Dry Heaves for the Packers

The evolution of a Packers fan between 1997 and 2011.

Dear friends,

This month's Hard Taco release is a (nearly) 7 minute opus called, "The Pottage Point Centennial Band." I realize that only unemployed people have enough free time to listen to something that long, which is why I waited until this year to release it.

But before I can write another word about it, let's talk football, because I have a hard time talking about anything else these days.

Nicholas Dodman is an an animal psychologist who wrote a book entitled, "The Dog Who Loved too Much." I haven't read it, but the first chapter was described to me as follows: The author has a patient, a dog, who loves her owner too much. When the owner leaves the house each morning, she becomes so worried that he won't return that she loses control of her bladder. She paces around the house peeing on everything. When he finally comes home at 5 pm, she is so overjoyed to see him that she throws up. The joy is so pervasive that she vomits constantly until he leaves again the next morning, at which point the bladder problem kicks in again.

That is how I feel about the Green Bay Packers. It is a special kind of staggering love that only emotionally disturbed dogs and true sports devotees can experience. We soar, we suffer, and we soar again, and all of it is unhealthy.

Insert not Make Dangerous in Flammable Substance

Dear Friends,

     The Hard Taco song for January, “A Man and His Jeweler” contains no less than three explicit lyrics. This is a bit of a departure for me, because in real life, the dirtiest words I use are zounds, poppycock, criminy, and during Michael Jackson impersonation contests, smooth criminy.

     This song goes out to my late Grandma Shirley, who would have loved cash-money-bling-bling rap if she had lived to see its heyday.

     This being the 104^th Hard Taco Digest, I humbly accept my place among the pantheon of the world’s most successful writers of unwanted emails. Today, I’d like to honor the men and women whose shoulders I stand on with a tribute to some of my favorite writers of indecipherable spam.

   Spoiler alert: the unifying feature of all great spam is the liberal use of the double exclamation point!!

“Electronics and Other Goods”

by m439sfd@nouuunns.com

Friend, are you doing? Honest, Does you approve online purchasing? I often shop goods store in a network, and mainly electronic products, even refrigerators ,yacht!! All products are sold regular discount, so see if you must need commodities at this website. Click and please make a talk!!

Sacred Blood Pact or Profane Phlegm-oath?

Dear Friends,

I. You're going to need this: ( )

It's an electronic representation of an opposing thumb and index finger, ready to pinch you. Why do you need electronic pinching? Because there is a glistening new Hard Taco album, “Approach Approach Conflict," and nothing could be dreamier.

The President of the United States has already released this statement:

"Holla, fellow Americans. At this time I wish I was in a deep coma, so I could finally listen to Hard Taco's Approach Approach Conflict 24 hours a day without missing state dinners. I only regret that strangling all nine Supreme Court justices won't free up enough seats to appoint all the marvelous musicians who played on this album. Somebody e-pinch me!"

Get some Hard Taco CDs today, because otherwise I’ll stop bugging you.

II. What is up? Therefore, up is what. Q.E.D.

Remember 17 years ago, when I guaranteed one new Hard Taco song a month, even though I despise doing it with all my heart? I was hoping you’d forget by now, but a promise is a promise. (A = A. Q.E.D.) Whether it was a sacred blood pact or merely a profane phlegm-oath, I suppose I’ll have to make good.

The Hard Taco song for December is called, "Secret Chaver." Unless you're that guy at the soup kitchen who actually ladles the soup, there is no better use of your next four minutes than listening to this song. (Yes, I'm talking to you, guy who buses trays at the soup kitchen.) 

Mud: It's for Slinging

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for November is called, “The Penny Seats Are Nothing But Trouble.” These Penny Seats apparently are a theatre company in Ann Arbor, and let me tell you something… they are bad news. If you look up “Up to no good” in the dictionary, you will find that it’s not there, because it’s more of a phrase than a word. If you squint, however, you can imagine a picture of those Penny Seats crammed in the tiny space between “uptight” and “uptown.”

Listen to “The Penny Seats Are Nothing But Trouble,” because Merriam and Webster agree: these lovely Hard Taco songs are the very definition of the word, “Up to Some Good.”

Poll-ish Mustard: How to Forget Not to Vote Tomorrow

This may be the last thing you read before mid-term elections, so I feel obligated to volunteer my endorsements for the Michigan gubernatorial race. I am in a unique position to provide coverage of this race, because I have access to my answering machine. The rest of the year, when I pick up the phone and there’s a long pause, it is usually followed by heavy breathing. But come October of an even-numbered year, that pause is invariably precedes an attack ad against one of the candidates (or if they really want my vote, heavy breathing followed by an attack ad.) Here is what my answering machine has to say about our gubernatorial candidates, Virg Bernero (D) and Rick Snyder (R).

Virg Bernero wants to write a blank check to the same career politicians who spent the last four years trimming the thumbnails of Big Insurance.

Rick Snyder wants the tears of the hard-working working class and occasionally-hard-working upper middle class families to smear the mascara of his right wing agenda all over the dirty hands of the Lansing mandatory abortion lobby.

It's More of a Science UNfair, if You Ask Me

Dear Friends,

Last weekend, I was driving around Boca Raton in a rental car, flipping through the Miami radio stations. Normally, I would be the last person to belittle the artistic value of pop music, but I was feeling inexplicably cantankerous. The ubiquitous octogenarians must excrete some kind of pheromone that makes passersby disparaging and close-minded. Every time a new song came on that I didn’t recognize, I said to myself, “Pffff. This could have been written by a 5 year-old.” By time we reached our destination, my eyes were sore from rolling so much.

On the plane ride home I took a few deep breaths and began to think clearly again. (Thanks, Delta Airlines geriatric miasma-removing air filters!) The reason great songs sound like they were written by 5-year-olds is that 5-year olds write great songs. With that premise, I immediately set Scarlett to work.

The result is “I’m on a Plane,” the first Hard Taco song in over a decade with co-authored lyrics. I think you will agree that it contains intangibles.

The Making of an Evil Scientist

I was one of a few students in my 9^th grade class chosen to represent our school at the regional science fair. My project, entitled “Up and Add ‘Em,” offered groundbreaking evidence that subjects could complete more math problems in 60 seconds if they were standing up rather than sitting down. Upon closer inspection, I actually proved that standing subjects could do more math problems in 70 seconds than sitting subjects could do in 60 seconds. Also, the smarter kids were placed in the standing group. These were just details, though, and there wasn’t enough room on the poster for details.

To this day, I believe I could have beaten Katrina Sopkovich in the Behavioral Science category if I hadn’t muddled the oral presentation. After I elegantly expounded on the mind-blowing significance of my fraudulent conclusions, a tiny white-haired judge asked me, “What are your dependent and independent variables?”

My what? Seconds ticked by. I heard myself mumbling something like, “Well, it depends. It varies, it’s all variable, actually.”

Ladies and gentlemen, the blue ribbon goes to Ms. Sopkovich for her study on smell memory!

I vowed that I would never make that mistake again. When the time came to devise a 10th grade biology project, I was an authority on scientific methodology, and I was ready to get back to what I did best… fudging data. Ms. Kolb surprised us by announcing that we would each have a $30 budget to cover supplies. (Yes, this was a public school, for those of you feeling nostalgic for the days of adequate educational funding.)

She passed around a 500 page catalog of biological supplies, and it was all in there. Petri dishes with blood agar, Petri dishes with chocolate agar, live fruit flies with different colored eyes, ether for sedating them and cover slips for squishing them. And what do you know? They sell dissection specimens. Fetal pig... $22. Sheep brain... $6. Monkey heart… $11.

Oh my God Monkey vagina… $4 for one or $20 for six.

There wasn’t a picture. Why wasn’t there a picture? They had a picture of the fetal pig. And did that say $20 for six? It was baffling beyond reason that this unusual commodity was in the catalog at all, let alone with an incentive discount. I imagined that somewhere in Germany, a bearded man in a lab coat was ripping the page out of the catalog and shouting to a roomful of collaborators, "True, we only need one to complete our study, but a deal like this can not… must not be ignored!"

I tried very hard to think of an experiment that would justify this purchase, but I just wasn’t that creative. More to the point, I wasn’t that brave. I couldn’t see myself standing by my poster, telling the judge, “Well, Ma’am, for starters I randomized the monkey vaginas into two groups of three.”

“And before I go further, let me just point out that the independent variable is which of these two groups a given monkey vagina is in.”

 
No, in the end I spent my $30 on milkweed bugs and sulfuric acid. The project is not worth explaining, but I will tell you this: many bugs died, and my improbable hypothesis was overwhelmingly supported by pages and pages of made up numbers. I’m sure Ms. Kolb was on to me, but she, like every other teacher, was a sucker for neat handwriting and a clear plastic binder.

With warmest regards,

Zach

You Can't Make Atonement without Mentos

Dear Friends,

There is a short list of things you have been waiting for you whole life, and the September Hard Taco song, “Jumex Flow,” is certainly on it. It’s somewhere towards the middle of that list, right in between ‘a car with revolving doors’ and ‘never to feel lonely, even for one second.’

Listen to “Jumex Flow” right now. Don’t make me come over there and listen to it for you.  

This month, Jews all over the globe will observe Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. In the weeks leading up to this holiday, it is customary to seek forgiveness for any bad behavior in the last year. I like the idea of rectifying my wrongdoings, but I’m still a little behind on my payments, apology-wise. To begin with, I have a couple transgressions from when I was in 5^th grade that I would like to get off my chest.

Apology #1: I’m sorry I engaged in an imbalanced Garbage Pail Kid trade with a cognitively disabled classmate.

Nikki was a girl in my grade who had been collecting Garbage Pail Kids longer than the rest of us. It was rumored that she had several of the coveted first series cards, including ‘Adam Bomb,’ the crown jewel of the GPK collection. Of possible relevance to this story, Nikki had Down syndrome. One day I cornered her at recess.

Me: Hi, Nikki. Do you want to see my new Garbage Pail Kids? I’ve got ‘Bruised LEE’ and ‘Glandular ANGELA.’

Nikki: Hi, okay. I’m playing with this one… ‘GARRET-ed.’

Me: That’s a cool one. Do you have the other one that looks like that, ‘Garrote-TED?’

Nikki: No. I do not.

Me: Well, check this out… I have two copies of ‘Garrote-TED!’ Hey, you know what would be fun? We should make a trade. I’ll give you one of them for one of your cards, like maybe… ‘ADAM Bomb.’

Nikki: I’ll have to ask my parents.

Me: Come on! You don’t need to ask your parents. Just look at this card I’m holding. It’s a chubby toddler being garroted. His eyes are bulging out and stuff. It’s totally rad!

Nikki: Yeah, it is pretty rad! Okay.

And so went the most lopsided deal in trading card history. As of this morning, ‘ADAM Bomb’ is going on eBay for over $15.00. I could sell it and use the cash to get a haircut… a haircut that should have been Nikki’s. I’ve felt lousy about this for a while, so a few years ago I took steps to assure that I would never forget that I exploited a vulnerable individual. I threw away all my Garbage Pail Kids except for two: ‘ADAM Bomb’ and ‘Special ED.’

Apology #2: I’m sorry I abused the audience-participation privilege at a ComedySportz game by insulting my sister, Sari.

“My sister got glasses and braces and now she’s really ugly!”

I was at an improv comedy club with my family, and when the emcee asked for suggestions from the audience, I shouted out the aforementioned sentence. I think the specific request was for a newspaper headline, but I probably would have yelled out the same thing if he has asked for an emotion or the name of a fictional salad dressing. In my mind, it was just too funny to go unsuggested for a minute longer.

I can see you shaking your head and saying, “Oh, that poor girl!” I admit it was rude, but try to put yourself in my shoes for a moment. Declaring that your sister is ugly is not supposed to be hurtful, nor is it based on empiric observation. You’re nine years old, and you have a limited arsenal of phrases. If you’ve already used, “Give me your Little Debbie,” and, “He who smelt it, dealt it,” the only other combination of sounds that your mouth is capable of generating is something about the repulsive appearance of your siblings.   

At any rate, Sari didn’t think it was very funny, and neither did anyone else in the audience. In fact, several people booed, including some of the performers. Unfortunately for all of us, they were bound by the improvisers’ code to use the suggestion, and grudgingly ad-libbed a hilarious sketch about how the 11-year old girl in the audience was ugly because of her glasses and braces.

Anyway, Sari has probably forgotten about this incident, but I wanted to ask her forgiveness for being such a terribly insensitive younger brother that one time. (As far as I know, there were no other such incidents.) Also, I was hoping she could dig up some old pictures, just to see if the glasses in question were as hideous as I had implied, because maybe that would partially absolve me. Just a thought.

Merry Yom Kippur, everyone!

With warmest regards,

Zach

"Why I Defect" By Oleg Chernyaev

Dear Friends,

I’ve been on a government watch list for a couple of years now. I trace it back to the time I searched for “pipe bomb parts” on eBay and then clicked “sort by price: high to low.” The only thing that alarms the Department of Homeland Security more than a random guy shopping for pipe bomb parts is a random guy shopping for stylish, brand name pipe bomb parts.

Here is your opportunity to join me as one of the FBI’s most hounded. The delightful new Hard Taco song, “Make a Mint,” contains explicit instructions for counterfeiting U.S. coins. If you download this song or read the lyrics, you will undoubtedly find yourself subjected to cavity searches at airports and bus stops for the rest of your life. Instead of calling you Stephanie, journalists will refer to you as The Radical Cleric Stephanie, because they believe you to be capable of extraordinary anger and beard growth.

I hate to brag, Steph, but this song is worth it.

Here’s something unrelated. (I’ve been working on my segues.)

Why I Defect

By Oleg Chernyaev

As child in Soviet Union I learn squeeze fish. When in old country, men squeeze many many fish. But Oleg, I squeeze fish best.

Impress many women.

Impress Russian Federal Strategic Defense Ministry Space Force Commandant. “Oleg,” he say, “I make you kosmonavt. You squeeze fish for foremost glorious space program.”

So I do. Twenty two month I float around Mir space station squeezing on fish for research. I fill forms, I make on documents, I run system checkings. Not always glamorous. Still, I squeeze fish some few hours a day, and is important work. Know this… number fish I squeeze is highly classified, but Oleg tell you absolutely truth… is enormous number.

After twenty two month, Soyuz craft return me to Earth. To Moskva. Oleg get welcome of hero! Father meet me at base, and bring my girlfriend, Irina, who is very plain but with foremost major endowments.

Father say, “Oleg, you are most welcome back to planet. For gift I give you fish wrapped in nyewspaper. Is Pravda nyewspaper, Oleg, not left-ving Pravda online veersion your Babushka read.” Father hand me fish, I unwrap. Is whole beluga, eyes still on. Very appetizing.

“Go stand next to Irina, Oleg,” he say, “Squeeze fish. I take peecture.”

I smile for picture, I try squeeze fish, but is big struggle. I try and some more try, but hands feel weak. Then I have flashback. I think of words of Pavel Vinogradov, who serve as flight engineer on Mir 24. One day while making on documents together, Pavel say that kosmonavt who squeeze fish in environment of no-gravity have probably troubles with squeezing of fish back on Earth. Ha! I laugh at Pavel, of course, for he is brainless fool flight engineer.

But Pavel not so styupid. Flashback is over, and Father is saying, “What is matter, Oleg? Big fish squeezing man not so big now?”

Girlfriend Irina say, “You’re not big, big squeezing fish man. Oleg go home! You can not even dream of squeezing Irina’s foremost major endowments.”

And that is whole story. Is why I never marry girlfriend. Is why I immigrate here at Indianapolis and get whole new job as health fair coordinator at mall. Now I tell you absolutely truth… I miss Father and Babushka. I like American rally of monster truck, but I miss Moskva. I miss innocent days when Oleg squeeze fish in bath house with many old men watching.

I not really miss Irina. Plenty Indiana women impressed totally with big health fair coordinator man.

With warmest regards,

Zach