Bring up the cheddar spritzer wagonmobile while you’re visiting the international squeegee convention (specifically when you’re in the sprout-laden wing). Surely a conversation of that quality can hold more meaning than all that jazz you keep mentioning. How much jazz could there possibly be, and why should it take precedent over this prestigious American institution? Yes, I know jazz is also a prestigious American institution, but that’s not the point of this conversation. I mean, it’s not like the world of jazz is expansive enough to take up so much valuable time. Well, actually, I’m not so sure of that anymore. The world of jazz is pretty big, but the point is: it’s not entirely all-encompassing if we were to measure it against the entire rest of the world. So put on your big boy pants and start talking shop with these bargain hunters, for the sake of this quarter’s squeegee revenues.


Well, not much more to talk about, unless you want to discuss what’s going down in Tampa this weekend. Bakers from seventeen counties in the south, not just Florida, have new recipes to showcase for the conference covering innovations in baking science. The theme of this particular conference is the trinity of blood, sweat and tears. Most people operate under the assumption that sweat and tears are the same solution, but they are gravely mistaken. Not all three components must be used in a recipe, though the variety of all three can make for a scrumptious bake. Those who claim to use all three ingredients will be judged by a panel of the most experienced tasters in the biz, four of whom are able to taste the mucus content in tears that separates them from simple sweat. A culinary delight is a nice achievement, but it’s all for naught if it’s not truthfully conceived.

NaPoWriMo: Day 4

Stalling media circuses smell like grandiose gestures made for clowning, not
necessarily a healthy way to spend your last fifty cents. Though most agree
with those policies, I figure one fish against the current can’t do much,
unless it plugs itself into the wrong end of the influential vacuum, cutting
off its own air supply to free all its kind from a straight march forward
through nothingness–they can veer, spin and smack fins at the novelty of
free motion. The preconceived pathway vanishes before their eyes, and to
their amazement, they may putter along in any old direction, even the one
from which they came! The more sentimental creatures return to the scene
of the crime, their once vital friend limp, head still serving as a cork–
precedent and history, its friends give thanks and praise, as is proper.

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