During our time at the St. Catharines branch of the HOI we had a webcam situated at the top of the stairs looking down on the foyer. Our friends used it to check whose shoes were there and determine who was home at the time. Others waited patiently for hours, hoping for a glimpse of one of the cats moving swiftly through the camera’s view. To reward our viewers for their participation, we began to stage short performance art pieces at a certain time every week. One week, Doug and I ate a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken while shirtless and sitting below a giant sign that read “Workfare”.
I have no idea why the following piece was written. Perhaps it was to explain to those who skipped the event exactly what they were missing.
Chicken. Fried chicken.
Men kill for it. Women give up their maidenheads and mothers their children for a mere taste. Vegetarians deny themselves this essential foodstuff, then sneak a bite when backs are turned. Fried chicken. Is there a greater name for Love?
In November, a bucket of KFC came into the posession of Steve and Doug of the House of Irony. These cultured men, simply the best their wasted generation has to offer, even these men succumbed to the delectable power of fried chicken. Within seconds, like the Albertan wheat farmers we all have residing in our own dark hearts, their shirts were torn off their sweaty backs. They scurried along the foyer floor, slurping the thick and juicy tendons off the milky bones of their beloved chicken. They ate among the animals, upon the filth-ridden mats and and moldy shoes, oblivious to all but the overpowering hunger. Like Galactus, devourer of worlds, only different. Two men reduced to savagery. A bestial duo, with only their bare chests to use as serviettes for their gore smothered fingertips. Two obscene creatures, sharing an entire bucket of mouthwatering fried chicken, smacking their cracked lips in mute appreciation.
Weep not for these evolutionary throwbacks, for they walk among you even now. They date your daughters, shovel your walks and give you the last seat on the bus. They’re even closer than you think.
It took me a while to try it, but I’m totally hooked on Coca-Cola Zero. Through some sort of black magic, its toxic mixture of aspartame and acesulfame-potassium closely approximates the taste of Coca-Cola Classic.
I can not imagine how much regular Coke I’ve drank over my lifetime, but I’m sure it would come frighteningly close to the amount of plain water I’ve had. My consumption reached its zenith living with the boys in St.Catherines, especially with Doug around, who’s the only person I’ve known to drink more of the stuff than me. Hell, we were practically swimming in it, hopped up like junkies, the local Avondale living off our addiction. We stuck strictly to bottles, considering it a better fix than cans, and would collect so many per week we needed a dedicated recycling bin.
We started to reevaluate once Doug’s dentist discovered the enamel on his teeth was disintegrating from his habit. That definitely shocked us out of our caffeinated stupor, and we slowed down after that, though not by much.
And even after moving, I continued drinking Coke in moderation until recently, when I realized the amount of sugar in each can was in direct opposition to my plans for healthy living. A difficult decision, let me tell you, but there’s no way to justify 14 teaspoons of sugar for a single drink. Not even bothering to consider Diet Coke, I had a rebound relationship with Diet Mountain Dew ENERGY!, but it was a brief affair, its taste unable to keep my interest. I was beginning to think I would have to abandon pop altogether.
So you can imagine why I love Coca-Cola Zero and its startling likeness to the Real Thing™. The differences are hardly noticeable, a little less sugary and a little more spicy, and it seems a lot more carbonated than the original. But even though it’s not exactly pitch-perfect, and I do worry about the long term effects of sugar alternatives like aspartame, it’s probably the best option short of quitting pop, which hardly seems like an option at all, if you ask me.
I will never understand, in a world like ours, with all its backstabbing and karma and whatnot, how a cup of blueberries, topped with honey, can actually be good for you.
I first heard about this when Karissa’s dad told me about a guy he knew, over 90 and still thinking, mind still functioning, who attributed it all the bowl of blueberries he had every morning. I figured, hell, I love fruit—how about I use this as a good excuse to always have blueberries on hand?
Wasn’t ‘til I started seriously looking that I discovered it was an proven fact, blueberries make you live longer. So does honey. Combining the two, the blueberry frozen, the honey unpasturized, keeps your brain fresh and your guts working.
Again I ask, with the Devil’s handiwork all around us, how can there be something so pure and wonderful as this?
