Fashion Faux Pas

Terrestrial radio, these past few days have been giving me some much needed inspiration on topics to write about in this blog.  In no way, however, am I going to cast aside my Sirius Satellite, for rudimentary radio.  That type of aural media is much to vestigial for my delicate ears.

However, the dullards of the local rock station posed a query to their listening audience, regarding fashion styles that people generally dislike.  I never had a chance to hear what the responses were, but based on mere speculation, I'd guess that a majority of folks would be completely against droopy pants.  I often wish that there were a Fashion Police Car roaming our streets, handing out citations to all those guilty of this fashion-do-not.  If that were the case, though, I'd be guilty on a couple of occasions myself.  The most recent being just yesterday in the parking lot at the grocery store.  While carrying a flat of soda pop to my truck, my belt-line decided to take a little trip down to my knees to catch up on gossip.  Thankfully, I caught them about mid-thigh and through an uncomfortable wide stance, shimmied my way to my vehicle.  Luckily, for all those unfortunate to witness the spectacle, I was wearing clean underwear.

On two occasions in two different venues, I witnessed a young man, maybe the same man, I don't know.  I'm terrible with faces, but on two different occasions, one at the SuperStore on eighth and the other at the nearby Dairy Queen, I saw a young fella walk away from me, pants down below his ass, sporting a wide brown racing stripe, let's say.  Unless, that racing stripe is going to make you move faster, nobody needs to see it.  Actually, regardless of speed, no one needs to see your shit strap, asshole!!

On one occasion, about six years ago, I was carrying a large heavy box out of my house and around the corner into my garage, and though my shorts managed to stay up where they were supposed to be in the preceding two or three hours, they "decided" to take this opportunity to fall down around my ankles.  My neighbour happened to be outside right at this time, too.  "Good morn- - -, ing?"  I heard him call out.  No sooner had I dumped the box into my truck than I was bent over pulling my maverick shorts back up to my waist.

As much as that style bugs the shit out of me, I think the one that especially bothers me, even though it's not offensive, by any means, are those new hats with the straight brim.  I f*cking hate those hats.  They look so stupid, hanging off everyone's heads, slightly askew, twisted to one side with the label still stuck firmly to the peak.  You can't look f*cking ghetto, with a f*cking tag still attached.  You're not Minnie Pearl, for f*ck sake, and Minnie Pearl, for that matter, wasn't ghetto, even if she was a redneck!!

Many times, I found these stupid hats left behind somewhere and I've fought off a strong urge to curve that peak.  Make people conform to what the masses look like.  It took some time before I actually learned that the peak design is different in the two styles of hat, but aside from that, these flat-brimmed hats need to go.

They're too f*cking stupid, especially when coupled with the idiots purposely wearing pants eight sizes too small so they have no choice but to wear them around their knees.  F*ck them, too!  Maybe I will never win an award or be posted on some magazine cover, bestowed with a prize of being the Best Dressed, but I'm satisfied knowing that I'll never look like a f*cking douche bag, either!!

Minnie Pearl was a character who appeared on a
television variety show called "Hee Haw" (1969-97)
She was notorious for wearing a hat with the price tag
still attached. I fail to see the humour, but they're rednecks.
They do marry their cousins, after all.

Mmm. Cake!

My friend Dan and I went for a tasty treat on Monday.  He was craving a Turtles encrusted Blizzard ice cream treat from Dairy Queen, where as I was likely to get the regular crushed Smarties.  However, discovering the Red Velvet Cake Blizzard on arrival, we both opted for that one.  Dan never cared for his as much as he loves his Turtles.  Having a peanut/nut allergy, my choices are pretty grim and basic, at best, but I loved the Red Velvet treatment.  So much so, I stopped for another today.

I must love the creamy taste of the treat as the price on this sucker is a gargantuan $7.  Way more than a cheapskate, like myself, is usually willing to shell out for any sort of treat, let alone an ice cream / cake concoction, yet here I am.  Taking small scoops between typing breaks, savouring all that the desert has to offer.  Mmm.  Creamy cake....

A common practice at all Dairy Queens before they hand over your thick ice cream delight, they have to turn it upside-down, to ensure it's thickness.  After so many years, I don't know why they continue to do this, but they do and well....  Mmm.  Creamy!  Whatever floats their boat, is fine with me.  Today, when the gal did it, I felt it necessary to share an experience a number of years ago at another location.

It was the girl's first night of working at Dairy Queen.  I believe her name was Courtney or Whitney or one of those "Tney" names.  She was cute as a button and what transpired only increased how adorable she was.  I'd ordered my usual Smarties Blizzard and with her trainer at her side, the mixing of the product was done completely up to DQ standards.  Only, when she turned around to present me with the fine refreshment, she flipped it upside-down, as per the practice, but the ice cream and the crushed morsels of Smartie, all vacated the cup, splashing down on the tiled floor with a tremendous SPLAT!

She was visibly panicked and horrified.  Here she was, on her first shift of her new job, making a splash of another kind.  She was nearly on the brink of tears, thinking that I was going to be upset, but was taken aback with my actual response.  I started clapping and thanking her.  I was very encouraging.  "I've ordered these things for years and I've always wanted to see one fall out of the cup!  Now I have!  Thank you for fulfilling my dream."

She seemed to relax from that, even cracking a nervous smile, while her workmates burst out laughing all around her.  She was quickly presented with a mop and bucket to clean up the sticky mess, while another, more experienced gal made my replacement Blizzard.

I got the girl's name and I did email the Corporate Office for Dairy Queen, and commended Courtney or Whitney or whatever her name was, on a job well-done.  I thoroughly enjoyed my visit on that occasion.  And I got to see what, I'd imagine, very few are ever privileged to see.

These Red Velvet Cake Blizzards are delightful. Mmm. Cake!  It's like eating a sweet cloud, but Holy Christ!!  I just sneezed and everything came out red.  That's a scary thought if you're not ready for it.

Fudge Packer

Last week, I was in a particular mood.  For some unknown reason, I had a hankering for some ice cream cake.  In my youth, whenever I would get such a craving, I would answer the urge with a visit to Dairy Queen.  I don't know what the recipe is for their soft-serve ice cream, and frankly I don't care what the process is that goes into it's smooth velvety coolness.  I just know it is a delight when I feel it ooze down my gullet.

Granted, the folks at DQ tend to work a lot with a variety of nuts and alike (and that's just the people who work there - BA DUM BUMP), and the fact that they also make their confections with an abundance of peanuts and other legumes, makes my visits even more sparse.  I have a nut allergy.  Bad enough to put me in the hospital..., or worse.  However, on rare occasions, I throw caution into the wind, cross my fingers and hope for the best.  Hope that no cross-contamination has occurred in the preparation of my forthcoming ice cream treat.

So last week, when I got that rare craving for ice cream cake, I found myself walking into my local Dairy Queen location, with a grin on my face.  In the past, I'd always resorted to getting the "pizza"-style ice cream treat, but all they had this time 'round, was shit with peanuts and pecans and a whole host of other shit that should never find their way into any desert dish, let alone my ice cream bowls.  My eyes, instead moved to the cakes and logs.  

The prices have risen quite substantially since my last purchase, so an actual round "cake-style", was out of the question, as they neared the $30 mark.  I opted instead to go with an ice cream log.  The price was just south of the twenty dollar mark, still a little pricey for this thrifty soul, but the cravings overrode my self-respect and I found myself quickly exiting with a ice cream log in tow.

I'd never had a log that consisted of the ingredients that this treat did.  The bottom layer was soft chocolate ice cream.  The next level was crumbled cookie, then a thick layer of frozen fudge.  After that was Dairy Queen's trademark soft-serve vanilla ice cream, then topped with a subtle layer of whipped cream and dusted with rainbow-coloured sprinkles.  By this description, alone, I shouldn't have to inform you that this was tasty as a motherf*cker!  However, I'm going to tell you anyway.  This was tasty as a motherf*cker!  YUM, with a capital MMMMMM.

The ratios of each participating ingredient was perfect.  The only complaint I would air, and it's not really a complaint, but it would be the fudge.  The fudge is packed into the log, insanely tight.  I don't know the methodology used by Dairy Queen for packing the fudge into an ice cream log, but whomever is saddled with that task, is probably one of the top fudge packers in all of the industry.  If fudge packing were an Olympic event, then Canada would most certainly take the gold medal for fudge packing at this summer's Olympic Games in London, England.

Where does a person learn such a craft as fudge packing, and how many hours per day of fudge packing, did this individual have to endure, to become the champion fudge packer that he (or she) has become.  I feel bad, assuming the mystery fudge packer is a male.  I'm sure that a woman could also pack fudge in such a fashion, as well.  Although, given how tightly the fudge is packed into this log, a lot of upper body strength would be required.  The mystery fudge packer, in question, packed quite a wallop, getting that fudge packed in there so tightly.

I suppose, in a day when nearly everything is mechanized, it'd be easy to speculate that the fudge packer is not human at all.  That it's actually a robotic machine of sorts, that continuously packs fudge everyday.  The machinery alone, though, required to pack fudge into the logs so tightly, would be quite large and complicated.  Likely, it'd take up considerable room, and the Dairy Queen in my neighbourhood, is not that large, nor would their sales of ice cream logs (or any other fudge packed confection) would be high enough to warrant such a pricey contraption.  I prefer to think that Dairy Queen keeps the process close to tradition and uses human fudge packers, rather than mechanized ones.  Plus, a machine would fail to add a touch of love with each packed fudge.

Of course, I'm sure the freezing process probably plays a part in the fudge remaining as tightly packed as it is.  After packing the fudge in there so tightly, you'd want to flash-freeze that log as quick as possible.  No one wants to contend with fudge running out of that orifice after being slammed in there.  Fudge can make quite a hefty mess when allowed to run all over.  That is not a mess I would enjoy cleaning up afterward.  Especially after hammering all that fudge up into that hole.  So a good flash-freezer is a necessity.

Whether they are male or female, I salute and take my hat off to DQ's resident fudge packer.  I would not wish to shake their hand though.  I'm not being prejudicial towards their choosing to be a fudge packer, but given the environment they work in, I can only speculate that they also handle a lot of nuts in their hands.  Rolling them between their digits, their oils brushing off and sticking to their fingers.  It's one thing to be a fudge packer, exclusively, but I draw the line at anyone who handles nuts.  No offense.  To each their own.  However, I don't wish to run the risk of shaking this fudge packer's hand, and having nut juice spread to my hands and making me sick.  Plus, if you take into account, all the fudge packing this individual (or individuals) do on a daily basis, the upper body strength would be enough to rip my arm out of the socket.  And that, my friends, would suck balls!