Frankelstache

Life, America, Randomness

Posts Tagged ‘Food

An Open Letter to Kitchen Scavengers

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Perhaps the most annoying thing in the world is when uncalled, uninvited, and most importantly, culinary retarded  guests go inside my kitchen and lift open my rice lid. I mean, what the fuck are you doing? You can’t even bring an omelet to a satisfactory mode, so why, in the name of Sarah Palin’s fine ass,  do you think it’s okay for you to walk into my kitchen and open a lid or crack open the oven while I’m baking?

Now I admit that I’d still be uber mad even if Masaharu Morimoto will ruin my rice by opening the lid while it cooks. But at least that dude earned the right to enter the kitchen and open any fucking lid he wants. But for people who have no clue to do the same…..that’s exasperating.

Can you imagine yourself walking into the operating room and playing darts with the scalpels? Looking under the hood in the middle of a child delivery? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY KITCHEN. You do not belong in here. There’s no reason to believe you can contribute anything with your toddler-like capabilities.

Written by Frankelstache

November 22, 2009 at 9:40 am

Posted in Life

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Oriental Restaurants and Their Aftermath.

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How do you say “Diarrhea Catalyst” in Thai?

Written by Frankelstache

November 21, 2009 at 2:08 pm

Posted in Random

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The Best Part Of a Hangover

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Is the guilt free meal.

Written by Frankelstache

November 3, 2009 at 3:56 pm

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Why I Decided to Work In Advertising

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I was 18 years and six months old when I joined the Army for a mandatory 3 years service. I hated running, loathed ships, and was too dumb and clumsy to pass the Air Force screenings. I also had clear goals and knew I wanted to do something meaningful with my service, (i.e. 1. Kill a terrorist, 2. Fuck a female officer, 3. Get thrown into Military Prison).  So I found myself happy being drafter into the Armored Corps and was soon enough sent to Basic Training in the desert on my way to a glorious military career at the 74th Battalion of the 188th Brigade in the 36th Division. Awesome.

Time passes really slowly when you’re a soldier, but jumping forward, less than a year after I was stripped of my civilian stature, I found myself deployed in the city of Jenin as a tank driver for “The Wolfs”, arguably the toughest, craziest, funniest and haze-iest Company in the Corps. One random day while cruising the alleys we were informed over the radio that there’s some sneaky action going on inside the Refugee Camp and we should keep our eyes open for snipers (which is, in this location, like telling someone to ‘watch out for boobs’ in a Strip Club).

In any case, some 4-5 people started shooting at us as soon as we crossed a certain intersection and we were struggling to locate the exact window / rooftop that was hosting the undisclosed gunmen. Right as we figured out where the bullets were originating from, the shooters started running and we were suddenly faced with about 100 kids running vehemently in our direction. Everything happened really fast, and all of a sudden stuff was flying at us from every direction and we realized that we were surrounded. Kids emerged from every adjacent corner and burning hot oil was poured on top of our tank. Baskets of rotten cabbage and tomatoes smashed on the top of my periscope and I couldn’t see a thing. Rocks the size of a Biggest Loser prospect made awful noises parachuting from above and the mob was swiftly closing in on us.

The rotten tomatoes on my periscope started dripping and I was able to regain sight on what’s in front of me. I saw dozens of kids, barefoot, dirty and probably all under the age of 12. They were laughing, smiling and yelling at the same time. They were oblivious and naïve, not aware of how fucked up this situation is, in comparison to a normal childhood.
And there he was, little ugly kid in the corner, probably 11 years old with buds of a young mustache and olive-colored skin, hurling stones with sweet mischief, partaking in these shenanigans enthusiastically.

What struck me most about that little kiddo was his shirt. This Refugee Camp resident that probably didn’t even had a home – not to mention shoes, water, electricity or even a warm meal – was proudly sporting a yellow Nike shirt, with the famous “Swoosh” smudged across his petite chest.  And make no mistake about it, this shirt was new and clean, by no means one of those Buffalo Bills Superbowl Champions t-shirts that were never worn and shipped to 3rd World Countries in exchange for $2 and a bag of apricots. This shirt was legit, and he wore it intentionally, proud as a Castro Street resider.

What happened next is loosely described here in the comments section and besides the laughs we had after blinding ourselves with tear gas, everything ended safely; no child was hurt and we returned to base in one piece. We spent the next day cleaning and rejuvenating our tank in the scorching heat while inside my head I couldn’t let go of that kid in the yellow Nike shirt. I was contemplating how this poverty-stricken youngster who fights for his dinners and chases tanks every day desires a Nike shirt. How the hell did they get to him, too? And if a Copywriter sitting somewhere (in Portland Oregon, I later found) can make a Nike commercial that gets all the way to a Refugee Camp in the West Bank and affects its inhabitants, then maybe one day I’ll be able to do the same, and reach those kids with a different message. Perhaps something about peace, possibly something about love – who knows.

However knowing that Peace and Love will probably never be as cool as a new Nike pair, I resumed my cleaning duties, scrubbing a mammoth stain of oil from the top of my tank’s cannon and started planning my future USA adventures.

I was discharged from the army in 04’ without completing all 3 of my contingents for a meaningful service. It’s almost 2010 now, and I’ve yet to create something really meaningful in Advertising as well. But I’ll never forget that little kid in the yellow Nike t-shirt, and every now and then, I’ll try my hardest to use my power to assure that his future kids will lead a safe life somewhere, laughing at their old man’s stories while drinking a cold beer I was paid to advertise.

Written by Frankelstache

July 13, 2009 at 3:46 pm

Death Comes To Us All

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For tragic reasons, for the past week I kept hearing “This is how / what he would have wanted it”, “He died happy, doing something he love”, “he would have hated this”, “He would have loved that”.

More often than not, when someone close to us dies we’re pretty dead on sure what / how he / she would have wanted his / her death to be treated. Or do we really?

So today I wanted to write about how I would want the Frankelstache aftermath to look like, and on the way make some clarifications bout how, why and were I want to be when it’s time for me to send myself back to god knows where.

1st, I really want people to get drunk and feast like there’s no tomorrow. Heck, I’ll even put some money aside in my will to sponsor my own funeral and assure it’s catered with some mouthwatering pork ribs, and screw all of my religious Jew / Muslim friends. Hopefully they’ll be too drunk to say ‘no’ anyhow.
2nd, I don’t want anyone to write anything on my Facebook wall once I’ve departed. If we were Facebook friends, then there’s an 80% we’re not really friends anyhow, so do us all a favor and save your typing fingers for some quality porn sites.
3rd, in terms of cause / location, I always said that I’d prefer saying my farewells after either a good steak, a wonderful dump or an epic intercourse session. The thing is, perishing during a meal means choking, which isn’t fun based on all the fish I’ve slaughtered when I was young. Dying in the restroom could be very messy not to mention smelly, and dropping while banging could leave The Woman I Love pretty traumatized, which isn’t a nice thing to do to her lovely heart.
I guess I need to think about this a tad more before I make a decision.

4th, I want to die knowing I’ve chased my dreams and have achieved them. Want to go knowing I chose life, and that I steered the Frankelstache ship all the way through, even if it crashed once, twice or twelve times. I take no consolation in hearing that those who die young were full of potential, up-and-coming and ready to take over the world. Fuck that shit. Potential is what people say you have when they don’t want to tell you that right now, you suck. So lastly, I want to die old and be buried back home, at the Kibbutz.

I wish everyone that reads this (including myself) decades of health and love.

Written by Frankelstache

July 9, 2009 at 3:11 pm

Posted in Life, Random

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Iron Chef – Who The Hell Are You?

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Maybe it’s the lack of job opportunities and the soaring unemployment rates that gets me going here, but I’m seriously interested in learning what on earth is the role of “The Chairman” in the epic Food Network show ‘Iron Chef America’.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the show’s core curriculum: there are two chefs, three judges and two reporters (among them the uber irritating Alton Brown, who knows more about food than Jenna Jamison knows about penises, only he’s not nearly as arousing and – as far as I know – he does not have a tattoo on his right ass cheek). Chefs and their teams have an hour to prepare five dishes that are later judged based on several categories till a winner is announced. That’s about it, It’s fairly uncomplicated.

Now in that mixture, someone thought it’ll be wise to throw in an odd looking Asian dude that opens every show with a somersault and rambles something about the words of his uncle as he lifts a lid at the beginning of each episode. During the show, he walks around “Kitchen Stadium” like he’s Master Splinter watching over his ninjas, galvanizing them with mystique. At the end of each culinary battle this TV vagabond even gets to try the food, which only adds to his puzzling role given that he says nothing and contributes nil to the judging process.

Who is that man and how did he land such a job? And if the fable is true about him inheriting the position from his uncle, how come nepotism is celebrated so proudly? Is this the message that the Food Network wants to deliver? It’s bad enough that they employee extraterrestrials who were sent from outer space to dumb us down (Rachel Ray) or that they provide a stage for the animal known to man as Paula Deen, cause at least they have a purpose. But this guy is an enigma, an anomaly, and yes, I’m jealous.

Written by Frankelstache

June 29, 2009 at 9:31 am

I Have a Dream

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I had a dream about India
Where I was an emperor with brown skin.

Girls were feeding me grapes
I had a crown of gold around my head.

I was recreating chapters from the Kama Sutra
And was able to breath while drowning in Tikka Masala sauce.

I witnessed an elephant being raped
A man thrown into the Ganges

I danced in Bollywood
Had a red dot on my forehead.
Shopped for Saris
Ate rice
Smacked a Pakistani
Wrestled a cow.

An old man wanted my advice on life
And offered his granddaughter in return
Monks taught me how to brew
Monkeys unshackled themselves in my honor.

This is very wonderful.

I woke up in America
No grapes in the fridge
But lots of cherries in the sink.
No crown of gold
No Kama Sutra,
Elephants in the zoo
And a deer outside the window.

There’s no Ganges River
But Tikka Masala hell yeah
No Pakistanis to smack
No cows to wrestle
Saris aren’t pop.
And the rice is too gentle.

Old men seek no advice
Their granddaughter’s on Facebook
Monks vote Republican
Monkeys are used to test shampoos.

Guess I’m alright with that. Some dreams aren’t meant to change your lives. I guess.

Written by Frankelstache

June 12, 2009 at 10:49 am