blinkinfig

Pound chicken breasts till very thin
Fry in shallow pan drop of olive oil
Heat tomato sauce in small pot
Pour tomato sauce in casserole dish and spread till covered
Nestle half cooked chicken in sauce
Top chicken with sliced mozzarella and grated parmigiana
Broil in oven
Remove when cheese is bubblin
Boil Water
Drop in Pasta
Serve chicken and tomato sauce over pasta
Go fuck Emeril in the ass.

TOMATO SAUCE:
5+ cans Whole Tomatoes
2 slices bacon (minced)
1 onion (minced)
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 tablespoon sugar
3 cloves of garlic (crushed)
Lots of red pepper flakes, Basil and Parsley
Fry bacon
Pour everything else in and cook low for a long time.

Well cheating is obvious. And for those only in Platonic relationships, it seems your are either not interested, unable, or afraid. Anyhow, that is irrelevant because this only concerns those who have willingly decided to sleep with one person. Now, that is not the only particular trait of a relationship between two people, but for our purpose we can imagine the only difference between you and your significant other is how many people you choose to be sexual with. Talking and other social endeavors are not important because, obviously, we all act differently when we are alone, than with others.
Well, concerning the physical nature of a relationship, it seems monogamy becomes the most important issue. Little shit, like cleaning or farting or cooking settles itself over time. But the aorta of a relationship is monogamy. Now, as an idea this is idiotic. No other animal does it, and on paper it is quite stupid. But we do it, for better or worse. We even have huge parties and celebrate the bond of monogamy through the farce of marriage. But look at George Clooney, he just doesn’t give a fuck. But we do it regardless. And for the most part, it works. It works because it takes work to make it work.
But listen the fuck up ladies! We need porn. And many of you women may have no problems with porn, or even the idea that we jack off, and I assure you we would do a handstand for a BJ than stand in the bathroom with a bottle of Jergens. But there is something you just don’t get. Porn is like a dream. We see the ‘actors’ and ‘actresses’ banging each other, and we know its not really important, but there it is. Its a mirage that floats in front of us like the fuzzy lines that hover above the highway in the summer. Its a glimmer of something perverse that we secretly want to watch, but would never do. It gives us something innately powerful that reminds us how awesome sex is. It is not cheating, it is not bad, it is not even wrong or gross. Its just needed. Porn provides a particular entertainment that we are teased at by watching the sappy love stories yall ask us to watch. Anytime yall are watching a scene in a movie where two people are hooking up, we are thinking about seeing the girl naked.
And do you know why!?!?!?!?
Cause naked women are beautiful. It’s the best art in the world – look at Rodin or Renaissance painters or PORN! And that is just it. We like seeing women naked – ALL. THE. TIME. And for the most part we are not ashamed of it, look at our browsing history, but are forced to suppress that whenever we are scoffed by the ACTUAL woman we care about.
So ladies, just remember a few things:
1) Have sex with us – do freaky shit, I promise we will like it.
2) Porn is art! – Well maybe not, but it is fun and makes us horny.
3) Don’t cheat on us – we won’t cheat on yall.

So, I am really lucky. It sounds mighty cliche, or better yet, it sounds like I was spoiled. Well I was. I was given money in high school and in college to spend at my discretion. Although I worked every year while I was in college, I spent WAY more money than I ever spent. This money was not a loan, it was given to me like a charity donation. I was economically provided for. I was supported WAY beyond any means that I should have been, and to make it even more impressive, my college degree has not yet led me to a career.
PHEW.
So every one of my 24, nearly 25 years has been possible because of my father and mother. For the time being I will omit my mother because her contribution to my life is decidedly impossible to quantify in any economic terms. This may sound raw, but let me assure you, I feel the same towards my father except my father has made all the money.
My father is fucking awesome. His mother died in front of him when he was a young, young child. A few years later, his father died. His brother and sister were considerably older than him and, as a result, not apart of his day to day life. FAST FORWARD.
My dad is the best Pediatric Gastroenterologist is the world. Now, there may be people that are AS smart as him. Or, there may be people that are AS compassionate/empathetic as him, but there is no one who is both. He is the best doctor around. I say this with a staunch record of modesty and self degradation, so anyone who knows me can attest to this not being about spreading my good name – plain and simple; Paul H Parker Jr. is the most best physician that a child can see in this nation. Fuck, awards have been given to him to signify this title. The guy is a bad ass.
HERE’S THE PROBLEM.
Under this new fucking OBAMA health care, my father’s 30+ years of experience means NOTHING. Yes, nothing. Oh, no? Let me explain. Obama has decided the medicine needs to be different. Well, that sounds fine, except its not. Under the current plan that Obama has created, physicians who have spent years learning patients symptoms, and make intelligent and correct diagnosis based on experience, are rewarded less that physicians with less knowledge and experience.
LET ME SAY THAT AGAIN.
MODERN MEDICINE: run tests and bill patients accordingly = BIG paycheck
OLDER MEDICINE: talk to patient, and give diagnosis = SMALLER paycheck
Yes, in today’s world, a doctor who does not have the experience and/or knowledge of an older, wiser doctor can receive more money because he DIDN’T know and he called for the tests. Now, the older, wiser doctor who does not require these test because he KNOWS the correct diagnosis will receive less money because in our current medical system being the best is treated worse than being the worst. Let me say THAT again. A doctor who has seen many MANY patients and who understands how to diagnose patients because of their symptoms, he/she receives less money that less experienced doctors who rely on tests to tell he/she the diagnosis. It is the only profession on this planet that mistreats those with the most talent.
NOT OVER YET.
Under Obama, hospitals all across the nation are being forced to become more electronic. Now, being in my mid-twenties this sounded logical. Guess what? they system is designed, DESIGNED!!!! for doctors to see less patients, while billing them for more money. That’s right. Obama believes that if doctors see less patients, and bill them more, the system will be balanced because the number of patients is curbed, while the pay stays the same.
THE DECLINE OF MEDICINE
There used to be a time when doctors were revered; when it was a noble profession, and they were considered to be the smartest people around. Guess what? Under Obama, the system is forced to weaken the position of the doctor. To withdraw the responsibilities of doctor. To turn a doctors life into a profession. To make it a 9-5 job. It used to be black and white; those who became doctors, were those who wanted to help other. Now, under Obama, it has become a profession where billing/making money, has become the primary focus.
PROOF?
Obama claims he wants to help manage our national budget, and in effect trim our deficit. HA! Well, here’s some real life shit; because we have so many poor ass, entitled people who receive free medical care from insurance companies, (or Medicaid) the amount of money that doctors will NOW (under his authority and design) be able to charge is increased. The bastard is increasing the amount doctors can bill, because he knows that the majority of the money billed comes FROM insurance/medicaid. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND what does that mean? It means poor people can still take free health care, while doctors make more money. All it does it increase health care costs.
- Tittes

Patted ribs dry with towel
Rubbed with paprika, cumin, coriander, garlic, cayenne, mustard powder, and brown sugar
Sat ribs out for few hours.
Placed in three-hundred degree oven for four hours, rotating rack every thirty minutes
Removed from oven
Covered in foil and let sit for thirty minutes

BBQ Sauce:
Soy sauce
Ketchup
Garlic
Hot sauce
Honey
Red Pepper Flakes
White Pepper
Mustard Powder
Tomato Paste

Have an orgasm

I had a Volvo but did not drive it because of a DUI on last Thanksgiving Eve. My friend had gotten a new job in Memphis for some accounting firm. He wants to be a CPA. I had a few drinks with him that night. Less than ten. I had work back in Mississippi, at the café, and although it was only an hour south, I knew the chance of me waking up at five am to drive was ridiculous. So I did what any self respecting person would have done. I got on the road around midnight. It was all interstate anyhow. I was falling asleep at the wheel. I was not drunk, just tired. So I pulled over and put my hazards on. I voluntarily put my hazard lights on because I knew a car on the side of the interstate could be dangerous and putting on the hazard lights was an acceptable precaution.
I woke up with a flashlight in my face. A police officer had his big flashlight in my face. He knew I was sleeping. When he walked to the driver window and saw me asleep he knew what a flashlight would do. Asshole.
My car was still cranked. It was November and nearly freezing. I was not going to sleep in the cold after all. The officer said things to me but I did not hear him, so I shut the car off. He asked me more things I did not understand. I was not drunk. I was sleepy. Finally I understood him when he told me to get outa the car, which I did. Asshole pated me down.
I explained what I was doing. He bought it. He and his partner. I was even honest. I told him I had a few to drink but was getting home to work when I felt my eyes closing, and pulled over for some sleep. They believed me fine, till the other cop car pulled up.
A real dike of a lady. Big dike. I was leaning against the side of my car shivering so hard I thought they could for sure hear my bones rattling. The two male officers were explaining the situation to the big dike office. The dike officer walked up to me and shoved a plastic thing in my mouth and told me to blow. I blew. I saw the digital lights on the side of the device light up, and then I felt handcuffs around my wrists. I pretended to curse to myself, but I was cursing the dike officer.
The dike officer searched my car and found a nice little glass pipe in the back seat. It belonged to my friend Collins. Asshole.
I spent eleven hours in jail before I realized I could bail myself out. It was my first time in jail. I was a fool then so naturally I was foolish. I was transferred to the General Holding area of prison, in my yellow jump suit and shackles, and thought about how embarrassed I was. But they make it humiliating. They also take their sweet time doing anything. They make the girls wear pink, so I suppose that’s worse.
When I entered the GH all the inmates get up. All in their yellow jump suits like corn in a field. Only this was a room in a jail.
At least sixty men stopped what they were doing to watch me enter their living quarters. That many incarcerated eyes is dreadful. I noticed a chess board on the lone table in the front of the room. I jogged confidently down the stairs. I figured appearance meant something. I sat down at the chess board a little too quickly and started setting the pieces.
‘Anyone wanna play!?’ I said a little too loudly.
Most of the people either realized I was an idiot, or ignored me, or both. Either way my focus was on chess. But not for long.
Two big burly white men and a smaller black guy walked up to me and asked me what I was doing. I don’t remember responding, but I remember what they said next.
‘You ready fo yo prostate exam?’
‘Haha no.’ I laughed because it was funny. I was not worried; not from confidence but because it fit – I had never been to jail and they knew that. The three of them had a good laugh.
I did not turn my back, but still moved the chess pieces into place. The pieces were from a number of different sets. Many different whites and many different blacks. Similar to the people around me. I was not scared. I was nervous.
The two big burly white men walked off but the black guy walked around the table, in front of me. He did not sit.
‘What you think yo doin?’
I positioned the last piece on the board, the King. ‘Wanna play?’ I asked.
‘It aint yo bawd is it?’
‘No.’
‘Then how you know you can play?’
I was angry, till this moment. He was big and black and angry at me presuming I could use a chess board. I faltered with an answer. He laughed and sat down, telling me to turn the board around so we could switch colors. He was white. I was black. Sweet, sweet irony.
I spent eleven and a half hours in the jail. Nine of them in GH. The black guy who played me in chess was named Larry. He was really good at chess. the first game was close, and some level of respect was felt established. But whatever was established was erased when he murdered me the next two games. It was not even close.
He left the board to me, informing me I had his permission to play on the table till I lost. Then I would have to offer to give that person the table. Standard rules. The same rules as outside. Larry joined a group of others watching a black sitcom in Spanish. I doubted anyone knew Spanish. I did not see a Mexican.
I played twenty-nine games of chess. After my three losses to Larry I won sixteen straight, all to white guys. Larry returned to the table when I beat an older bold man who refused to introduce himself. He didn’t say a word the whole match. Checkmate in sixteen moves.
Larry did not play me again but started to give me tips. I was his boy. I lost the next match I played. Fuck Larry.
Lunch time. I was given half an orange, a small carton of fruit punch, and a snack-size piece of Hershey’s chocolate. I gave it to a white guy my age who was arrested for stealing a car. The car had GPS and he was caught in half an hour, with cocaine in his pocket. He was a talker. Nice fella, but not too bright. I was not surprised.
I ended up learning, from the car stealing cocaine kid, that I could bail myself out. I had to ask for a release form. I was never told that by the police officers in the holding cell. I had spent eleven hours in jail for no purpose. When I finally got out of jail and back to my car, it was Thanksgiving Day. My parents were thrilled, but I did not tell them till the weekend was over. No point ruining a good thing.

Rubbed two strips of spare ribs with Lawry’s seasoned salt
Put in two-hundred fifty degree oven for four hours, uncoverd
Removed
Covered in foil and cooked at three-hundred fifty degrees
Removed
Slathered BBQ sauce and cooked in four-hundred fifty degrees
Removed
Repeated BBQ sauce application until dark and crispy
Removed
Sprinkled brown sugar and warmed until caramelized
Used a ton of napkins.

I am traveling abroad in some ridiculous place; not in the United States. I met a huge fuckin Polar Bear and we rode a motorcycle from the jungle to a small town. We had become friends over the ride, and I decided it was time to return to America. The polar bear did not have normal hair. He was covered in long white dreads, and I had a rope around his neck. I had trained him to walk upright and we made our way through the airport after I bought two tickets to Boston. I told the airport security that the polar bear was an overweight hippie that was deaf, blind, and mute. They did not have an issue with that and we preceded down the walkway towards the plane. We were about to board when we were caught.
They told me they would ship the polar bear on a different plane, but he could not get on board. I asked for five minutes to say goodbye; and that is when we made our move.
I shaved all the polar bears hair off; he was black and brown underneath and much, much smaller. As a fat man was about to board the plane, the polar bear grabbed the man and I attached all the hair.
The authorities took the fake bear and during the shipping he was killed.

It’s easy enough for the female flesh to ensnare us. I mean, they have boobs and vaginas and they look better than anything else. But it seems some of these females actually revel in spreading their wealth without hesitation. I do not condemn these women, and for the most part celebrate their actions – they are ahead of the game in many regards, and yet considerably behind it when STD’s are concerned. No, the problem stems from a much more mysterious place.
The quiet whore.
A woman who looks like Sunday morning, but acts like Friday night. A woman whose innocence is assumed, and whose guilt is not realized, even by themselves. These creatures are the most impressive in the animal kingdom, because they can dangle themselves like carrots in front of a mule. For these select, precious few, fidelity is a concept never fully understood. And why should they? They are not in any position to lay bare there plans, for they themselves are unaware they are going anything TRULY wrong.
Bitterness, contempt, regret, anger… none of these things last long for those without mental health issues, but for those on the other side of this terrible equation, it seems ridiculous the power the pussy has over us, but then again. It tastes so good.

I was unaware I had been searching, but when I discovered the best Fried Chicken recipe… it was better than a blowjob.

Poured one carton of buttermilk in bowl
#Squirted Sriracha and Chalula hot sauce in buttermilk
Sprinkled paprika, chili powder, salt and pepper in buttermilk
Stirred
Marinated over night
Heated oil to three hundred seventy-five degrees
Dusted chicken in flour seasoned with salt and pepper
Fried the lot
Removed from oil
Salted
Dried on brown paper bag
Placed in oven on low, LOW heat for less than 10 minutes

Thanks to a friend of mine, who loves mustard more than all, I have discovered that ketchup is not the only thing good on fried chicken.

Eaten with Wedge salad and blue cheese dressing; it feels close to paying homage to Paula Dean, but I would hate to give her any credit outside of being a fat ass cow.