This time from Whitey AKA firstname.lastname@example.org (probably not real email, whitey not that stupid)
I’d love to know which one of the janitors in my building keeps posting on this site about whitey. I’ll have you’re low-class dark ass out on the street so fast it’ll make your bean eating head spin. Why don’t you mind your business and get back to work taking out the trash and cleaning up after your masters.
The organization said it would announce plans on Monday for a $1 million prize to the “first person to come up with a method to produce commercially viable quantities of in vitro meat at competitive prices by 2012.”
The idea of getting the next Chicken McNugget out of a test tube is not new. For several years, scientists have worked to develop technologies to grow tissue cultures that could be consumed like meat without the expense of land or feed and the disease potential of real meat. An international symposium on the topic was held this month in Norway. The tissue, once grown, could be shaped and given texture with the kinds of additives and structural agents that are now used to give products like soy burgers a more meaty texture.
Nasty! The real question is, would anybody actually want to eat meat the comes out of a test tube? If you really want fake meat, get it here. The fried chicken patties taste damn good, so does the fake mutton. The real question is, if you really are a vegetarian for ethical reasons, wouldn’t just the idea of eating flesh (real or fake) gross you out? I like fake meat just for the novelty and artifice of it all, but I will gladly concede that fake meat isn’t necessarily healthier for me, since it’s still a heavily processed food product, no different from Cool Whip or cheese in a can.
Heehee, the BBC said “douche.”
In the 1980s, douching, flooding the vagina with an alkaline solution such as baking soda before sex, was used.
Corporate marketing brought us the scourge of consumer profiling, politics falsehoods of empty paternalistic vagaries about how government can save us wretches from the crushing drudgery of our sordid, meaningless existence. Now the Times, in the something-hundredth entry in their fire-hydrant torrent of self-indulgent verbal diarrhea about the election of our next presidential failure, proudly announces the intersection of the two in this tiresome, fetid excuse for journalistic relevance.
A few gems:
If what we eat says a lot about who we are, it also says something about how we might vote.
America elects its own. Taft got his bovine ass stuck in a bathtub. Nixon lied about shit. Clinton got blowjobs at the office, and all his friends are in jail. Bush? Love him or hate him, the dude’s wiped out a hell of a lot of Arabs. Yeah, these sound like the aspirations of most Americans. So what does food say? Nothing. Morbid obesity knows no political party. Just ask Denny Hastert or Sally Struthers.
Although precincts and polls are being parsed, the political advisers to the presidential candidates are also looking closely at consumer behavior
This they are, mein freund. This they are.
Political strategists slice and dice the electorate into small segments, starting with traditional demographics like age and income, then mixing consumer information like whether you prefer casinos or cruises, hunting or cooking, a Prius or a pickup.
Mob lynchings or assassinations.
“This is essentially the way Williams-Sonoma knows which of its catalogs to send you,” said Christopher Mann of MSHC Partners, a political communications firm
Way to brand yourself dude. Let me guess, you are piloting an Escalade through north Dallas on your way to a middle school softball game, with a Panini in one hand, your blackberry in another and wrap-around sunglasses with a sport string. Can I get an A-MAYUN from the congregation???
For example, Dr Pepper is a Republican soda. Pepsi-Cola and Sprite are Democratic. So are most clear liquors, like gin and vodka, along with white wine and Evian water. Republicans skew toward brown liquors like bourbon or scotch, red wine and Fiji water.
Blacks like Courvoisier. Gays like Smirnoff Ice. Sally Struthers likes milkshakes. Isn’t this fun?
Mr. Navin offers an example from his firm’s ongoing survey that periodically asks 1,800 people in-depth questions about their lives.
Like, what do I think about when I jack off? Sheep=votes republican. Catholic choirboys=democrat. Black male crack-whores=evangelical preachers.
In last summer’s polling, the latest available, Mrs. Clinton scored high among voters who also had favorable views of McDonalds, Wal-Mart and Starbucks.
You can take the woman out of Arkansas, but…
Although Mr. Penn, who claims credit for coining the term “soccer mom,”
The Nobel Institute misses another one.
Send an environmental message to the conservative and you could lose her vote.
Vote losers for conservatives would also be the support of black suffrage, elimination of the “colored” balcony at movie theaters, and legal permission for women to show their bare ankles in public.
The oysters are coated with corn flour, gently fried and then slipped back into their shells and covered with an adventurous, Morrocan-style sauce seasoned with ground whole lemons, garlic, cayenne and paprika. It’s the ultimate crossover dish, and she believes it’s popular this year because voters are being pulled in several directions.
How about a rare hamburger on rosemary focaccia, with a side of ginger-braised aborted fetus?
2.5 douchebags for the price of 1 today! Happy Friday from RG88.
In the wind-swept corridors of lower Manhattan, there is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to all decent peoples, as vast as space, as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between the FDR and West Side Highway, between boundless irrationality and the sobriety of fundamental analysis, and it lies in the pregnant gap between man’s failures and the summit of his trading success.
It is an area which we call the Douchebag Dormitory, home to an eclectic band of derivative analysts, ivy-league underachievers, and desperate socio-educational climbers. This is a place of congress for society’s outcast, a gilded wonderland of floor lights, lazy doormen, and institutionally-controlled ambience music.
The lights are much brighter there; you can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares, so go DOWNTOWN: where all the lights are bright, DOWNTOWN: waiting for you tonight, DOWNTOWN: you’re gonna be alright, now.
Just take the 1 to Rector, but ignore those sinister directives about being in the first five cars. Surface at great risk to your innocence and you will see The Four Corners of American indulgence, featuring the confluence of carnal lust (Pussycat Lounge…”what’s new?”), gluttony (dios mio!), consumerism (“An informed consumer is our best customer”) and, to top it all off, the towering monument to Wall Street bravado that is The Dorm.