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Tag Archives: boobs

Casting Call

I’m not sure how many of you are aware but TWTG is single again and on the prowl. I had been using a lovely little internet dating site called OKCupid. Now, I’m a big girl, and I can handle some bullshit but I’ve already taken my profile down. See, being the Queen of Everything has its advantages, one of which is having men flock to you by virtues of your, um, God given attributes. (Thank you parents and sweet baby Jesus for the boobies!) It didn’t take long to become overwhelmed by the sheer number of responses, which led me to consider a different approach:

I’m taking applications.

Now Hiring at TWTG Incorporated!

Position to be filled:         Boyfriend

Position vacated:             August 13, 2012

Requirements:

Day job (not as boyfriend, husband or gigolo)

Car (2009 or newer)

House (no roommates, kids don’t count)

Children OK but no psycho ex-wives

Adventure seeking, vodka drinking, affable and outgoing

Handsome (in my opinion)

Brains (mmmm, yummy, brains)

A sense of humor (if you can’t laugh at life, I have no use for you)

Please submit resume to thewhitetrashgourmet@gmail.com along with a photo and drink invitation (you are buying, buddy), to apply for a face to face interview. VEGANS NEED NOT APPLY! Anyone under the age of 33, I do not need to hear how age is just a number and you are so mature and don’t get along with women your age. I know damn well why you are cougar hunting and I just have to say, if I’m the cougar, I get to choose my prey.

Fig Seeks Bacon 

  • Fresh figs
  • Bacon
  • Chèvre (goat cheese)

    Cuddled up together

I didn’t include ingredient amounts because you can make as few or as many as you want.

Preheat oven to 400˚. Wash figs and pat dry with a paper towel. Slice each fig in half just below the stem (keeping the stem intact). Place about a teaspoon of chèvre between the two fig halves. Cut bacon slices in half. Wrap each fig with a half slice of bacon and secure with a toothpick. Place on baking sheet and roast for 20 minutes. Voila! Perfect small bite to impress dates.

Those loyal Subjects that have been reading the blog for a while know that I’ve had my share of internet stalkers. No big deal when you have a man in the house to deal with such threats. I could depend on my 18 yr old being home but that occasion is too rare to rely on. This is why no one gets an invitation to my house until I’ve first met them in a crowded, public place and sent a picture of their ID to my bite sized friend Autumn. Maybe I’ll acquire a hand gun, some mace and a large dog, just in case… not that I’m threatening you. I swear, I’m a sweetheart. Promise…

TWTG says, “I’ve had it with you people and your fuckery!”

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Interesting Bedfellows

Trust me, she’s cute.

From my experience, too many adults are just teenagers with intent. Given how I feel about teenagers, it goes without question, then, that too many adults aren’t worth knowing beyond a superficial/networking level. Which is why I’ve grown to treasure the blogosphere: grownups live here. The maturity mileage varies, sure, but at least the thinking mind is respected. I don’t pretend to be an intellectual, but I am a junkie for the written word (I imagine write, write, read is the literary equivalent of puff, puff, give), and my fellow bloggers appreciate this fix better than most in reality.

Which brings me to yesterday, when I met a fellow blogger (and her delightful pooch, Dave) in said reality. (Dry your eyes, Le Clown.) She writes under the name Lynn on 56 Men and Other Mistakes, and we had a lunch date at Eat Chow in Orange County. The food was good, but I enjoyed the company much more. Lynn is a lovely lady, as straightforward in person as she is in her writing, and it was very refreshing to meet an adult-flavored adult. Whether or not she ends up in my proverbial lifeboat has yet to be determined (although it would be good sailing, as we could tie all of her conquests together into a man-yacht), but it warms my heart knowing I’m making genuine friendships here.

Who knew ranting about bacon and boobs could make a gal so popular?

Cashew Butter Cookies

Reason number 119 to meet me in person.

  • 1/2 cup butter, softened
  • 1/2 cup cashew butter
  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1/2 cup brown sugar
  • 1 egg
  • 1/2 tsp vanilla
  • 1 1/4 flour
  • 3/4 tsp baking soda
  • 1/2 tsp baking powder
  • 1/4 tsp salt

Preheat oven to 350˚. In a stand mixer, mix butter, cashew butter and sugars until well blended. Mix in egg and vanilla. Add dry ingredients and mix, just until blended. Drop batter by spoonfuls onto a cookie sheet and press a crisscross into tops using a fork dipped in sugar (like you would for peanut butter cookies). Bake for 8 minutes. Allow to cool slightly before moving to a cooling rack. These are a bit sweeter and less salty than peanut butter cookies. You could substitute any type of nut butter (I so want to make a reference to Lynn here) for the cashew butter and still get a great tasting end result. 

One day I’m going to travel the world and cash in on all of my digital connections. Everyone owes me a dinner and a night’s lodging. What do you get in return? Both the value of my company and the adorability of my face. What’s that? No, I would hate to see your bungee cord collection.

TWTG says, “There’s a whole little cluster of some fucked-up shit going on there.”

Tango Whiskey Tango Golf

As a gal who’s made it to first base with every branch of the military, I’d have to say the best kisser is… all of you. That’s more of a backhanded compliment than it sounds, due to the lack of variety. The moves you guys put on are so similar, one has to wonder if they’re just another thing the brass drills into you at boot camp. Has this method of lip-locking been determined to yield the most strategically advantageous results? Does it provide the highest probability of a second date, or, perhaps, mitigate the risk of VD via a specific angle of entry?

I’m just asking.

I adore our few, our proud and every uniform in between, and I hope the pictures you see today prove it. I spent more time Frankensteining together that bustier than any recipe I’ve divined as a culinary prodigy, or any funny bone I’ve tickled as a Bachelor of Arts-wielding wordsmith. I wanted to give our boys something special on Independence Day, and they told me exactly what they wanted: knockers for the troops. As an antidote to the huh? face you’re making right now, I’ve touched on the bizarro shit people are looking for when they stumble upon my blog (“goofy please don’t holocaust” is my current favorite), and “knockers for the troops” has been one of the most searched terms in the last month. Why ignore the fans? Like I teach my kids, you should always give into peer pressure, and here’s a slideshow of momma doing just that:

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Thank you for your service, gentleman. For the rest of you, I impart this palate-melting burger to make you salivate just as deeply:

Firecracker Sliders

  • 1 3/4 lb ground beef
  • 1 lb bacon
  • 1/2 cup canned jalapenos
  • 2 tbsp minced dried onions
  • 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
  • 1 tbsp Cholula or other hot sauce
  • 1 tsp crushed red pepper
  • salt and pepper
  • jalapeno cheddar or pepper jack cheese
  • slider buns
  • sliced tomato
  • avocado
  • ketchup (I prefer Sir Kensington’s)

Place ground beef in a large bowl. Add bacon and jalapenos to food processor, and pulse until finely minced. Mix bacon, jalapenos, onions, Worcestershire, Cholula, red pepper, salt and pepper with ground beef. Allow to marinate for 20–30 minutes. Form into 1/2 inch patties and grill until desired doneness. Top with slices of cheese and build sliders with tomato, avocado and ketchup.

I’ve spoken about the men in my family—and their contributions to this great nation—so the love I have for our military operates on a genetic level. If the same isn’t true for you, however, it’s still good taste to go the extra mile when you can. Never mind what you think about our government, or the baby talk that passes for our national voice, if you see someone that’s served, give them a kiss from yours truly. Even if that kiss ends up being standard issue.

TWTG says, “We have to wash the China off of it.”

What’cha Got Cookin’

Cute enough for basic cable.

We say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and while it’s very pretty to think so, the truth is far less interesting. Beauty is simply the opposite of common—we covet whatever is culturally rare. When we were peasants working in the fields, tan, thin and malnourished were considered unattractive in the (mole-covered) face of pale, plump and gluttonous. Now that progress has forced us into cubicles, chaining us at an ankle we’ll ultimately lose to diabetic goodness, the peasant look has become the gold standard for all things tappable.

In that sense, I was conceived in the wrong era. I know, weren’t we all? But with my nefarious curves, ample bosom and skin that pinks nicely on even the cloudiest evenings, imagine the goddess I would’ve been revered as in a time when these qualities were deemed healthy, not unfortunate. So pick up a shovel and start harvesting your food again, peasants. Together, we’ll solve obesity, bankrupt McDonald’s and yours truly won’t have to lift a single, chubby digit to blossom into centerfold material. Win-win-win.

Fruit of the ugly tree.

I don’t know why I’m so preoccupied with beauty, as this is my umpteenth post about it. It’s not like I blog about a particularly good-looking field. I mean, consider some of our culinary figureheads: Mario Batali, Ina Garten, Martha Stewart, Swedish Chef and Guy Fieri. Not to impugn their talent—they’re brilliant—but the only time any of them were asked to have the lights on during sex was when a Muppeteer lost his watch. Compared to that… where’s my show, America? Don’t tell me it’s about credentials. Rachel Ray is every bit the classically-trained chef I am, but that Marlboro-voiced bitch has more shows than are worth counting (and isn’t nearly as cute).

Colorful Corny Salad

  • 1 bag frozen corn
  • 1 orange bell pepper, diced
  • 1 cup red onion, diced
  • 2 tomatoes, chopped
  • 2 can black beans, rinsed
  • 1/4 cup cilantro, chopped
  • zest and juice of 2 limes
  • 1 tsp chili powder
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1/4 tsp black pepper
  • 1/4 tsp cumin

Even my salad is pretty.

Combine all ingredients in a large bowl. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes (although this is another one of those dishes that becomes more flavorful with time). Due to the frozen corn and lack of mayonnaise, it also travels well and is ideal for picnics

Of course not everyone with a cooking show is ghoulish. Giada’s gorgeous, but she has a distinct, unfair advantage. I’ve counted her teeth and firmly believe that she’s mostly shark. In case you didn’t major in marine biology, let me edify you: shark skin doesn’t age. It stays pristine throughout the animal’s entire life, so it’s no wonder why she remains timeless. Pregnant pause. I have no idea how a shark’s skin ages. But look at your face! You were being talked into it.

TWTG says, “Fuzz out my old!”

Another Mouth To Feed

Stupid Sean.

For the last month, my eldest has endlessly pestered me about adopting a particular kitten from a friend’s recent litter. I had no issue with this, save for one prerequisite: Get a job, Sean! In fairness, he’s been out there, looking (in that teenage way of hardly looking at all). But until he could afford to take care of it himself, I made it clear the little critter had to stay put. So of course he came home with it, still unemployed. And of course I said yes.

Am I chump? Oh, I’m a chump deluxe, especially for a sweet face. I mean, look at that mug! I want to hug her and squeeze her… but, sadly, I can’t name her George. Her name is Eighty. As in, one better than seventy-nine. As in, best decade ever. As in, happy birthday, you octogenarian fuck. Yeah, it’s weird. At least it’s miles better than our other kitty, whom we named (wait for it) Kitty. Don’t let kids christen things. Kids huff paint; kids are morons.

Where was I?

Ah yes, the cute justifies the means. I’m not discovering anything new here, as the adorable have always had a leg up on the horrible. If polar bears looked like naked mole rats, that ice couldn’t melt fast enough. If pandas possessed Snooki-like properties (beyond the pudge), we’d shoot them as a punishment for humping to save their dwindling species. And even though he went against momma’s wishes, my son still has his skin because he gave me eighty darling reasons not to flay it off. With a butter knife. A wooden butter knife.

Calzones

You will burn your tongue.

  • pre-made pizza dough
  • pizza sauce
  • ricotta
  • mozzarella
  • pepperonis
  • mushrooms, sautéed 
  • spinach
  • marinated artichoke hearts

Preheat oven to 450˚. One package of dough makes 2 calzones. Stretch dough into a circle on a floured cutting board. Spread pizza sauce on dough. Place about 1/4 cup ricotta on half of dough, topped with other ingredients. (My kids take theirs with no veggies and I add them all.) Like any pizza, you can add whatever toppings you like. Fold dough over to make a half circle and pinch edges together. Place on pizza stone that has been heating in the oven and bake for 10 minutes. Serve with extra pizza sauce on top.

The moral of the world is this: Be super cute and non-ugly, and people will give you free shit. Having great boobs helps, too, so book that invasive surgery soon, ladies. I’m not judging—it’s not your fault Mother Nature rolled snake eyes in your bra. I’m gonna write a children’s book.

TWTG says, “Hold on, I’m busy getting short.”

(Kentucky Fried Boobs) Of The Week

Keeping traditions alive.

Doing a little genealogical digging, mine are actually going to be the second set of famous knockers in the family. If you’ve seen The Kentucky Fried Movie, you no doubt remember the Eyewitness News segment (click here to see it, but remember it’s very NSFW), and you no doubt remember the girl. Know who she is? My dad’s cousin. No wonder I can be found among the first dozen or so results of searching “oiled up boobs” on Google Images.

TWTG says, “I don’t know how to fuck up eggs!”

You Really Like Me

The cat that ate the canary.

Last weekend, my tiny slice of cyberspace gained over a hundred followers. If you are among them, give yourself a pat on the region north of your waist-equator. You are officially one of the hundred smartest people in the history of ever. Clearly, you know a good chest when you see one and you should totally bet the farm on that high risk loan. My favorite part is that, while some of you are family, and others are friends, the majority are complete strangers.

How do the unknown find me? Simple: By searching the most gonzo/bizarro shit imaginable. I guess that’s supposed to say something about me and my potty mouth. After all, if I ran a cleaner ship (as the old saying from the sea goes), I would dangle nothing to attract these creatures of the night (as that even older saying from the sea goes). But… yeah, I’m gonna choose to ignore all that and point fingers at my favorite example:

Two people—that is two (2) people—have washed up on my beach by diving for “tetillas erizadas” off the shores of Google. The literal translation? Bristly nipples. Hey, I’m not one to judge. If it makes you happy and doesn’t hurt anyone else, it’s a good thing, right? It also means I’m international! (Obviously, everyone in America speaks English. Everyone. Obviously.) But, uh, in all seriousness, my bilingual degenerates, that thing on your face is never going to heal if you keep picking at it.

Let’s just drink until I find all you weirdos charming:

Surprise Concoction Cocktail

Serves one wannabe famous blogger

  • 3 parts cranberry juice
  • 2 parts vodka
  • 1 part Disaronno
  • Juice of 1/8 lemon

Shake all ingredients over ice in cocktail shaker. I’ve had this bottle of Disaronno that a friend brought over and I only ever use it in desperation. The other night I was short on vodka and this sweet little ditty was invented. Enjoy!

All jokey-jokes aside, I’m positively giddy that my blog is generating momentum. Stick with me, kiddos, even if the state says you can’t live near schools. Granted, I won’t save your tarnished soul, and I might steal your shoes if they’re especially cute, but at least I’ll keep you fat and I’m fun to look at.