An Apology, Fish or Cut Bait, Smoke and Mirrors, and Hands Off My Krispy Kreme Cheeseburger!

First off, if you received a spam email from me, mucho apologios. My account was hacked, and the entire planet was notified in the wee hours of Saturday. Again, my humblest apologies for my inability to keep the weaseally trolls at bay.

Secondly, this post was saved as draft last night, when I left for Thai Food Tuesday with Princess Hornist. When I returned home, the power was out on the entire street. An obvious conspiracy by SkyNet to keep you from all my bloggy goodness!

Now, to the dilemma before me. Next Tuesday is the Georgia Presidential Primary. I have narrowed my choices to two candidates: stinky Gingrich and equally stinky Santorum. While Buzz Brockway (a fellow contributor at Peach Pundit) supports Rick Santorum and Buzz’s opinion is greatly respected here at the praxuem, I still get a queasy feeling in my gut about the guy. Of course, any consideration of Newt requires an extra-large clothespin and a healthy dose of Lysol spray. I could yammer on about issue-this and issue-that all day long, but the matter festers to a point past who is electable – to who can beat the Romney machine and ultimately the Obama Death Star. (Or is it whom? I’m sure Divine Empress Editor Joy will get me on this one.) Politics certainly make for strange bedfellows. Getting past the Romney machine may be the kicker, but once accomplished – of the two (and PAY ATTENTION HERE) which candidate would cave and hand over their delegates to Romney in the face of defeat? Santorum would definitely wither away under the gaze of The Victor, obediently transferring his delegates all the while groveling for a Cabinet post. Newt, I’m not so sure. At least he would make it all the way to Mount Doom, if only to have Gollum bite his finger off. Decisions. Decisions.

(And yes, I know I mixed my fantasy metaphors there. Longtime readers know I do that all the time. Put your light saber away or I will win this argument handily with a Vulcan nerve pinch.)

Obama’s smoke and mirrors on energy policy. It is all in the pretty picture.

And That Albany Woman, Paula Deen, appears to be caving to MO’s food police. Darlin’ say it ain’t so!

Paula Deen says she’s going to start making lighter versions of her dishes. That’s a little like Ron Paul saying he’s going to start putting tax increases in his bills. It’s a little suspect.

Paula Deen has made a fortune off her rich recipes, as has the Food Network. So, what’s really at play here?

Deen, of course, has been under fire ever since revealing last month she has Type 2 diabetes.

Food activists decried the revelation. After all, how dare she keep mum about it for three years and continue making fattening foods!

What she cooks, eats, and what medical problems she has are no one else’s business. But, try telling that to the food police who think others’ food choices are their business.

Neither Deen nor the Food Network should bow to outside pressure for healthier fare. It’s a slippery slope toward food tyranny. What’s next, government regulation of the Food Network? Big Brother is already trying to tell us what we can and can’t eat, why not tell the Food Network what to do?

Now pass me that Krispy Kreme Cheeseburger, or I’ll Vulcan nerve pinch you again.

Davy Jones, RIP

The inner teenage girls of 50ish women worldwide are howling in disbelieving, inconsolable grief over today’s news: Davy Jones, Dead at 66 of a Heart Attack.

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