Screw die-cutting. Forget about foil, popups, or UV spot lamination. THESE business cards have two ingredients: MEAT AND LASERS.
meatcards.com
This blog is dedicated to preserving carnivore traditions, to celebrate the consumption of meat, and to rally against the VegeTerrorists and PETAfiles who wish to impose their soy-induced lunacy on the planet. A "Meat Night" is a gluttonous feast of flesh, with success measured by meat quotient: Quantity x Diversity of animals consumed. No utensils besides a knife are used. We eat with our hands direct from the cutting block. Large amounts of red wine aid in digestion.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
A tale of a man who loved his wings.....too much
Yesterday: Thursday "Wing Night" at Tamarack Island Inn down in Stokes Bay - double your order for the same price. As a self-appointed chicken wing guru, how could I resist? Now when you've had the best (1-Andrew's, 2- Colonel Clarkes, 3-Scullys), you approach the situation with tempered expectations. We've all been duped by the bogus claims of 'world famous wings'.
The wings arrived in a basket lined with wax paper. Good size, a bit crispy on the outside but still juicy on the inside... just how I like them. But what's that in the bottom of the basket? A delicious slurry of wing sauce, butter and grease. Is it possible? As the first wing entered my mouth it confirmed what I had suspected.... this was the original Colonel Clarke's recipe. I ate the plate of wings quick enough to ensure my stomach receptors didn't have time to send the 'full' signals to my brain before a second order was en route. All the while, my mind drifted to the good 'ole days at the tavern - some of them I even remember.
Towards the end of order # 2, I couldn't help but wonder..... would the wings still have the same effects on me? Had the recipe changed at all? Or more importantly, had I evoloved physiologically over the years? The simple answer is no, not at all.
The contractions began at approximatly Cyprus Lake Road. I stepped on the gas pedal a bit more and clenched vital organs. At the south end of Tobermory, some relief off-gassing was necessary; a carefully executed fart could buy me enough time to get home. But unfortunately, I was overzealous and it happened. Call it what you want: a shart, a skidmark, a turtlehead. There was nothing I could do, it was too late.
What's the point of the story? Science. Tamarack has been able to precisely replicate the Colonel Clarke's wing formula. And I have the skidmark to prove it.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Grillzibo
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