how Tom Hanks battles his addiction to "Hot Pockets," it isn't going to end with him crying into a plate of Hot Pockets, watching re-runs of "Facts of Life" in a poorly lit apartment, alone, estranged from his girlfriend, played by Sofía Vergara, just shoveling "Hot Pockets" into his face, crying because he can't stop. He's addicted, and he gave up.

No. It wouldn't end like that. There would be a scene where his personal trainer (played by George Cloony ) says, "Tom, I've looked at this from ten different directions, and there's just no way you can eat on your budget without including Hot Pockets in your diet. It's just impossible.

And that's when Sofia Vergara walks out on him. And for a while, he eats "Hot Pockets", as his friends distance themselves from an ever-expanding Tom Hanks. "I don't know you anymore," his friend, played by Jonah Hill, says.

Finally, when all seems hopeless, he's standing in front of the Hot Pockets shelves at the grocery store, while "O Fortuna" plays in the background. A tight shot of the different brands, and Tom's bloated face, licking his lips, trying to decide, hating himself, when suddenly an obese woman in horrifying yoga pants elbows past him, shoveling entire shelves of Hot Pockets into her cart, breathing heavily. She looks like she's on death's door, and Tom decides then and there to change his ways.

He rolls his cart to the produce section.

Cut to six months later. A much slimmer Tom Hanks finishes his first half-marathon. He has a long way to go, but he won't give up. He'll get his life back together. And who is waiting at the finish line? Sofia Vergara, and their newborn child, a child Tom Hanks didn't even know about.

TODAY I AM THANKFUL FOR SALTINE CRACKERS

Saltine crackers are delicious. They are good under sardines, smoked oysters, little squares of cheese, ham, jalapeno peppers, and peanut butter. The "manna from heaven," in the bible was packages of saltines. The "ambrosia," in Greek mythology was also saltine crackers. Saltine crackers have thirteen holes in them. Saltines later went on to become our 34^th President.

# THE NEW SPEEDWAY IS OPEN! FREEDOM!

The Speedway near our house has been closed for a couple of months.  They tore it down to build a new one.  It is just a few blocks from our house.  Oh how we took it for granted.  

So it opened today, just three hours ago, and despite the 98 degree heat, Deb and I walked there to check it out.

As we walked toward the future, to that grand spaceship that was the new Speedway, I dreamed of all the magical things that would be there: lotto, beer, meat-like things, snacks, donuts, pizza-adjacent foodlike items, candy, chips, an ATM, gasoline... everything my American Freedoms allow me to enjoy.

Old Glory flew high and proud above the car lot next to the Speedway.  The New Speedway was open! It was open! Oh the Freedom to exchange American currency for products and scratch-off tickets.  I was like Charlie, and I had a Golden Ticket to the Wonka Factory, only the tickets were green, and the Wonka Factory was a convenience store.

We strode in as though striding through the very gates of heaven.  If Elvis Presley himself was behind the counter, I would not have been shocked, for this was heaven on earth.  Lite Beer and Lotto!  Breath Mints and those brown gloves with red lining!

Wide eyed with innocent wonder, we walked the candy isles.  There were HUGE bags of sunflower seeds!

Everything was new and shiny.  The employees, yet to die from the inside out, gave the impression of actually being alive inside.  Their spirits were yet to be broken!!  There was a WALK IN BEER COOLER which I walked into. It was very cool in there.  I didn't want to leave.

They had Coca-Cola in GLASS BOTTLES.

Oh to be Free and American in this great land.  To buy lotto tickets and a 40oz. Lite Beer in the same place!  Hunting magazines and car magazines!  5 Hour Energy and Snickers bars!

My first Muzak Moment in the new Speedway?  Kansas's 1977 smash hit, "Dust in The Wind."

I stood there a moment, serenaded by a 35 year old recording of soft guitar, and pondered what this all meant as four flavors of Slushies slushed around in their American Freedom Slushy machines.

In conclusion, Freedom.

a perfect evening

Today was our fifteenth wedding anniversary. Deb and I went downtown to have dinner. The Artprize exhibits were on display everywhere downtown, the weather was perfect, and we had a great time touring the exhibits.

The Chop House

We ended up having dinner at The Chop House. This place has such balls, they actually drew the balls on the stick figure of a bull they have for their restaurant logo. I had the best fillet minion, the best piece of beef I have ever had in my life. The service was amazing. When they bring your food, two waitresses bring the orders and with a little signal they simultaneously set the food down in front of everyone at the table at once. The wine was perfect. The lobster bisque was perfect. Deb had beef Wellington. But that fillet minion was a life changing experience. The ambiance was perfect. The lighting was perfect. The music was perfect; fifties and sixties style Vegas music. I expected the ghosts of Frank Sinatra or Martin and Lewis to walk by.

And then, they have a cigar lounge in the basement. Deb ordered some orange liquor coffee the waitress set on fire at the table. I had a cigar and coffee.

Anywhoo, that was our night, and it was friggin' awesome.

# LONG JOHN SILVER'S: DESCENT INTO MADNESS!

~/~

I am ashamed to admit that today I went to Long John Silver's and got a Sampler Platter. I'm proud to say I didn't get the new "Fish Taco" but what the hell is that anyway? Sounds like you could catch a venereal disease from something like that.

I know the food is horrible — deep fried-fat-fried-fish — but it is so delicious I allow myself the occasional visit. The thing that is weird about the Long John Silver's near my house: The employees are all morbidly obese. The girl who takes my order has a head that is perfectly spherical. She is soulless piggy eyes and pudgy arms and sausage fingers. Does she eat at this place? Does the first aid kit in the back room include a defibrillator?

This place is like Day of The Living Dead. There are elderly people everywhere. In the tiny booth next to the exit sits an old man, probably close to a hundred years old, alone, carefully scooping coleslaw into his toothless face, willing each spoonful to slowly, slowly rise to his drooping jowls, precariously held by a shaking hand. Slowly it rises. So slow.

The 1985 number one hit "Out of Touch" by Hall and Oats plays softly on the speakers.

A washed-out red-headed mother and child, both wearing different shades of sickly orange, sit silently eating their corporate mash. What familial madness goes on in their domicile? Trailer or McMansion? It is hard to tell. Who would bring a child to this place? If this isn't child abuse, what is?

Suddenly Elton John's 1975 smash hit "Philadelphia Freedom" plays as I pour Malt Vinegar Sauce on my hush puppies and try to keep the desperation of this place from creeping into my soul. I wonder how this particular Circle of Corporate Hell fits into the fat, bloated American Landscape.

A few more customers have arrived. Watching these overweight people shovel crap into their heads makes me sick, and sicker still when I realize I am doing the same thing.

I go to fill the tiny cups they provide with tartar sauce and cocktail sauce. They've renamed the cocktail sauce "shrimp" sauce; who knows what Stupidity was behind that. I am about to get some ketchup for my fries, but a pale, six-five moon-faced Neanderthal in a NASCAR tee shirt is suddenly standing two feet away from me, hands on his hips, like I'm keeping him from some important appointment. He's wearing black exercise pants, although the prominent gut hanging over his beltline tells me he is not using those pants for their intended purpose. Mark Martin's convex face, stretched over this man's massive gut, looks pained. I go back to my seat without my ketchup. This is what prison would be like for me, if there are condiment bars in prison. I do not make eye contact.

I can feel the batter, the magnificent batter that makes the fish and the chicken indistinguishable by sight, coagulating in my arteries. The grease on my fingers moistens the paper on which I am trying to write. The ink pen is fouled in the stuff. With each bite I am killing myself, ever so slowly.

The old man hobbles to the trash can and puts his leavings into the little door, which swings back and forth as he disgorges himself into the parking lot. My God, he's going to operate a motor vehicle. The children! Oh the humanity! Will he get home to fall asleep in front of his television, watching the Price is Right? Let us hope so.

I can't finish my plate. The FDA should raid this place SWAT style, Taser everyone and shut the place down for public safety. I walk back into the sunlight, bloated and ashamed, holding my greasy fingers before me. "Out, damned spot! out, I say!" I get back into my car which is pre-heated like a fish under a heat lamp. I swear to myself to never to set foot in that place again.

But the Malt Vinegar! It calls me. It calls.

~/~

much bla bla about stuff

The sun is out and I thought, "Today I start training for the marathon". I located my stylish tracksuit my mother-in-law bought me a few years ago, and then I checked the weather channel to see the temperature: 14 miserable degrees (F). Dammit!

Yesterday I dropped checked my cell phone from an altitude of 4 feet. Grand Rapids is 610 feet above sea level, and the check surface was hard tile. I am pleased to report that my Samsung SCH-a870 cell phone passed with flying colors, bouncing approximately 1 foot in the air with an amazing spin rate while I exclaimed "SHIT!" and caught it before the second bounce. Cell phone checks 4.0 after drop check. In short, my phone was on the washer and I knocked it off and it fell.

I Heard some good reviews about a movie "Paranoid Park" on the radio.

Had lunch with a few friends at The Beltline Bar, which amazingly, is not on the Beltline. They make a mean burrito, aptly named "The Famous" and I was scoring some legendary farts later that afternoon.

Doom and gloom in the economic front. Jobs are more scarce, gasoline has hit record highs, and the dollar is sucking ass vs every other currency on the planet.

I've heard a lot of economic experts trying to say whether or not we are in a recession. Let me, Dan Manning, put the question to rest.

Yes, we are in a recession Here is the research to back up my claim:

If you have to ask if you're in a recession, you're in a recession.

OK? Everybody clear now?

Angel Hair Pasta: The Horrible Truth

I will never eat “angel hair pasta.” I’ll tell you why: I saw a show on the Discovery channel where they explained how they harvest angel hair. Yes, angel-hair pasta is actually made out of the hair of angels.

There is a lot of preparation involved with killing an angel: First, they forge crossbow bolts from the iron collected from the wrecks of cars where teenagers have died in late-night, country-road accidents fueled by alcohol and wide-eyed innocence. Then they dip those crossbow bolts in the tears of children kept in abusive after-school child-care facilities.

After that, sexually abused adult alter-boys with questionable hygiene climb peaks in the Andes Mountains and wait. The angels, unaware that they are in danger, often fly around mountain passes playing their harps, because they are bored out of their minds from an eternity of problem-free existence, and no cable television.

Finally, the alter boys shoot the angles with their crossbows. When the angels fall to the ground, their heads are shaved and the hair is taken to the angel hair pasta factory and turned into angel hair pasta.

That’s why I will never eat angel hair pasta.

lunch

for lunch today, I ate a box of slim jim brand mild beef sticks. that's 15 "spicy smoked snacks."

kick-ass product alert

Hi everyone, it's me, danmanning. I'd like to tell you about this kick-ass stuff, Luigi's Real Italian Ice. I don't know if it's Italian, I don't know who Luigi is, I don't even know if it's "real", but I can tell you this: its delicious.