Following the Stream of Consciousness

Prior to 1668, it was generally accepted that maggots "spontaneously generated" from rotting meat. If you left your steak laying out on the counter, you'd better believe it would give birth to a healthy assemblage of lovely, wiggling rice-lings. After the 17th century, people smartened up a smidge and realized that maggots don't arise from decomposing flesh. No; they arise from the waxed cardboard boxes that meat products are shipped in! The incredulous need only to take a gander at the cardboard dumpster behind my local grocery store. The meat cutters threw a bunch of empty cardboard boxes in early in the day, and by nightfall, the whole perimeter of the dumpster was crawling with infantile insects! And the dumpster for garbage? Not a single squirming maggot. If that doesn't prove my hypothesis, let me remind you that evolution is only a theory, and for that matter, so is gravity. Suck on that, Francesco Redi!

Take a moment to imagine: A dirty old man, pants pulled up to his man-breasts and suspendered securely in place, with an enormous chunk of chocolatey waffle cone stuck to the front of his t-shirt collar, just hanging out, obscured from his geriatric awareness and skills of detection, screaming out to the rest of the world like some cruel joke at the expense of the elderly, probably at one point delicious, likely to fall off at some future moment, doubtlessly right before he slowly eases into his chair, now mashed messily into the ass of his pants, where it will be seen by an all new group of snickering people when he goes out tomorrow.

You know what's disgusting? Bezoars. Apparently a good way to form one is to either eat your hair on a daily basis, or eat way too many over-ripe persimmons, which turn into a disgusting, gluey substance when exposed to stomach acidity. Personally, I prefer the second option, because it allows you to create a bezoar out of whatever materials you'd like. Just eat a sizeable quantity of your sculpting material before you eat persimmons and you'll get the bezoar of your dreams (after coming out of surgery, of course). Anything goes: your collection of movie ticket stubs, handfuls of paperclips, or all that beautiful, smooth sea-glass you laboriously collected on your vacation last summer.

It's currently raining. Many people will claim that their favorite smell is the earthy scent that fills the air after a brief rain. Almost none of those people know that the name of that smell is petrichor.

Combos are the official cheese-filled snack of NASCAR. It seems to me that they could have had the entire "Official NASCAR snack" market cornered, but they screwed up by electing to be very specific. Hypothetically, at any moment there could be a massive proliferation of various snack-types that NASCAR could sanction, and the official cheese-filled snack would be lost among a sea of official creme-filled, official lightly salted, official kettle-cooked, official hand-molded, and official whatever snacks ad infinitum ad absurdum. Really, it's too bad, because Combos are pretty gross, and while NASCAR fans are pretty indiscriminant about what they shovel into their sweatpants-straining paunches, this character trait will also work against Combos when additional official snack-types begin to crowd the stage.

And what the heck? I thought Batman Begins was supposed to be good.