Maine: The Personalized License Plate State

While driving through Maine this past weekend, I was struck by how many vanity plates were out there. It almost seems like you're required to get one.

But out among the RNRSTOYs, and VRAMPADs, one plate really stood out to me. It was a beatup red pickup truck with the license plate RVENGE. Now when this guy follows you for 50 miles because you cut him off, it's not like you can really act surprised.

At the same time, though, do you really want to advertise that you're a ticking time bomb? If the neighbor's dog gets gutted and nailed to a tree, I bet the cops are going to want to talk to the guy who has advertised his interest in vengeance. Especially if it turns out that little woogums was whizzing in this guy's gardenia bed.

It turns out that little woogums was whizzing in this guy's gardenia bed.

I can just imagine that conversation with the law.

Cop: Excuse me sir, we're wondering if you know anything about what happened to the neighbors' dog?

RevengeGuy: Um. No, nope. Don't know anything about that.

Cop: Really? We've heard that you complained about him urinating on your lawn.

RevengeGuy: Oh, well yeah... but I'd never hurt someone's pet.

Cop: Not even for revenge?

RevengeGuy: Crap! Stupid license plate! Yeah, I did it! And I'd do it again. I love revenge!

There are just some license plates that are bad ideas. Plates like GUN-NUT, KRAKHED, and NDRCVRCP, just beg for disaster. But in Maine, everybody's got one. I guess it's a good thing I don't live there anymore.

LM

White Water Rafting with Manion, OR, Riding the Short Raft

First off, sorry for the lapse in posting. I'm sure that many of you went into something akin to heroin withdrawal, but much, much, worse. It's okay. I'm back and promise to resume posting at something resuming a regular interval.

In the meantime, you're probably asking, "Manion, where have you been? Were you curing cancer? Rescuing kittens? Wherever did you go?"

And the answer is, Mrs. Manion and I went white water rafting. It's a blast. Put a bunch of middle aged thrill seekers in a boat, equip them with blunt weapons, and throw them over a waterfall. Hilarity ensues. Of course, any day that starts with a warm Bud Ice and a powdered donut is already destined for greatness.

Any day that starts with a warm Bud Ice and a powdered donut is already destined for greatness.

At least that's how it worked for us. We were in a boat with four other people and a guide. Let's go over the cast, shall we?

Jay Lee - Our guide. He seemed prepared to kill and eat any one of us, should the trip go poorly. He's spent the past ten winters living in his pickup truck. I have more testicles than he has teeth.

Couple 1 - An IT salesguy and a the worlds wussiest tree hugging chick. I can respect vegetarians. I can't respect someone who walks into an inn with 43 different species of animal mounted on the wall and begins asking if the trout was farm raised. Come on, I don't order cheeseburgers in vegetarian restaurants. These people think lettuce is the stuff that food eats.

Couple 2 - A pharmaceutical rep and transplant surgeon from China. I speak about as much Chinese as they do English, which is to say, none. Presumably, you have to be pretty intelligent for either of these jobs. All I'm saying is, I pray I never need an organ transplant in China.

So, we pulled out, rowing out way down the Penobscot river. Most of the rowing was done by me, Mrs. Manion, the IT guy and the guide. The tree hugging chick rowed like the wussiest wuss that ever wussed. It was painful to watch. The asian couple kept putting their oars down to take pictures. Or worse, they got excited during the rapids and started waving the oars around the inside of the boat. One nearly beheaded Mrs. Manion.

The highlight of our trip was when a nearby raft flipped and we had to row out to save the rafters. I think the asian couple though our mission was to club the other rafters to death. They certainly weren't rowing. Maybe the Chinese government believes that incompetent rafting is punishable by death. I dunno.

So in sum, I'm back, rested, and ready to resume writing.

-LM

PS. Look forward to tomorrow's post - "Maine, the Personalized License Plate State"

The Monkey Says Get Me Another Banana Daquiri

Mrs. Manion and I decided to go out on the town this weekend. It was Mrs. Manion's birthday. We went to the Oak Bar in the Copley Hotel. It's a great place. Very old school Boston, with cigars, martinis and lots of dark oak woodwork. Very elegant.

Against Mrs. Manion's wishes, I brought the monkey puppet. He's been getting lonely. I would bring him to work, but unfortunately my employers have threatened to have both of us arrested if the monkey puppet ever shows up again. It wouldn't bother me that much, but under the "three strikes" law, the monkey would be subject to some serious jail time.

I was drinking Grey Goose Martinis, up with extra olives. Mrs. Manion was drinking Sloe Gin Fizzes. Very Gatsby. Just one of the many things I love about Mrs. Manion.

The monkey puppet was pounding banana daquiris and chain smoking Montechristos. The monkey puppet loves a fine cigar. For a while, things went well. Unfortunately, the monkey puppet had a little too much to drink, and started getting a little sloppy.

Some frat boys at a neighboring table started making fun of the monkey puppet.

"What's a matter there buddy? Can't hold your liquor?"

The monkey puppet oozed across the floor and stared at the biggest fratboy. The dead plastic stare of the monkey puppet is very disconcerting. Then, with lightning teamwork, the monkey puppet latched onto the frat boy's face as I punched him repeatedly in the groin.

Before the frat boys could react, we bolted from the bar, escaped out the bathroom window, and hitched a ride home with a convertable full of lingerie models. The monkey puppet is all about style.

Mrs. Manion had this to say about the incident: "I begged him not to bring the puppet. I swear that thing's posessed. And what adult walks around with a freaking monkey puppet? We're having a nice evening out, and suddenly he's sucker punching some 12 year old, and running from the bar screeching Eeek! Eeek! at the top of his lungs. I just hope the cops find him before I do."

Buddha related violence

If you see the Buddha on the road, kill him.

Mrs. Manion revealed this Buddhist tenet to me last night. I think it goes a long way to explaining why there are so few overweight, bald buddhists.

Those familiar with such things tell me that it really means that you should never believe that you have all the answers. It means that true certainty is dangerous and destructive. When you stop questioning and searching for true peace and oneness, you have failed in our quest for true zen.

I, on the other hand, believe that it means that I have a license to hand out the smack to any pedestrian that looks like a Buddha.

With this knowledge, I grabbed my nine iron and hit the streets. I passed a few school children. One was a little chubby. In order to be sure, I asked him, "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" I cocked my nine iron in readiness for his answer. Instead he started crying. No Buddha there. Wuss.

I pressed on into Boston. Still no Buddha. It was becoming frustrating. I worked a few Hare Krishnas to keep my spirits up.

Eventually, however, I saw a man. The purity of his dharma shone round him. His robes were orange and his expression beatific. I asked him "Are you the buddha?" "No," he said. "I am teacher, a guide, for those who would seek Nirvana."

I wasn't sure.

"What is the sound of one hand clapping, then?" I asked him.

Rather than answer the question, he gestured. It was a simple shrug, but in it, the entire Dharmakaya of the Tathagata was revealed to me. I learned to shed my atman and achieve the Buddha-dhatu, the true nature of Buddha.

I wept for the beauty of the experience.

The man waited for me to compose myself. "I am new to this place. I would make myself available to others who seek guidance. Where may I go?"

Oh yeah, I thought to myself. Nice try mister sneaky Buddha....

As it turns out, he went to the Emergency Room. I tried to explain to the cops, and demonstrate my own Buddha nature with a series of gestures, but I guess I wasn't doing it right. In retrospect, I probably should not have chosen such a groin intensive gesture.

Apparently another key tenet of Buddhism is that space and time are inseperable, and alterable by Buddhist masters. I guess instead of asking about the whole one hand clapping thing, I should have asked about the whole shifting space and time thing. Then I wouldn't be stuck in this stupid holding cell.

Freaking tricky Buddha, man.

LM

Why Am I So Great?

You know, it's one of those question that I sometimes have to answer. "Why am I so awesome?" Women want to have me, men want to be me. It's that kind of thing. Nonetheless, I feel the need to level the playing field for the millions of less cool people out there. Because I'm magnanimous in addition to being brilliant (and savagely sexy), I've added the following Lance Manion weaknesses:

French maid outfits - What can I say? I'm a fan of the classics. Nothing beats a French maid outfit and a feather duster. For added points, identify yourself as Monique.

Krug Clos De Mesnil - This stuff makes Cristal look cheap. It's good. Champagne from a single vineyard and single varietal. This is the best champagne in the galaxy. The Manion cellars currently contain two bottles. Unfortunately, given the replacement cost, only my descendants will get to drink them.

Husqvarna - What free time I have, I spend it working in the yard. When you want something that will blow holes in your shrubbery, buy Husqvarna. Whatever you've bought, point it at the offending target, and wait for it to explode. Chainsaws to string trimmers, they never disappoint.

Whatever you've bought, point it at the offending target, and wait for it to explode.

Fine port - If it's not twenty years old or later, don't bother. Come to think of it, apply that to the French Maid thing as well.

Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett - I am unfit to read the drafts of these giants. They are brilliant and deserve to be waited on by attractive young women in French maid outfits bearing vintage port.

So there you go. It's not quite the same as kryptonite, but I'm feeling like a sport tonight. I fully expect that tomorrow morning the front yard will be swamped by suppicants bearing champagne and port.

Damn straight.

LM

Office Ninja

So I've decided to become an office ninja. I'm not sure what the job requirments are, but I figure it beats technical writing. I came to this conclusion yesterday when I was asked to complete three books in 24 hours. 353 pages, 14 Diet Cokes, and one aneurysm later, a wonderful peace filled my heart. I realized then that the world wanted me to become an office ninja.

Most people are unfamiliar with the office ninja. That's because they are masters of stealth and disguise. Although the pirate is the natural enemy of the traditional ninja, the office ninja battles the marketing department. That is because the marketing department makes silly promises, like 3 books in 24 hours.

Today I entered the office dressed as the office ninja. I decided not to tell HR about my new position. Soon enough they would realize the benefits of having an office ninja about. I disguised myself by taping sheets of copy paper all over my body and putting a recycling bin over my head. After an unfortunate encounter with a stairway, I added eyeholes to the bin. Ninjas are clever like that. Office ninjas, even more so.

Ninjas are clever like that. Office ninjas, even more so.

Despite mounting pain from paper cuts all over my body, I crept into the marketing department. I observed Phil, the new VP of Marketing sitting there all smarmy and breathing. Drawing the sacred stinging wasp from my belt I lunged. The battle was short and furious. Before he could react, I had bested him. As his minions rushed in the door, I threw my dust of concealment and leapt out the window in the confusion.

My victory was complete when I read the account of my actions in the paper the next day. I've taken the liberty of transcribing the article below:

AP Wire - Waltham, MA - Homeless Man Attacks Local Executive

A homeless man, naked but for a few sheets of paper taped to his body, attacked a local executive. Phil Sanders, a marketing executive for Penetrode, Inc. was working in his office when the homeless man ran in the door, screaming "Office ninja! Office ninja!"

The homeless man then slapped Sanders repeatedly with a mousepad. Before security could react, the homeless man broke open a toner cartridge and tossed himself out a window.

Authorities have been unable to identify the man due to the bucket marked "Resikle Bin" that he wore upon his head.

The Waltham Police department's investigation is continuing.

LM, Office Ninja

Mercenary Mailbag

Here at Mercenary Words we get a lot of mail from our readers. Seamus, the intern, reads and responds to each letter. Often he encloses an 8X10 color glossy of me, Lance Manion. Unfortunately, he's also begun signing them, "Look at me, I'm Lance Manion, the great Haggis face who won't bleeding pay the interns. I'm a bloody great poofter! Nancy boy! Nancy boy!" So we're looking for a new intern.

I'm a bloody great poofter! Nancy boy! Nancy boy!

As a result, I've been forced to start reading and responding to our extensive email. Rather than answer the mail and write a post, I'm taking the opportunity to do both, right here.

Dear Lance,
I read your post about Marmite, and I hope you know that it's the greatest thing ever, and I'm coming to your house to jam an extra large jar right up [edited for space]
Edward C. Pumberton, Chumblebottom on Swivvensleigh

Thanks for writing Ed. We depend on feedback from readers like you to create a quality product that's both entertaining and informative. And I live two doors down from a cop. Who's tried Marmite. And he's looking for a little payback. So bring it.

Dear Lance,
Is your name really Lance Manion? Or is it an homage to an episode of Cheers where Sam Malone uses it as an alias to conceal a groin injury?
Bethany Morrow, Duluth

Absolutely Bethany, Absolutely.

Hey Butthead,
I found your site because I was googling for weasel spirit totems, and I think it's reprehensible that you would mock an ancient and noble tradition with your stupid cockroach totem. Your blog is stupid and you should be ashamed.
Edwina Hatch, San Diego

And I think you should be ashamed for belittling the noble cockroach. Before the white man came to this country, they thundered in might herds across the landscape. They were nearly wiped out during the westward expansion, when the cockroach antennae became fashionable in ladies' hats. Only now are they finally recovering. I'll show you who's stupid!

Dear Lance,
Your blog is awesome! I read it every day. Even when you don't post, I still read other things that you've written. One thing. Please don't mention how I got a little toasted on burgundy last night and insisted on voting 12 times for Carrie on American Idol. Bo Bice must be stopped, but it's a little embarrassing.
Mrs. Manion

Thanks sweetie. You rock too. Your secret is safe with me.

Dear Lance,
We are somewhat concerned that the release notes project is two weeks behind and your last status meeting update consisted of "Dude, look at the words, man, look at the words!" while you giggled uncontrollably. Our QA department complains about constant smoke and loud bubbling sounds coming from your cube. We trust that we will not have to involve HR.
Management

Well, looks like we're going to have to cut things short today. Thanks for dropping by. As always keep that mail a-coming.

LM

OvaStatFem 24 Hour Patch Treatment

When I can, I like to watch tons of bad daytime television. I don't often get the opportunity, but recently I was blessed by some car malfunctions and got to hang out while I waited for AAA to discover that Ashby actually exists.

It was at this time that I saw a series of really inspiring commercials. The commercials were all for different products, but carried a recurring theme. An attractive woman in her late twenties would be struck down by some ill defined disease or condition. The commercials were vague. But it sounded awful, with itching and ickiness and I don't really want to go into it here. The attractive woman seemed really upset.

But then they'd introduce new OvaStatFem 24 Hour Patch Treatment, and the woman would be off skydiving in a blindingly white jumpsuit and living life to the fullest. Often with a group of close friends almost, but not quite, as attractive as her. Whatever these products do, it clearly gives you a powerful career and exciting life.

I felt kind of ripped off. I mean, all I can think of for guys is that stuff Enzyte, and that just makes me want to club the spokesman with a shovel. If I watch wildest police chases all I see are ads for Girls Gone Wild. That's not a bad thing, but it won't get me ahead at work. Clearly the female demographic has a line on some great stuff that they're just not sharing.

So I'm getting myself down to the drug store and stocking up on OvaStatFem 24 Hour Patch Treatment. I'm not sure what it's going to do, but if the commercials are any indication, I'll be the beautiful head of my own company by lunch time. Wish me luck.

LM

Testing My Patience

You know what I love about blogs? It's a chance to look into the mind of another person and see what that person really cares about. In my case, for example, a careful observer would see that I really care about drinking, fast cars, lemurs, Mrs. Manion, and tapirs. Not necessarily in that order.

What frosts me, is when you visit somebody else's blog and rather than actually write something, they've put a link to the Kitty Boo Boo name generator, or some other such garbage. Plus they'll post their own scores. Like it's badge of honor to get 78.43 percent on the "What Genital Are You?" test.

The "What Genital Are You?" test

Now that I write this, I find the score of 78.43% on the "What Genital Are You?" test to be deeply disturbing. What the hell does that even mean? The person is three quarters of a genital? Seriously freaky. And I for one, am not taking the test. There are some things a man was not meant to know.

But hey, I'm a live and let live kind of guy. So to be helpful, I've come up with some test ideas for the people who make these things. I'm strictly amateur with the Javascript, so someone else will have to do the code.

Here goes:

How much of a tool am I?
The test consists of a single button. Clicking the button indicates that yes, you are in fact a tool. Winner recieve a graphic saying "Yes, I'm a tool!" They can post it in their blogs and let other tools click through to make their presence known.

The Star Trek Buffy Purity Evil Overlord Innocence Realty test
This test asks about a thousand random questions and assigns a random score. It also flags the test taker as someone willing to work long hours for free. I'll sell the identities of these people to sweat shop owners and software companies.

The Could I Write Technical Documentation Test?
This test asks users to write whatever complex technical documentation I'm currently on the hook for. If it's any good, I'm keeping it and passing it off as my own.

The moral here is if you take on the responsibility for writing a blog, then actually write something. It's like a big electronic puppy that needs to be walked every day, or it will pee the urine of disuse all over the living room of the internet. Or something symbolic like that.

Man, I suck at metaphors.

LM

Sacrificial Buddy

A disturbing trend has been brought to my attention. That of celebrities who, after years of partying and hedonism, find God. This trend is best exemplified by none other than Willie Aames. You may know his as the buddy character (aptly named Buddy) on Charles in Charge. Now I can certainly see how being the sidekick to Chachi might make you want to get totally fucked up, but have some dignity man.

These days he's Bibleman. Really!

I have so much more respect for someone like River Phoenix who went out swinging. I too hope some day to shuffle off this mortal coil while barfing outside the Viper Room. Instead, you get these guys who wake up one day, pee blood, and think, "Oh, I can't handle it anymore. I need God." Or wake up next to some OD'ed stranger and think, "Hey, maybe this is a destructive lifestyle." Whatever. You're famous. Act the part.

Whatever. You're famous. Act the part.

The ancient Aztecs (Maybe it was the Incas. Or Toltecs. Mixtecs? I dunno. I majored in English, not Anthropology) used to have a tradition. They'd elect a king. This guy was the earthly embodiment of some god or other. The important thing was this guy lived it up. Big time. Wine, women, song, Armani headpieces, you name it. And at the end of the year, they ripped his heart out with a sharp rock, sent him back to heaven, and picked a new guy. And yet every year, there was huge competition to be that guy.

That's how I see my movie/rock stars.

The deal is this: You get fame and crazy money. And in exchange, you go out and do the stuff I don't get to do. Like getting coked out of your mind and wrapping a Dodge Viper around a tree. (Thanks, Kelsey Grammar!) Like getting whacked out on Ecstasy and invading people's homes (Thanks, Anne Heche!) Of course, the downside is you don't tend to last long. But that's okay. We just tear another would-be star off the roll and the process starts again.

When you find god, or enter rehab, it's like you're copping out on the deal. It's like being the Aztec king-guy and skipping town the night before the sharp rock ceremony.

That's why I like Kid Rock. Chugging Jack Daniels and dating Pamela Anderson. You know. You KNOW, that at some point in the near future, he's going to do a swan dive off a high building while freebasing something so hardcore it doesn't even have a name.

And that's why we have stars. And that, dear reader, is why Kid Rock is an American Badass.

LM

Notes to Self

Just a few things I've had on my mind lately

• House is the greatest show ever. Ever, people.
• Continue plans for Pants Weasel (tm) pet storage/self defense system.
• Social Distortion is coming to Providence. Try not to embarrass self.
• What if Social D did a guest spot on House? That would be so cool.
• Contact defense attorney regarding first successful test of Pants Weasel (tm)
• Stock up on canned hams before word gets out.
• Submit fan script to House production company. Tentative title "Manion and House Hang Out Together and Go See Social Distortion"
• People still watch pro wrestling. Why?
• Become licensed tapir rancher.

Le Mot Juste

It's French, and translates roughly as, "The right word." The reason I mention it, is I was watching SWAT last night. It was the climax of the movie as Officer LL Cool J was arresting the head bad guy. The baddie is lying on the ground, rolls over and is looking straight up the barrel of Officer Cool J's submachine gun. Officer Cool J looks at the baddie and says "Tell Daddy how you want it."

"Tell Daddy how you want it."

This moment was somewhat of an epiphany for me. I then realized that at some point in my life, I'm going to kick some butt and need to say a catchy line that will guarantee my literary immortality. I spent the rest of my weekend going over great butt kicking lines, trying to find the quintessence, the sine qua non, the squelmious umberling, if you will (okay, I made the last one up), that makes these men and their lines so great.

My big influences were the following:

• "Son of a bitch must pay" Jack Burton, Big Trouble in Little China. So many great lines, it's hard to pick just one. Jack Burton had more macho than a man with four testicles. Big time.
• "We could dust off and nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure." Cpl. Dwayne Hicks, Colonial Marine Corp, Aliens. Never, ever, screw with a man who's willing to casually use nuclear weapons.
• "Say hello to my little friend!" Tony Montana, Scarface. Coked out of his mind as his world collapsed, Tony still had the presence of mind to sound badass. Would that we all were so cool.
  

So based on that, I've started putting together a list of quips that I can use in various situations. Appropriateness is key. It would be seriously embarrassing to have a great line about nuking someone from orbit, but if you don't have a drop ship, you're just going to look stupid.
So I've assembled a binder, indexed by subject and situation. When the time comes, I just flip to the page and let 'er rip. Here's few gems:

• "This toad's going to lick YOU!" Because someday I might have to go undercover and infiltrate a gang of hallucinogenic toad smugglers.
• "I'd hate to have your dry cleaning bill." Sometimes justice gets messy. I'm just saying.
• "Now THAT'S a wedgie." If I ever have to fight a gang of nerds, this one will be key.
• "Make a bong out of THIS, hippy!" I'm not afraid to fight hippies. I'm not looking for it, but if happens, I'm ready.
• "Get ready to fill your Depends, Grandpa!" I'm also not afraid to fight the elderly. I figure there's a population that's wide open for some street justice.
• "Or maybe that's the smell of justice!" I figure once I get all famous, I'll need a signature cologne, like Britney and J. Lo. Product placement is key.

So there you go. Whatever's next, I'm ready. I've got a binder.

LM

Manion Poetry Slam '05

In an effort to raise the tone here at Mercenary Words, we're doing poetry. I wanted to do an assortment of limericks about the man from Nantucket, but Mrs. Manion absolutely forbid it unless I gave equal time to the young lady from Venus, and I'm just not going there.

I've read a few goth blogs to get a feel for this thing, and I think I've got what it takes. Brace yourselves. Manion Poetry Slam '05 begins!

My Pain Is Worse Than Yours

My voice goes unheard
So many ears
But no one hears
My voice is lost

I float in the maelstrom
Tossed about in the blackness
I feel such pain
It's really hard to be me

My pain is worse than yours, you suck.

Dried out and lonely

I've got no beer
Even the old can of Bud light
That my brother left behind
Is gone.

If I have no beer,
I can't get Mrs Manion loaded so I can score.
Maybe she'll drink
Jaeger shots.

Oppressing me

An army of police
Telling me what to do
Telling me what to think
Telling me that getting wasted and sinking my car in the neighbor's pool is illegal.

Even if you cage my body
My soul soars free,
Like the cookies
I just tossed
on myself.

Incredibly, these only took about 3 minutes each. Now I see how all the poetry majors in college had all that free time to run around hooking up with each other. I'm going to look into finding a publisher.

LM

Poop-a-palooza!

You're probably not going to believe me, but the town I live in, Ashby, MA, has an annual event called Poop-a-palooza. I shit you not. (Ba-dum *kish*! I'll be here all week! Try the veal! And don't forget to tip your servers!)

In this event, local famers bring poo from whatever creatures they raise into the center of town. You can then take poo from them to use in your own garden. Given the impressive assortment of animals in town, it's quite the event. We've got bands, and a Miss Poopapalooza contest. It's pretty wild.

I'm hoping to acquire some llama poo for use with the azaleas.

LM

I Need an Arch Nemesis

All the great heroes of the world have a great nemesis. Someone their equal in cunning and evil. I think it's the challenge that drives both to greatness. Until I get enemy of this caliber, I won't be able to move from being awesome to totally awesome.

Unfortunately, my current arch nemesis, the cat known as Sack of Garbage, is attempting to dominate the world through pee, starting with my house. It's certainly testing my patience, but not my cunning or brilliance.

So I'm placing the following ad on Craigs List.

Help Wanted: Arch Nemesis

Writer seeks arch-enemy. Must be evil, cunning, and physically weak. Willing to plot against humanity with easily foiled plans. Must have own fortress, preferably within 30 miles of Boston. No criminal record, clean drivers license.

Hideous deformities and ability to turn into a snake a plus! Health/Dental + 401k.

The Darkest Evil the World Has Ever Known

Last night Mrs. Manion and I had Indian food. We like a good curry now and again. I got into Indian when I lived in the UK some years ago. The UK was a cool place. I was born there, but left as a kid.

(Air Force brat. Long story. They seized my accent and the extraneous U at the border, so now I can spell words like colour, honour, and favour, 18% faster than the average Briton.)

I also lived there during and after college for a couple of years. The UK has many wonderful things to recommend it. Two of my favorites were Hob Nobs and Merrydown Silver cider. Get me a tube and a bottle and I'm a happy camper. You can usually find the Hob Nobs in the US. Never tracked down the cider, though.

Unfortunately, the UK is also directly responsible for the greatest evil the world has ever known. Namely, Marmite.

Marmite: Lord of Darkness

"What's Marmite?" An innocent victim might ask. Well, according to the good people at Marmite, it's the following:

• Yeast Extract
• Salt
• Vegetable Extract
• Niacin
• Thiamin
• Spice Extracts
• Riboflavin
• Folic Acid
• Vitamin B12

I have no idea how it's manufactured. Presumably there's a crack in the Earth's surface that extrudes this ick. Maybe they've got a Hellmouth. I dunno. And I'm not getting close enough to find out.

People will tell you that it's a lovely spread for use on toast and such. They'll also tell you that it's an integral ingredient in Twiglets (If Marmite is Satan, then Twiglets are like the Arch-Duke of hell or something. More on Twiglets later.)

Let me walk you through the typical Marmite experience.

1. Well intentioned Brit hand you a jar of Marmite and a piece of toast. "Try it," he says, "It's TRADITIONAL," he intones.

2. You look at the jar. It's cute. Small. Sort of like something a high end jam would come in.

3. You open the jar. Inside is something that looks like tar. But not as appealing.

4. You sniff delicately. It smells like something that decayed a good while ago.

5. You look questioningly at your host. "I think it might be past its prime," you say politely.

6. "What? No, it's fine, try it!" You host replies, putting the pressure on.

7. Well, I've eaten weirder stuff than yeast extract, you think, and spread some on your toast. The tar metaphor continues to apply as you lay the dark brown/black evil on your innocent slice of toast.

8. You taste. In order not to appear rude, you take a decent sized bite. You chew.

9. It hits you. It's like all the hounds of Hell have taken an Armageddon sized crap in your mouth. Repeatedly.

10. You struggle to control your gag reflex. In a supreme act of will, you swallow.

11. "Did you like it?" your host asks. "It's an acquired taste."

12. You stab your host repeatedly in vengeance for defiling your mouth forever.

Yeah, it's that bad. Seriously. No one ever believes me, and then they learn the hard way.

And on to Twiglets. Sidekick to evil.

For some reason, the technology to manufacture pretzels never made it to the UK. I couldn't tell you why. The closest thing they've got are Twiglets. They're basically pretzel thins baked in, you guessed it, Marmite.

You've been out drinking, you've got the munchies, and you want pretzels. You look the bag. The picture looks right. The slogans are... peculiar.... "Satisfyingly 89% fat free!!" ... "Extremely crunchy!!" ... "Hazardously knobbly!!"

The knobbly thing should be a warning, but hey, you're drunk.

You shell out your 1.49 and dig in. And you've just been orally ambushed by Satan's little buddy. Repeat steps 9 and 10.

It really is that bad.

So on your next trip, have fun, try the Red Fort on Dean St. in Soho, and kill anyone who tries to push Marmite on you. You'll thank me later.

LM

Now I Know How a Crack Whore Feels...

So if you've been following my thoughts these past few months, you know that there's a hierarchy to my love of diet coke. It ranges from love (regular diet coke flavor) to acceptance (lime diet coke flavor) to hatred (vanilla diet coke flavor).

We're now down the the vanilla flavor. The work fridge is a barren wasteland, with nothing but the bitter, chemical taste of fake vanilla to offer. Of course, I'm drinking it as a write. And I hate myself for it. But I needs my caffeine, baby. I needs it. And even if I have to chug that evil swill, I'm going to do it.

Why do the powers that be order equal amounts of all three? Clearly people have preferences. The simple fact that the regular flavor goes first would indicate that we should order more. The sight of me in my cube gently stroking that last empty can while softly weeping should be warning enough that it's time to place another order.

I know I have a problem. I know I could go get help. Or even just some regular flavor diet coke from the cafeteria downstairs, but the swill is here now, and I can't say no.

It taunts me from the cooler. It looks at me and says "I know you hate me, but when you need it, I'll be here. Waiting. 'Cause you my bitch..."

It's just a matter of time before I end up in an alley, covered in filth, desperately sucking on empty 2 liter bottles.

Okay, maybe I don't like regular diet coke that much, but lord knows I don't like the vanilla flavor.

LM