The Great Beefy Experiment

I did it, that which no one before had been willing to! Or at least no one had been willing to do it, take pictures of it, write about it, and then place it on my blog. I'm a real trail blazer here. Be grateful dear readers, I have taken a beefy bullet for you. A bullet made of cholesterol. Aimed right at my already fat encased heart.

For your consideration, THE GREAT BEEFY EXPERIMENT.

What you see above are two T-Bones steaks. Not so very different in color, shape or size. The difference is more subtle than that. For the full tale of beefy duplicity, we must go back into the distant past. Hop with me into my way-back machine to four days ago. I was minding my own business (personally supervising the entire world, if I don't it goes to pot. See: Gulf Oil Spill. I was taking a nap. Sorry, my bad.) when I came across an article that suggested today's modern beef critters are pumped so full of hormones and corn they might as well be Arnold Schwarzenegger at a state fair. With a roasted ear of corn. Keep up.

The writer of these (what I presumed to be) lies insisted that beef critters raised on grass and not fed with corn and delicious, delicious hormones would in fact taste better, and beefier. I resolved to prove this false immediately. It is a well known fact that cows love their growth hormones and corn, otherwise why would they agree to get shot up with the stuff once a week while literally shoveling as much corn down as their four stomachs will hold. If this man were right it could lead to some serious depression in the bovine community after their steroids and maize are taken away. Soon there would be a rash of cow suicides. Those not depressed enough to kill themselves would certainly begin raiding our local pharmacies to get their fix. Clearly this writer is a mad man who has given no thought to the way his words will affect us. By leading to the eventual Bovine Apocalypse where we all call Bessie master. I could not let this happen.

I went to the local farmers market and managed to push my way through the throng of hippies playing hacky sack and smoking their bongs to the meat counter. I paid $13.50 for a T-Bone steak. That's $17.99 a pound. For cow meat. They aren't made out of cocaine. Already I sensed a problem. When farmers find out they could make that much from their dead cows, they would surely begin depriving their animals of 'roids and corn.

I then went to the local grocery store which was full of honest God fearing Americans. Not a bong or hacky sack in sight. I was able to obtain a T-Bone steak here for $10.00. But it was quite a bit bigger. This steak was $9.99 a pound. While still outrageous, I was comforted that I would at least be able to taste the 'roids and corn.

I seasoned them liberally and placed them on the grill.

I then flipped them. Once and only once. Anyone who repeatedly flips their meat should be shot. I've got some free time next week and will be taking care of these people. Godless heathens, drying out their meat. Not giving enough time for a proper sear. I'll be going alphabetically. Aaron A. Aaronson from Anchorage, Alaska...get a bullet proof vest.

They had developed a nice sear. I didn't favor one over the other. Above you can see that the steak I paid $13.00 for didn't suddenly turn into gold or stripper coupons. It just stayed steak. It's the one on the left. Or bottom. Bottom-left.

I brought them inside and consumed them. Naturally no opinion was needed but mine, and I could have happily consumed both steaks by myself, but Action Wife insisted that she needed to eat too. If you don't feed her every week she dies. Astounding.

We shared and both offered our opinions. Naturally mine should receive more weight than hers, I eat my body weight in beef once a month, she eats salad. Salad. Sometimes without meat on it. Last week, I saw her eat a salad with no meat or dressing. I vomited.

Because we both came to the same conclusion, it's a moot point. But still...dry salad. Ugh. More disturbing than Action Wife's bizarre eating habits are the results of this Grand Beefy Experiment (GBE). The cow who had to suffer miserably it's whole life without any performance enhancing drugs or delicious sweet, sweet corn tasted better. Much better. I am really at a loss as to how to address this issue. I have begun preparing for the inevitable and I suggest you do too. Except you Aaron A. Aaronson, don't bother. You don't have much time left.

We must accept our fate as a human race. One of quiet obedience. And I, for one, welcome our new Beefy Overlords.

Flying Godless Killing Machines

Recent events have forced me to be prudent. I know what you’re thinking, “Action Steve, what power on Earth could force you to do anything?” Well faithful reader (singular), I will tell you. Bees. That’s right, wasps, bees, any yellow/black small flying object. They are my one great weakness. I share this with great trepidation. It is, as I’m sure you are aware, unwise to reveal weakness in a space where enemies could conceivably read them.

You may notice that these musing have not been added to for nearly two years. During the space of that time I have been deep in thought. While sitting atop my dark throne in my hall carved, nay hewn, from dark obsidian I was enjoying an evening meal. There are naturally throngs of admirers who gather around me to witness, observe and bask in the radiant glory that is my awesomeness. One of them must have been careless when entering my obsidian hall (which you will recall was hewn). A bee landed upon my tasty beverage as I was about to take a sip of it. Given my weakness, I freaked right the heck out. Needless to say my number of admirers has greatly diminished since what we will now call the incident. Because I happen to like having throngs of people looking at me with tender awe in their eyes, I feel I should explain myself.

It was not 3 years ago when I was first attacked by one of those yellow jacketed hooligans. I had taken a job delivering messages about town as action work was not in high demand at the time. I had decided that, as the summer months were upon us, I would relax a bit and wear open-toed sandals as I went from place to place. This was my first mistake. Those who know me well will attest to the fact that I now rarely wear anything other than a shoe made of solid cast iron. Uncomfortable? Yes, but also bee proof.

At any rate, I was leisurely walking about enjoying the beautiful air, warm weather and sweet breeze that kissed my slightly perspiring face when out of nowhere calamity struck. A giant uber-bee had flown into my open-toed sandal and latched itself onto my middle toe. I naturally assumed it wanted to be closer to my awesomeness and paid it no mind. Moments later it had sunk it venom tipped appendage into the tip of my toe with what can only be described as a religious fervor. It withdrew and then, to my shock, sunk its cruel barb into my toe yet again. It went on like this for several minutes. My screams of pain and rage went unheeded. When the evil insect was done raising my blood venom content to a very respectable .08, I fell to the ground in shock. I called my nearest friend who laughed at my pain, clearly happy to see me in a more human position than I am accustomed to. I persuaded her to drive me home where I tended my wound and nurtured my plan for vengeance.

My plan for vengeance involves a flower killing death ray, a small amount of plutonium, a bomb big enough to destroy the sun, and an extra large bag of Cheetos. I won’t bother you with the details, suffice it to say, when my plan has been put into action you will know it, no matter where on Earth you happen to find yourself.

I tell you this because I am confident that now that you have all been presented with the evidence of my psychological torture, you will agree it is most understandable that I would squeal a little bit every time I see one of those flying godless killing machines.

You may recommence thinking I’m awesome.

~Action! Steve

The Showath

Wow, it has been a long time. I know no one reads this, so it doesn’t really matter. But, I’ve decided to stave off the brain-mushing effects of being out of school for 2 years I had better write something. I tried writing traffic tickets, but it was pointed out to me that awesome as the power of Action Steve is, I still have no “authority” over lesser men.

Except in the area of the Showath. I am king of the showath. I am also king of pants and no-pants. To understand that you must ask Action-wife.

What is a Showath I hear you ask from atop my gilded throne? I am glad for your curiosity, for it is truly the greatest of all morning routines, and (confidentially) the secret to all my power.

Let us first examine the word. Showath from the Latin, shwatis, meaning to eviscerate small animals. The jury is sill out on this one (much like science). However, most scholars agree that the sheer man-pleasure an ancient roman legionnaire received from performing an act of shwatis on say, lesser empires, is roughly equivalent to the joy a modern man receives form a truly wonderful showath.

(As a curious side note, Showath in French means to flee from pursuers while peeing oneself. But, as that is their national sport, it only stands to reason that many French words do in fact have meaning based on some variation of this phrase. The entire French language was invented to more properly describe how to run from pursuers. You know how Eskimos have like 30 words for snow? Same thing with the French. Only with, you know, running. And fleeing.)

The modern derivation of the word Showath comes from the combination of two words. Shower, and Bath.

But how does one implement such a feat of pure awesome and manliness?

The following is for informational purposes only. In no way does Action Steve inc. recommend actually performing a Showath. Doing so will cause blindness and almost immediate death.

Step 1: Turn on the shower. The proper way to do this, as all men are born knowing, is to take the water to a temperature that will scald and boil the skin from your bones and then take it back a skoosh.

Step 2: Aim the water to the back wall of the tub to warm the uncomfortably cold tub and tile/ceramic/gilded wall.

Step 3: Position water in such a way as to hit you in the chest in the unlikely situation you were to be found sitting in the back of the tub.

Step 4: Sit in the back of the tub.

Step 5: Enjoy the pure awesome and manliness of it all.

This practice was passed on to me from the sage I found in the cold frozen tundra of the north, after passing almost insurmountable obstacles with Chuck Norris as my only companion.

I offer it to you free of charge, with only the modest request that once you enjoy the pure awesome etc…(see above) you make me your liege lord. (I’ve been having rebellions as of late and need to replenish my stock of vassals)

You will find this a fair price.

~Action Steve

Assassination Attempt 107...

The Chinese, or one of my other many enemies, are stepping up their plans. As I sat in comfortable safety in my office, a window nearby shattered. An exterior window. There is no visible projectile on the ground, leading to one of two possible conclusions. 1) They have developed vanishing bullets and the bullet proof glass I had installed has foiled them, or more frighteningly, 2) They have bred and trained a genetically advanced race of super sized, indestructible kamikaze birds.

Each is equally likely.

Birds are now, regrettably, on my &$*# list. That’s right friends; our once-time fine-feathered-friends have been twisted and corrupted into avian assassins, the likes of which have not been known since the days of Omar, the crazed pigeon trainer. I have already “dealt” with Omar, so this is a mystery.

Vanishing bullets have been on my &$*# list for some time.

Button pushing, and the downfall of civilization...

A nefarious and insidious plague is sweeping the world! Button pushing has become an epidemic of biblical proportions that must be dealt with immediately! What is button pushing you ask from your throne of sweet naive ignorance?

Every morning, mild-mannered secretary Stephen comes into work to see the shining lobby of his office, a beacon of the progress and economical innovation that the Western World has striven to achieve these many centuries. That effort, we will see, was for naught. For along with the glory of individually packaged crème-filled cakes, Sprite, and $.50 Mondays at the dollar theater, it also begot the most heinous of all evils…Button Pushers!

Across the lobby of the beautiful office building lies the elevator, hereafter known as the Box Of Selfishness And Doom (BOSAD). The BOSAD will turn even the most normal and well adjusted individual into a button pusher. All it requires to work its twisted blend of magic and evil is a little time lost. The few extra minutes it took the formerly well adjusted individual to pet the dog can be enough. The time lost to expressing love for ones wife and children. The extra-long column in the newspaper that morning, any of these things, any one of these things is all it takes.

As mild-mannered secretary Stephen approaches the BOSAD each morning, he will look up from his customary moment of reverence and see glistening in the eyes of the BOSAD’s lone occupant that memory of time lost, and opportunity squandered. Then the evil begins. The occupant, who not moments ago was well-adjusted, will look Stephen in the eye, then reach to press the button for his desired floor. He will look at Stephen once more from across the expanse. He will then reach down with his finger and press the close door button, never taking his gaze from the secretary. The glisten in his eye has turned to cold and unfettered hatred towards all who would make him accountable for his own lack of foresight earlier that morning.

It is with this imagined wrong that he is comfortable looking the secretary in the eye as he brings his hand down and presses the button with all the self-satisfied arrogance of one who has, after years of plotting, finally destroyed all those who oppose him.

Stephen will stand there, his head hung in shame at what the world has become. He will weep a tear or two for the horrifying reality that is humanity, then board his own elevator. For him, he tells himself, it will never be a BOSAD, but merely an elevator. He looks up and offers a sad but sincere smile to the occupant that joins him on his upward journey.

The one whom he imagines will be his new friend reaches over and presses the button for his required floor. His hand hovers. He looks out the doors at the throngs approaching the elevator and, with the same glisten in his eye, he presses the close door button.

The trouble with no Sprite...

So my wife fainted. Passed-out. Gone. I heard the thump, but didn’t see the fall, so I suppose it’s possible she hurled a bowling ball and then laid down on the ground, in a bizarre attempt to fool me into thinking she had passed out. But it doesn’t seem really likely. Action Wife is prone to bouts of practical jokes, but this, as you’ll come to see, would have been carrying it way too far if for no other reason than the sheer volume of laundry I had to do.

I was trying to open the front door, and wife was in the bathroom. I was halfway out of the door, when I heard the aforementioned thump. As mentioned before, my vast intellect had come up with several possibilities for the source of the sound, and come to the most likely conclusion. The bowling ball scenario presented itself but was rapidly dismissed due to the fact that we do not own said bowling ball. The next most likely scenario revolved around the Chinese (all of them) and the manufacturers of aluminum foil (they’re out to get me) whose particulars are so complex as to persuade me not to trouble you with them. And finally, I determined that wife had fallen for an indeterminate reason. My intellect (without consulting me) had selected the Chinese/foil scenario and was reaching for my cyanide capsule when I turned and saw wife prone on the floor.

Presented with this new evidence I scooped up wife using my incredible man-strength and promptly dropped her again. And again outside the house. And once more next to the car. (The man strength is less vast than the intellect due in large part to muscle atrophy caused by my supply of muscle building sprite being cut off by said wife, oh my goodness the irony.)

After placing wife in the Action Mobile, I calmly (read: panic-stricken) drove wife to the nearest Emergency Health center. Doctors there began by allowing wife to fall again prone on their floor and twiddling their thumbs while I calmly pointed out that this is what she looked like before and inquiring whether the position of her arms and legs while unconscious had any significance to her condition. Doctors then patted my head in a reassuring manner and got me a Lolly.

Action Steve is not above accepting a charity Lolly. I viewed it as a prize for my heroic efforts thus far.

Wife by this time had regained consciousness and her incredible mind control over me. She (in her very pragmatic manner) instructed me to wait in the cafeteria while the “big-people” talked things over. When I was allowed to return I was informed that wife was not dying, suffering from parasitic human growth in the womb, malignant growth in the same, or a dastardly and unruly appendix. We were given fun painkillers and sent back to the Action lair.

So we see that no situation is outside the realm of my direct control. Everything went exactly as planned. The Chinese/foil syndicate is still a cause for some concern, but I expect to take care of them armed with wife’s fun new painkillers and some life giving Sprite.

Completely True Story

Went down to the second floor to visit the boss, getting some work to do, what have you. At any rate, I had finished my visit and was on my way back to the stairwell door so I could return to the third floor, where I live, when I opened the door, walked in, looked around, became confused, and said aloud "This is a bathroom." As this declarative statement was escaping my mouth, several things were running through my head. 1) The walls in this place look awfully clean, 2) The toilets and other facilities are on the opposite side of the wall than is usual, and 3) There don't appear to be any urinals. Because of the vast deductive power of my brain, by the time I had finished the sentence "This is a bathroom," I had arrived at the unenviable, yet inescapable conclusion that this was, in fact, not just a bathroom, it was a women's bathroom. I did a complete 360 and backed out of the room, glanced at the placard on the door to confirm that my worst fear was true, and turned to face several men who were scrutinizing me with the sort of look that can only mean, "so you're a pervert then, interesting." I repeated my earlier astute phrase to them that "This is a bathroom," then ran away up the stairs to my little cubicle where I pondered the meaning of "look before you leap."

Action Steve strikes again.