ChuckDoherty.com

It recently dawned on me that with September 30 as my birthday, I may owe my very existence to couple of glasses of cold duck served at a New Year’s Eve party.

The lovely and resourceful Lynn N. has identified the mysterious fungal incursion in my yard as the “Stinkhorn” mushroom, a member of (I shit you not) the genus “Phallus” .  This photo (click for full-sized) is of the “Dog Stinkhorn” variety. Another variation is known as the “Elegant Stinkhorn,” which sounds more like the name of some old southern governor.  “Please give a warm welcome to Elegant and Beulah-Bell Stinkhorn…”

This little number is, surprisingly, edible after all, and gets its name from the fact that it stinks.  I didn’t notice that myself, but perhaps mine was of the “Odorless Stinkhorn” sub-genus. I have learned that some Chinese grocery stores sell de-slimed, dried, and stink-free versions of this mushroom for use in soup and God-knows what else.  

In New Guinea these are known as the Ghost Penis Fungus and are thought to be just that. Not just any old wedding tackle, mind you, but that of departed headhunters. Legend holds that disturbing or picking these mushrooms will cause the enraged former owner to rise from the dead, chase you down, and cut off your head.

At about 9 this morning, NYC Police shot and captured (in that order) the suspect from last night’s neighborhood murder.  Upon exiting his vehicle after being involved in a traffic accident, he waved a knife at a New York Transit Officer and received a stern rebuke in the form of some hot lead.  This genius apparently failed to remember that old adage; “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.”

My little town has made the big time with a grizzly murder (as in amount of blood, not type of bear) that took place almost directly across the street from my house yesterday.  I was wondering so many police cars were buzzing around, but now I understand. There were more flashing blue lights than a sale at K-Mart (Barrrrump!).  Police are still searching for the killer who is described, as they so often are, as “armed and dangerous.” The suspect was also quoted as saying, in true film noir fashion, “they won’t take me alive.”  It was not clear if he also referred to the police as “coppers” or ended each sentence with “see?” but I suspect so. 

More on this as it develops.  Right now I have to go because a sweaty and blood-soaked stranger is at my door, and he wants to come in and use the telephone. Heck, as long as its a local call, what’s the problem?

I have no idea why some intergalactic visitor chose a mulch pile at my house to plant his/her/its lunch, but I know that the object I found there recently is not of this world.  Click the picture (its a bit blurry, sorry) for a larger view.  There is a quarter next to the puzzling plant to give it some size perspective.

Anyway, this Weenie of Mystery is (or was, anyway) about the length of your index finger, very phallic, and had a signal-orange base when it was at its most colorful (erect?).  It has since withered and shriveled as all such objects eventually do, although that is nothing to be ashamed about because it happens to everyone, .. I mean, to everything once in a while.

I was hoping that someone, somewhere, has an idea as to what this plant is and whether I should have eaten it.  If you know, send me an email . All I can tell you for sure is that it is slightly salty, with an aftertaste of severe liver damage.

Whenever she takes a break from sucking the head off a spider or licking her ass, my kitty insists on cat food that suits her refined culinary sensitivities. And now, thanks to Harmony Farms, little Weegee can enjoy selections that are “Healthy and Holistic” and jam-packed with “human grade” ingredients, notwithstanding the ominous, Soilent Green overtones of that statement. Cats across the nation are probably rejoicing to learn that no corn, wheat or even soy are ever used in this fine food, and they’ll sleep tight and often knowing there aren’t any nasty “By-Products” in there either.  Nope, just natural goodness from the brown rice to the chicken viscera.  If the slick brochure (click picture to enlarge) I received in the mail today is any indication, it’s the kind of food that that even a board-certified cat reflexologist and Reiki practitioner would be proud to serve to her own eight cats.

Before you get the idea that a product this pure and natural is just the thing to supplement Grandma’s expensive people-vittles, you may want to think about what these grandiose claims really amount to. Having been behind the scenes at the Kibbles & Bits manufacturing facility in Mattoon, Illinois (also the home town of the largest bagel-freezing facility in the US), I am privy to the fact that what counts as “chicken” in even the most hoity-toity pet food isn’t the same stuff you get from Boston Market. You may imagine a scene of golden roasters twirling on a rotisserie, but in reality pet-food “chicken” involves far more of the stuff that is yanked out of the bird and tossed into a bucket during processing.  It is transported via railroad tank car and arrives at the factory in a state that is not quite solid, but far too lumpy to be called liquid either. Still, technically, it is chicken.  And according to Harmony Farms, holistic too. Whatever the Hell that means. 

I used to think that this nation’s decent into helplessness was evidenced best by the presence of “Lunchables” on our supermarket shelves, but they seem like part of a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving scene when compared to the abomination I witnessed yesterday: peanut butter in a tube.  Honestly now, has our reluctance to perform any manual task decayed our abilities so much that we, as a people, no longer posses basic jar-operating skills? 

Unless someone is in zero-gravity or confined to an iron lung, I can’t imagine why they would be unable to handle the relatively simple task of dispensing peanut butter from a jar.  Sure, someone may suffer from one of those Steven Hawking-like maladies, but in that case they probably have someone around to open jars for them. If not, well, then they can just get a prescription for medical-grade peanut butter in whatever dispensing format their doctor recommends (and it doesn’t have to go orally either).  The rest of us are – or should be – able to open a damn jar, and if not we can just do without. 

When I was a kid, peanut butter was made from coal tar and old phone books. It came in rusty, dented cans with sharp edges, and we had to walk two miles in the snow to get some. If we asked for chunky we were told to shut-up and add some gravel. Still, we were grateful. Not like these little wussies today, with their iPod-flavored snacks and what-not. 

CNN.com today reported that during Saddam Hussein’s trial the accused stood and shouted this ominous threat;

“You are agents of Iran and Zionism. We will crush your heads”.

I was fortunate enough to get some free health counseling this evening courtesy of the cashier at my local grocery store. Although I didn’t ask, she informed me that the Priolsec I was purchasing was not the proper way to treat gastric distress, and that I should pursue a totally different treatment modality for my heartburn despite anything that my doctor may have told me. She was most familiar with all this having recently read an article on the subject in Prevention Magazine; the most prestigious journal of medical research currently available at your supermarket checkout counter.

I have come to expect unsolicited medical advice at places like Whole Foods, where their $12 free-range, Womyn-raised organic zucchini are promoted as if they were all that stood between us and immortality. The staff there is at the ready to offer up their sage advice (and advice on sage) regarding which useless homeopathic remedy is best for treating everything from ennui to the vapors, even when all you came in there for was some cheese. Still, I had not expected this trend toward merging medical and grocery expertise into some sort of 12-Ailments-or-Fewer primary care model to have trickled down to as pedestrian of a store as Stop & Shop.

Before long, the cashiers at Wal-Mart will be board-certified and anxious to recommend the proper flavor of Doritos to use for fighting various strains of bacterial infections, while the crew at your local Midas will be happy to evaluate your personal exhaust system as well as your car’s (as long as you are already up on the lift.)