THE CRUNCHY PARTS ARE PRETTY DECENT

A while back I donated two bottles of vodka to a good cause.
As it turns out, there is a problem. No, there won't be any infants or problem drinkers present.
Flavoured vodka requires a hechsher.
What I had contributed were one bottle of Rang Tang and one bottle of Bubblegum Vodka.

[warning: The RangTang link leads to another link that may disturb. Do not click on it in class.]

Consumption of both of these fine products at shul has been nixed.
And they have been described as 'odd'.
Odd me'od.


HAPPY VODKA FOR KIDDIEWINKIES!

Those of us who do not keep shul-environment kosher may wish to slosh them down on Chanukah or Purim.
No way will I drink either all by myself, though.
Tang hangovers are the worst.
Just ask our astronauts.

I strongly vote for these "San Francisco flavoured" vodkas to be chilled and served at several of our next meetings.
Can't bring them home - my roommate would wonder at my sanity. Actually, I think she would be convinced that my sanity had gone missing, something she has suspected for years.
There's nothing odd about Tang and bubblegum vodkas, by the way.
Don't know where they got that idea.
Tang and bubblegum vodkas are the breakfast of champions.


WHERE IS WALDO'S HEAD TODAY?

In other news, one of my acquaintances is barking mad.
I was at the wall the other day and had to listen to him throughout a bowlful of Germain's Brown Flake.
No, I'm not in the running for sainthood.
I'm just a very tolerant person.

Shan't tell you who it is. If you've met him already, you know.
Suffice to say that it isn't Chicken Man. It isn't the Ostrich. Not the Egg. Nor the Pigeonkiller. Nor his imperious majesty Agent Left Testicle. Not Bad Bob the Albino. Not the Pancake Man, the office-space broker, the tax advisor, the architect, the lawyer, the other lawyer, the investment banker, the two other office space brokers, the gun collector, the eater of egg-salad sandwiches, or the freak.
Not even the man who is someone's long-lost evil twin.

I am an exceedingly patient man; I talk to teenage shop clerks on the phone across the nation.
I gently dictate short messages to them, and sweetly encourage them not to drop their little pencils, because it's so hard to text, snap gum, and scribble a note for their employer all at the same time.
I am cognizant of the enormous stress they're under, and the difficulty they have coping with a big wide universe. It's just so immense!
So I talk to them.
But I do NOT want to talk to their goofy older brother.
He's quite crazy.
I am sane.


The crunchy parts are pretty decent.
Don't eat the feet and beak.


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