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"Tell the chef, the beer is on me."
“ I had an auto-repair man once, who, on these intelligence tests, could not possibly have scored more than 80, by my estimate. I always took it for granted that I was far more intelligent than he was. Yet, when anything went wrong with my car I hastened to him with it, watched him anxiously as he explored its vitals, and listened to his pronouncements as though they were divine oracles - and he always fixed my car.— Isaac Asimov (via skinnybaras). (via asuperfluousman)
Well, then, suppose my auto-repair man devised questions for an intelligence test. Or suppose a carpenter did, or a farmer, or, indeed, almost anyone but an academician. By every one of those tests, I’d prove myself a moron, and I’d be a moron, too. In a world where I could not use my academic training and my verbal talents but had to do something intricate or hard, working with my hands, I would do poorly. My intelligence, then, is not absolute but is a function of the society I live in and of the fact that a small subsection of that society has managed to foist itself on the rest as an arbiter of such matters.
Consider my auto-repair man, again. He had a habit of telling me jokes whenever he saw me. One time he raised his head from under the automobile hood to say: “Doc, a deaf-and-mute guy went into a hardware store to ask for some nails. He put two fingers together on the counter and made hammering motions with the other hand. The clerk brought him a hammer. He shook his head and pointed to the two fingers he was hammering. The clerk brought him nails. He picked out the sizes he wanted, and left. Well, doc, the next guy who came in was a blind man. He wanted scissors. How do you suppose he asked for them?”
Indulgently, I lifted my right hand and made scissoring motions with my first two fingers. Whereupon my auto-repair man laughed raucously and said, “Why, you dumb jerk, He used his voice and asked for them.” Then he said smugly, “I’ve been trying that on all my customers today.” “Did you catch many?” I asked. “Quite a few,” he said, “but I knew for sure I’d catch you.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Because you’re so goddamned educated, doc, I knew you couldn’t be very smart. ”
DO YOU HAVE COMPANY COMING OVER, BUT YOUR HOUSE SMELLS LIKE SMOKE OR YOUR MOLD EXPERIMENTS OR CAT PISS OR SOME BULLSHIT LIKE THAT?
WELL SLAP MY ASS AND CALL ME BRILLIANT, BECAUSE THIS SHIT ISN’T EDIBLE, BUT IT’LL MAKE YOUR HOUSE SMELL LIKE A GODDAMN CHURCH CHOIR SINGING HALLE-FUCKING-LUJAH IN YOUR NASAL PASSAGE! (YOU SHOULD GET RID OF WHATEVER’S STINKING UP YOUR HOUSE IN THE FIRST PLACE AS WELL, MORON)
RUN YOUR CLASSY ASS OVER TO THE STORE AND MAKE SURE YOU’RE PREPARED FOR THE MIND-FUCK OF THIS SHIT. YOU’LL WANT 1 ORANGE, A SMALL BAG OF CRANBERRIES, 3 CINNAMON STICKS, GROUND CLOVES, NUTMEG, 2 LEMONS, ROSEMARY AND VANILLA.
THERE ARE TWO VERSIONS OF THIS THAT YOU CAN COOK, BECAUSE CLASSY-ASS MOTHERFUCKERS NEED VARIETIES IN THEIR LIFE!
THE FIRST IS ‘CHRISTMAS’ AND THE SECOND DOESN’T HAVE A DAMN NAME, BUT IT’S FUCKING WONDERFUL.
ONLY HAVE ONE POT OF THIS SHIT GOING, IT’S CRAZY POWERFUL.
CHOP UP THE ORANGE, SKIN AND ALL, BECAUSE YOU DON’T JOKE AROUND WITH THIS SORT OF SHIT.
USE YOUR WARRIOR STRENGTH TO BREAK THE CINNAMON STICKS IN HALF, LIKE YOUR CHILDHOOD MEMORIES OF SNAPPING THE FEMURS OF DRAGONS BEFORE YOU SUCKED THE MARROW OUT.
THROW THE ORANGE AND CINNAMON STICK PIECES INTO THE POT, OR IF YOU’RE NOT CONFIDENT WITH YOUR AIM, YOU CAN SET THEM GENTLY INSIDE. SHOVE A SMALL SPOONFUL OF NUTMEG AND A SMALL SPOONFUL OF CLOVES INTO THE POT.
THEN FILL THAT FUCKER UP WITH WATER UNTIL THERE’S ONLY AN INCH OF LEEWAY BETWEEN THE WATER AND EDGE, BECAUSE YOU’RE A DAREDEVIL MOTHERFUCKER.
NOW SET YOUR STOVE TO A LOW-MEDIUM SETTING, AND LEAVE IT SITTING THERE TO MARINATE IN IT’S OWN QUIET ACCEPTANCE OF DEATH. DON’T COVER THIS FUCKER, BECAUSE THE SMELL OF IT IS GOING TO INVADE YOUR ENTIRE GODDAMN HOUSE.
THAT WHICH WILL NOT BE NAMED
THE OTHER VERSION OF BOILING POTPOURRI ONLY HAS LEMONS, ROSEMARY SPRIGS AND VANILLA.
RIP THE LEMON INTO CHUNKS WHILE SOLVING THREE UNSOLVED MYSTERIES IN YOUR HEAD AND YELLING AT YOUR FLATMATE TO LEAVE YOUR OTHER EXPERIMENTS ALONE, THEN BE A CHAMPION BY NOT USING A MEASURING TOOL WHEN SPLASHING 1 TABLESPOON OF VANILLA INTO THE POT.
TOSS IN THE ROSEMARY SPRIGS AFTER YOU’VE STARED THEM INTO SUBMISSION.
FILL THAT SUCKER WITH WATER AND PUT IT ON THE HEAT.
YOU LEAVE IT ON FOR 2 HOURS AT THE START OF THE DAY, THEN TURN IT ON AGAIN AN HOUR BEFORE GUESTS GET TO YOUR HOME AND LEAVE IT ON ALL EVENING.
TAKE A WHIFF UP CLOSE EVERY FEW HOURS, BECAUSE THE FRUIT WILL START TO SMELL WEIRD AT THE END OF THE DAY AND THAT’S WHEN YOU TURN IT OFF.
WHEN YOUR GUESTS ARRIVE THEY’LL HAVE TO STEP BACK AND EXCLAIM “HOLY MOTHERFUCKING TITS, THIS IS ONE CLASSY HOME”
Not gonna lie, I’m mostly reblogging this because reading it is so thoroughly enjoyable.
today in history class this kid said something about how women belong in the kitchen and my teacher freaked out and he made all the girls in the class write down “at 1:04pm on wednesday november 7th 2012, nick has been blacklisted” and now we’re not allowed to talk to the kid until he comes into class with the 17 apology letters that he’s being forced to write to every girl in the class
i love my history teacher
"Tell the chef, the beer is on me."
"Basically the price of a night on the town!"
"I'd love to help kickstart continued development! And 0 EUR/month really does make fiscal sense too... maybe I'll even get a shirt?" (there will be limited edition shirts for two and other goodies for each supporter as soon as we sold the 200)