Hillary Names Running Mate

Hillary named Chelsea as her Vice Presidential running mate, reinforcing the campaign theme of ‘keeping it in the family.’  Extinguishing a cigar, her husband said, “My one presidential regret—not keeping it in the family.”  The pressure mounts as what’s-his-name shows some promise at the Convention. “So it is imperative,” she claims, “to take the offensive.”

“Bringing Chelsea on board solidifies the ticket while making my assassination less plausible.”  It’s expected that Chelsea’s youth will ‘seize the change’ Carpe diem, a theme inexplicably ducked by all of the rivals. Add the youth vote and the historical significance of the first all female ticket, and you’ve got yourself a team of instant acclaim.

The Clintons, who ran a very successful, although admittedly aggressive campaign, stated, “It’s time to reenergize our base to secure the Democratic nomination.  We’ll never give up our fight to bring strong family values back to this great nation.  Although unable to secure the nomination during roll call at the convention, we are confident that our ‘willingness to concede’ will catapult us back into the race.  Enough super delegates will be persuaded before the General Election.” Talk about a November surprise.

Due to her rave reviews in Denver, Hillary believes she can capitalize on the momentum.  She stated “My charismatic speech at Borat’s convention proves that I am presidential and ready to lead.”

Senator Obama, upon hearing of the announcement, had no comment, just a bewildered look.

Senator McCain stated “I am not sure how many daughters Hillary has; I will have to check with my aids.”  But within hours he ran an ad questioning her radical voting record at Stanford regarding cafeteria food, the use of microwaves in dormitories, and her ‘liberal’ arts degree.  When asked about her readiness to lead, McCain added, “Remember, she is one heart beat away from…what were we talking about?”

Undaunted by the attacks, Hillary retorted “the old bastard is playing right into my hands.”

Study Finds Fibromyalgia Linked to Bull Shit

A recent study conducted on seventeen bitchy women and three lazy sacks of shit (LSS) found moderate to high levels of bovine fecundity sprinkled liberally into their medical disability claim forms.  This shit is likely to spread to such questionable diagnosis as Chronic Unemployment Syndrome and Irresponsible Bowel.  Researchers predict that, if left uncompensated, this might even impact sufferers of Employtile Dysfunction and Restless Keg Syndrome.

CRANK MANIFESTO On Driving and Cars

The Crank

Driving. Yes, driving.  To all you multi-tasking mongrels—there are no cup holders, cell phone holders, or ashtrays in German cars for a reason. Driving is a full time job! You fudge packers can’t walk and jerk off at the same time, and you expect us to believe you can talk on the phone, text, smoke, drink, and check your atrocious Alice Cooper makeup in the mirror at the same time? Douche bags! Try driving! You get to go places and arrive intact!

See that stick to the left…right behind the steering wheel? If you push that stick down before turning left, the rest of us road-ragers-waiting-to-happen (RRWTH) will know what the fuck it is you’re about to do! Think of it! We won’t have to rely on E.S.P., remote viewing, or Travel Ouji to know what the hell you’re up to. Blood and makeup don’t mix, unless you are Alice Cooper. Every time I see someone crossing three lanes in high speed traffic to exit without using a directional (aka, the Arizona Exit), I want to cut’em off, drop their pants, duct tape them bent over to their hood, and stick the blinker stick up their ass, in the middle of the middle lane. Ah, but to dream…

Texting? Are you kidding? Anyone caught texting while driving should be bike-ridden forever. But they should be allowed (under certain circumstances) to text friends from their jail cell.  Oh yeah, and they should be prevented from having children. The recent train wreck in Caaleefawniya was caused by a short-bus special, texting at the helm.  When my mother didn’t like how I was driving, she would stand up (yes, she was that short) and smack me in the back of the head. We should all test our drivers-to-be with similarly violent teachers in the back seat.  We could start off the course by asking them to text a friend as we pull into traffic…then SMACK.  Rinse, lather, repeat.

Alternatively, in order to catch these wanna-be multi-taskers run amuck (WBMRA), we could all pack paintball guns.  We could fire at those who fail to use that helpful stick behind the steering wheel. After firing, simply call the local P.D. and have them watch for the black Nissan with the yellow splotched rear fender.

In addition to how people drive (or how they attempt to drive while texting missives about their lives to their friends), I have a few words on what people drive. If you own a four-door four-wheel-drive pickup with, say, a twelve inch lift, and do not need it to get to an inaccessible workplace, well, you are a dork. Your truck stopped being a truck the moment your modifications prevented anything from ever being placed into its bed—because it’s SIX fucking FEET off the ground! And, if you did manage, you’d have to drive only in straight lines for fear of top-heavy overturn (THO). Ah, but you have impressed your like-minded idiot friends, haven’t you?  A real man you are now!  It makes it all worth the buckboard ride, the catastrophic handling, and wonderful gas mileage. Yes, and those 36” wheels providing increased unsprung weight won’t help.  At $4.00 plus a gallon, you must feel just like the dipstick that you’ve become.

Maybe you’ve contemplated giving your wife the old Silverado for daily use (not a sexual metaphor) and driving her rolling garbage-receptacle Hyundai to work for the fuel efficiency. One word…DON’T!  Case in point: “Oh honey, there is some red light thingy on the dash. Been on for about a week. Something about oil or something. Will you fix it?” Remember where we bought the car?  Well, next time a little light flashes or noise sounds…TAKE IT THERE! It’s just like when you tell me that the “Laundry faerie” doesn’t clean our clothes; well, the fucking “Car Faerie” doesn’t keep us trucking either. Oh yeah, and there is a reason your husbands want to do the driving. Your driving scares the living shit out of us. I have many shorts that couldn’t stand the strain. And that, coming from men who regularly suspend all common sense on the road, is saying a lot.

If you are female and want to drink coffee in your car, you are hereby forbidden to use anything except sippy cups. You all are way too fucking slovenly for an adult cup. Just check your seats, cup holder and front carpets. See?  Listen, for about 10 bucks, you can have the fucking car cleaned in and out. Once a month, like your period. Next time you wake up and look at that methane factory sleeping next to you and think of only sharp knives, say to yourself “It must be time to go to the car wash.”

At the opposite end of the silly car spectrum are those little toy cars. To all those asshole drivers of little mini-me rice burners everywhere: Graduate to a “real vehicle”. Those toys with fartcan exhaust are cute for about a minute. If you try bringing me and my Ram (short bed, regular cab, two wheel drive, unlifted, no carpet, no fucking Hemi, real usable truck) to a screeching halt, I will roll over you like a speed bump. (Ram fartcan joke omitted by the FCC).  At the very least, your decapitated gourd will anoint my hood like the Flying Lady on a Rolls-Royce radiator.

Why spend mucho dollars squeezing 300 horsepower out of a 4 cylinder when (now hit yourself in the forehead) you coulda had a V8!  Jerks. When you start pushing 250 + hp out of a 2 liter, your gas mileage plummets to Hummerville. You may like the old Honda now, but try sliding your fat 40+ year old ass into that Civic.

The silly car gamut doesn’t run just from the giant tires to the matchbox toy cars. You know what I love; it’s those rolling mid-life crises with little hair flipping around those topless sports cars…with their Donald Trump lacquered comb-over standing straight up as a rooster-hawk. Dorks.

One day in ’96, my wife and I spotted a two year old Caddy Sedan DeVille at a local stealership. We took it for test drive.  When we returned, I asked her, “Well, what do you think?” Her answer was “It’s the fattest-ass, most ostentatious automobile I’ve ever encountered,” and I said “Ok, but can I have it?” I drove that big bastard 12 years and 184 thousand miles. Had N.Y. plates that read “CRUZSHIP”. Passed trucks stuck in the snow, beat almost everything at the light. Near 300 horse, massive torque, and front wheel drive. Once, when picking out a Christmas tree, I noticed everyone else’s jumbo SUVs. Some were trying to stuff the trees inside without tearing the leather.  Others planned tying it to the roof…without scratching the paint. Lots of heated discussions ensued between cursing husbands, bitching wives, and crying children.  I laughed aloud and as they all turned I pushed the remote button for the trunk. As I gazed into the standard issue “six-body trunk” (the Meadowland special), I tossed the seven-foot Frazier Fir inside diagonally and closed the lid.  I grinned ear to ear.  All this, a ride like a magic carpet, and 25 mpg! Mid 90’s Caddies—the best kept secret in motoring.  Uh oh, what the fff… I sure hope that was a speed bump.

RUSH LIMBAUGH: Step It Up, Bitch

When creating a curriculum to move society toward an integral media, the first contemporary personality that begs to be assessed is Rush Limbaugh.  Rush is one of the most listened too, if not the most listened to media personality in the country.  (‘Today’s Tom Sawyer, mean, mean pride.1) He certainly has a knack for controversy that compels the public to either ‘love’em’ or ‘hate’em,’ which is precisely why I remain so ambivalent.  As life teaches us, there are few who are fully inspired by divine goodness or completely consumed by absolute evil.  Even Dick Cheney strings cute ceremonial necklaces from the skulls of the newborn puppies he devours.  See?  Not all bad.  Anyway, an examination of Rush Limbaugh’s strengths and weaknesses provides excellent insight into the rights and responsibilities of the media.

Let’s first examine Limbaugh’s flaws. He focuses on limited, very pigeonholed subject matter. Whereas he may not qualify as a full-blown White House spokesperson, he does spend an exorbitant amount of time uncovering the liberal agenda and criticizing their irrational ideology and unethical propaganda techniques (U.P.T). He’s very good at examining international tyranny and United Nations corruption, but he rarely brings the Republicans antics under the same scrutiny (not an easy trick in the last eight years).  There were conservative voices, such as Pat Buchanan and George Will, who presented a challenge to the current war in Iraq and a slew of other questionable executive policies. Rush Limbaugh only challenged the radical liberals who were sabotaging our war efforts.  In other words, in the true spirit of partisan hackery, he picks all of his fights with the Murthas, not the Hagels, of the world.

Rush Limbaugh’s perspective is obviously authoritative/entrepreneurial, which is legitimate, but shortsighted.  Despite his shrewd intellect, he shows not an inkling of integral thought. The only paranormal or transrational propositions that Limbaugh doesn’t immediately dismiss as crazy are the beliefs in Jesus’ virgin birth and his subsequent resurrection.  Everything else to him can be translated roughly as: Kuccininch Sees UFOs!

To Limbaugh’s credit, he was one of the first outspoken voices against the dangers of political correctness.  He even defended his politically incorrect adversary, Bill Maher, after Maher’s controversial comments following 9 /11.  Limbaugh does bring consistent bursts of wit to his show, and most importantly, he has successfully irritated Hillary Clinton on a number of occasions.

Here’s how Rush holds up to Ken Wilber’s Four Quadrant model: from the objective/individual (brain) quadrant, Limbaugh rates fairly high. He does seem to respect science, objective facts, individual and constitutional rights, as well as economic libertarianism (grade: B.)

From the subjective/individual (self) quadrant, Limbaugh has some trouble. He still holds to mythical beliefs like ‘Jesus died for humanity’s sins’ and ‘the Republican party is good for America’ and uses these myths to perpetuate ideological agendas. I never recall him expressing interest or respect for a disciplined meditative practice, and his unacknowledged hypocrisy on the issue of his drug use shows a lack of personal awareness (grade: C –.)

The objective/plural (society) quadrant brings even more problems. He does support social, legal, and military structures but refuses to acknowledge shortcomings of these institutions and offers no constructive suggestions for outmoded bureaucracies. He has blindly supported the psychiatric method of clinically diagnosing the insane in order to restrict their rights and get them off the street against their will, yet he cries ‘liberal bleeding hearts’ when a person is deemed not responsible for their actions due to mental illness. Then he wants to cut welfare and social services for the freeloading prescription and otherwise drug dependent individuals—other than himself (grade: D.)

Limbaugh scores surprisingly high in the subjective/plural (culture) quadrant. He is a good sharp-witted debater who makes some strong logical points on meaningful subjects (aka, does Kuccinich see UFOs?).  He recognizes the hierarchy of positions, policy, culture, and government, but he seems unaware of any integral voices.  Perhaps most telling, he rarely gets a topnotch adversary to challenge his positions. Oh yeah, and he’s a belligerent asshole (grade: C.)

In summary: one part man, one part fiction, Rush is a pill-popping contradiction.

(Overall score: C -.)

1“Tom Saywer”, from RUSH’s Moving Pictures, 1981

Desperate for Experience Points, Dems Opt for Controversial Mind-Meld

The mind meld is a potentially dangerous procedure first used by a race known as Vulcans. According to Wikipedia, the most trusted name in collaborative wisdom, Vulcans can perform mind melds with Humans. Dems fear some of Biden’s traits could bleed through. This fear was only heightened when, immediately after the procedure, Obama answered the question, “How do you feel?” with a forty-seven minute litany on feelings.

Losing Pub Friends in the Starbuckarama (Rebuttal)

Dave Atsals

I am worried about my friend, Mick. Unlike all the other Discordians, Mick believes he needs to better himself.  Mick strives for lofty misguided goals in order to overcome his many inadequacies. He used to have a distinct, although often overbearing, personality and sense of humor.  But, at least you knew what you were getting with Mick, trouble.   Now he is only a shell of his old self.  I refer to this shell as ‘m’.

The Mick I knew was witty, in an insulting type of way.  He was misguided, but authentic; often drunk, but functional; unshaven, yet neat; suffering from erectile dysfunction, yet STD ridden. (Just kidding about the last one; partly).  Mick could be the life of the party, although more often the death of it.

We used to hang out in BARS with live entertainment, a large menu of exotics, and cheap double shots.  Sometimes we even did the cheap double shots with the exotics. “Hey Dave can I borrow some singles?” Now, ‘m’ hangs out in coffee shops where the entertainment is often a guy playing music without lyrics.  The exotics are made of various tree roots; the menu consists of finger sandwiches made of grilled ahi tuna and liverwurst, and the double shots are espresso roasts.  THIS IS NOT OUR MICK.  This is not change we can believe in.

In these upscale coffee shops, pool cues and dartboards have been replaced with laptops and notepads.  Neon lights have been replaced by ugly paintings of ugly things priced over 500.00 dollars.  Bar stools are now sofas, the tables have lamps on them, and the dance floors are covered with coat racks and large stand up plants (sometimes ferns!).  And let’s not forget to mention the urinal-less restroom decorated by some Martha Stewart wanna be. Please don’t forget to knock, lift the seat, and, heaven help you, aim, because it’s bi-sexual (like ‘m’).

Inside this group home like setting, ‘m’ has digressed to typing endless pages of rhetoric that will be read by no one.  When he wearies of this, he downs a few more double shots—espressos, that is—and bounces over to the other patrons saying “let the caffeine-induced political psycho-babbling commence!”  These three socialites then spend hours debating the last press conference held by Senator Frabish, heard only by those same three and the six other XM radio POTUS listeners.  THIS IS NOT OUR MICK.  This is not change we can believe in.

‘m’ needs all of the up-to-date technologically advanced gadgetries, but cannot operate any of them.  He moved on to Tivo although he never learned to record with his VCR.  He now owns a GPS but can’t get it out of Spanish mode.   He has a TV with surround sound and one speaker.

As for food, Mick used to always be up for the late night greasy spoon.  In college, not only was Mick fond of eating the cafeteria food, he was also fond of throwing it—he could fling peanut butter with the best of them.  But not ‘m’—only the finest for hi‘m’.  He has moved on to high society food, and organic peanut butter is just way too expensive for such flingery.  He now only eats Sushi, Japanese foods, or food from other spookily distant cultures (SDC). As a matter of fact, you may see ‘m’ eating anywhere except at an American restaurant. ‘m’ believes this is the proper etiquette of a man of his new found lowercase stature, although in the Orient, McDonalds would be the delicacy of choice. 

The coffee shops around here give last call at ten, which coincides with the new curfew ‘m’ has imposed on himself.  No more after hour parties for Mick… ‘m’ must ‘m’asterbate at ho‘m’e.

Well, at least one thing hasn’t changed.

The Rock Gods Fatal Flaws

  1. The Beatles (went to extremes to impress Jodie Foster)
  2. Led Zeppelin (shocked by death of drummer—didn’t they watch Spinal Tap?)
  3. The Rolling Stones (hired zombie/pirate to play lead guitar)
  4. The Who  (too many summers at Uncle Ernie’s for Pete’s sake)
  5. Aerosmith (Run DMC?!  Couldn’t you just have given head for drug $ like everybody else?)
  6. Jethro Tull (tights?  Oh, there’s a Minstrel in the Gallery, all right, and he looks fabulous)
  7. Rush (named band after fat, cigar-smoking, Oxycotin-popping neocon)
  8. Ozzy Osbourne (chose singing duet with Lita Ford rather than actually committing suicide)
  9. Black Sabbath (lengthy rounds of therapy after the Lita Ford Incident LFI)
  10. STYX (ever thinking they’d be listed in a top ten ‘rock gods list’ in the first place)

The Discord to Lay Off Seventeen Editers

The Discord will forge ahead despite the unexpected lie off of seven of our valued employeees. Having boundless talent, we have, reached the conclusion that we—as a staff) can funktion without the aid of our worthy colleageus, and, to, further prove our grammatorial prowess;: we have even shut off our grammer chex, as well as our spell check options on our personal PCs. We will miss you editers…not so much..

Losing Pub Friends in the Starbuckarama

Mick Zano

I am worried about my friend, Dave. Unlike most of our fellow Discordians, Dave never made the successful transition from the bar scene to the coffee shops.  Dave never even made the ever important transition from the bars to the pubs either.  In fact, if memory serves, he never made the transition from junior high to high school, but that’s a different story (spelled GED, incidentally).

The problem is this: Dave favors those smoky dive bars to that of the jazzy rifts of brewpubs and coffee shops. Dave fears change.  For example, if he could grow hair it would remain in perpetual-mullet-form (PMF).  He never sported a mullet in his life, mind you, having never had enough hair for one, but the mullet, like his bow-legged swagger, is always implied.

So why am I so worried about my poor misguided friend and his coffee house naiveté?  Well, my liver doesn’t tolerate nearly as much alcohol these days, so gradually I’ve shifted to the hip coffee shop scene.  There, nestled amongst books and chess sets, I sip my deluxe mocha frappe crappas with those terminally artsy-fartsy types.  I have tried to wean Dave onto coffee and often encouraged him to dabble in this new cultural espressorama.  Recently I told him, “hey, let’s meet at the Coffee Tea Room and then hit the pub.”  Notice I said pub rather than saloon or bar.  I’m trying to start small with Dave—to match his vocabulary.  Just before he arrived, I had just conveniently ordered the house special, the Plenty Venti Bucket of Espresso.

His eyes darted about the room as he begrudgingly took a seat.  Through a sheen of social anxietous sweat, he asked: “Where’s the pool table?” and then “where’s the dartboard?” and then to the horror of my female friends, “where’s the stripper poles?”

There are places that do offer coffee and beer, and if we both moved to an area that accommodated such an establishment, perhaps it would help Dave make this difficult transition.  Such milestones are not without precedent.  I am forever grateful to the establishment Sudds and Dudds, which single handedly catapulted Dave’s hygiene problem into the realm of the nearly tolerable.  But in this case, I don’t think he wants to change.   Dave will never move beyond the pipe-dripping, slanted pool table, southern rock spinning joints.

Now if Dave ever chose to pit a Belgian triple or some other well-crafted ale up against my favorite beanage, we’d have a debate, but this is clearly not the case.   Dave will forever haunt establishments that ‘Proudly Serve Blatz!’  Indeed they will actually have coasters in such places with, ‘We Proudly Serve Blatz!’ emblazed upon them—always with the exclamation point—because even the makers of Blatz (not to mention Blatz light) need reinforcing slogans such as: We Proudly Serve Blatz! or Blatz…Nearly As Good As Old Style.  One wonders how else anyone could get through a day at the Blatz factory without such Milwaukeean malt mantras.

But I digress.  Back to Dave.  For years Dave’s favorite beer was a distant cousin to Blatz, Genesee Beer, brewed in upstate New York in the heart of the Geneseo Valley, while no one was looking (or apparently brewing either).  “A cold Gennie was better than sex,” he’d say.  His girlfriends throughout college typically agreed with this statement.

I am through with Blatz, Milwaukee’s Best, Old Style, Old Milwaukee, or anything from new-waukee, for that matter.  I would rather just add a shot of espresso to something dark and daunting.  Sumatra roasts are pure heaven.  Perhaps I can get Dave into Sumatra stouts—the hybrid—and then lure him over to the dark roast side.  Luke, I am your venti.

I know it’s hopeless.  You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it stop drinking.  I go into dive bars for the same reason that Dr. Sterling Hogbein travels to remote villages of the world…to study our distant selves.  I don’t want to go back and do it all over, not for Eddie amount of Money.  Truth be told, I couldn’t spend one solitary night in my old coveted college party house, not one.

I will miss Dave and his mulletless antics.  Perhaps I’ll go see him some day, at Frankie’s Place or Timmo’s Tavern, while he’s talking up the glory days with a bunch of grey haired, fatty-livered miscreants.  For me it’s Seattle’s Best, Starbuck’s finest, and mom and pop java joints from here on out.

All right, fine. I’ll meet you at Timmo’s Place for the game, but then let’s get a cup a joe.  Oh, and it’s time to hit Sudds and Dudds again mildew man.

Band of Klingons Ruin Local Civil War Reenactment

In hindsight, the decision to host a Star Trek convention at the Gettysburg Inn on the same day as a civil war reenactment was a mistake,” admits hotel manager Sam Watkins. “Tragically, we discovered that fake muskets are no match for the bat’leth.”

Enter the Ghetto Shaman

The Ghetto Shaman

Traditional shamanic practices employ chanting, dancing, sweat lodge and fasting to induce altered states of consciousness.  Long ago, cave dwellers created these rituals to achieve insight and wisdom. With guidance from ‘plant spirits,’ shaman priests discovered roots, vines, cacti, and mushrooms that, when ingested, stimulated the nervous system, allowing access to perceptions of abnormal frequencies of consciousness.

Archeologists all concur that ‘psychedelic visions’ sparked the inspiration for the Paleolithic cave art found throughout the world, and may explain most of the Wal-mart midget sightings.  Many scholars even argue that hallucinogens are the very roots of rational civilization itself.  It’s odd that mainstream science agrees on the importance of hallucinogens in human development, yet these same scientists dismiss the significance of the perceived spirit world. The scientific community reduces these visions into mere random subjective byproducts of an abnormal brain.

The divine world of the gods, demons, angels, fairies, and hedge yetis have long been suppressed by Western Civilization.  On that note, meet the Ghetto Shaman.  He has seen the hedge yetis and has spoken to their king!  Too long has society locked the shadow side screams of schizophrenia behind the materialistic bars of insignificance.  Too long has society left the Ghetto Shaman shaking and quivering in his drunk-tank retreat (after the last Mardis Gras Enlightenment Party bust).

What are these spirit worlds where ancient shamans traveled to find health and wisdom for their people?  Does the shaman’s spirit world wisdom have any relevance today?  Our current medical and psychiatric ‘symptom cures’ leave us empty and unsatisfied, but who has the money for the Amazonian Sacred Healing Vision Quest?  Who has the time to beckon these ‘plant spirits.’

The Ghetto Shaman is closer than you think. He resides under the Market Street bridge (southside).  The Ghetto Shaman’s flesh has been affectionately stripped from his bones by the Thunder Gods and then reassembled during a seven day initiation/barcrawl.  Why do scientists balk at this?  Can I make this stuff any clearer? The Ghetto Shaman uses his own rituals, special substances, and ‘avante guard’ sexual techniques to stimulate the induction of unusual frequencies of consciousness (snorkel not included).

The Ghetto Shaman leads workshops on discovering your sacred parasite, as well as an interdimensional escort service (the inspiration behind the movie, Happy Hooker Goes to Narnia). The Ghetto Shaman’s ‘weekender,’ constitutes two days and two nights in the Raystown boiler room.  Rates vary—survival rates, that is, and for those concerned about last month’s ‘incident,’ the Ghetto Shaman is now CPR certified.  Home visits available—for no extra charge…well, one item from the fridge is the recommended donation and there is always the chance of a Forced Sleep Over (FSO).

Ayauhusca, DMT, peyote, Ibogaine and psilocybin are all illegal and difficult to unearth. No problem. Meet Mr. Nutmeg (spice of the gods), Robutussin, DM (nectar of the odds), and Maddog 20/20 (vine of the sods).  All three are legal to possess and with the right guidance can induce profound changes in the nervous system, accessing ‘abnormal’ frequencies of consciousness (don’t try this at home).

The Ghetto Shaman is also a wizard with the earth’s most life-enhancing foods like lentils, curry powder, cumin, and ginger.  A dash of this and sprinkle of that, add whole nutmeg and slow cook to a saucy paste (seriously, don’t try this at home). Toss it in a tortilla with rice and healthy puddles of Bob’s Big Bad Mamma Jamma Hotsauce ®.  Sell the recipe on-line to Jenny Craig.  Jumpstart the Further bus and get the band back together. It’s the Electric Nutmeg Taco Test. For the even more adventurous, there’s his Electraquilla Mad Dog Mess (for god’s sake, man—don’t do it).