The Smiling Infidel Explains The Unexplainable: S'MORES TORTILLA CHIPS EDITION

We Infidels will climb the highest Target shelves and swim across an ocean of fountain drink seas in search of new culinary adventures.
We'll journey to the very ends of the aisle just to seek out rare and exotic wonders.
We'll be as our pioneer ancestry--traveling the linoleum plains with all our immediate possessions stowed away in a cart as we pursue the newest in flavor explosions for you, our dear readers.
We'll even navigate the treacherous express lane frontier just to bring pure, unadulterated joy to your ailing tastebuds.
Our latest snack food-finding mission yielded a bounteous but unique crop.
BEHOLD: S'MORES TORTILLA CHIPS
(Note how they're "authentic-style." Yep, it's imperative that you stay far, far away from the black market tortilla chip impostors.)

If you can stomach eating stuff coated in brown dust then a bright future awaits you down at the Gorilla Fingers Grill. (Don't look that one up on urbandictionary.com)

Crunch & Munch: That's their Tortilla Chip Tasters Task Force code names.

Chip & Dip: These two are a rogue band of chip eaters--circumventing the Tasters Task Force and causing biting mayhem wherever they go.
I see we have a wily double agent in our midst.

Young Melody pulls the tried-and-true "damsel in distress" maneuver......

So she can willfully bump off the competition and hoard the bag of chips all to herself!

Sometimes great combinations come together through a series of miraculous events......while other times great combinations arise out of necessity--like when there's nothing left in your pantry to eat but some stale tortilla chips and a half bag of marshmallows, so you sprinkle some cocoa powder on top and call it dinner.
I'll let you decide which was the inspiration for this product.
Before you ostracize your fellow man for their unsightly brown-streaked fingers, I hope you'll remember this post and restrain your brown dust prejudices.
Eating the S'more chips is cruel enough punishment.

[The Smiling Infidel Theater-located in the lefty section of my brain-is currently putting on an amusing production explaining the origins of S'mores tortilla chips. Apparently a stereotypical Mexican was crossing the Texas border late at night while clutching a bag of tortilla chips. Well, he accidentally but fortuitously slams into a cowboy, thus dropping his chips all over the cowboy's campfire s'mores. The accusations go back and forth: "Listen, pardner, you jus done dropped your dang tortilla chips into my s'mores" with the Mexican rebutting with a: "No Senor, you drop your s'mores into MY tortilla chips." And then they both trepidatiously take a bite of their concoction....they find instant flavor combo Xanadu....and go into business with one another suckering stores like Target to carry their product. I love happy endings.]

I've Been Recruited For A Secret Task Force.....

Today I found myself a tad befuddled when an e-mail cropped up in my inbox with the mysterious subject title of: Gonzalez Hunter Job Offer.

Okay, what exactly does that entail? I've never actually hunted Gonzalez before. Is this a pursuit of Gonzalez in the singular form or should I wait until there's a whole herd of Gonzalez's gathered together?

Ooooh, I know: I'll just wait for the next Gonzalez Family Reunion to make my move. How hard can it be? Armed with a Sharpie marker and a package of sticky name tags I can magically transform myself into any member of the Gonzalez family and then infiltrate their ranks from within.

I'm pretty sure I was targeted for this monumental albeit dangerous assignment because of a secret buried in my ancestry. Yeah, unbeknownst to me, I was likely descended from a long line of Gonzalez Hunters. It's just an evolved component of my sophisticated DNA......you know, like Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Van Helsing.

Although I'll have to be extra cautious to avoid falling prey to any wily Gonzalez's trying to sink their teeth into my Infidel flesh. They say that once bitten you'll appear normal without any adverse effects, that is, until the taco truck rolls by blaring "La Cucaracha"; that's the trigger that transforms you into a full-blown Gonzalez wherein you find yourself helplessly floundering about zombie-like to the oompa sounds of an accordion while your recently sprouted Pancho Villa mustache sways to and fro with the gentle breeze.

I'm going to buy some kind of Gonzalez Hunter protector gear. Dang it, I have to take precautionary measures. I just can't afford to chance it and end up having to superimpose the letter "G" over all my monogrammed stuff.

I just had a thought.....what if I'm only supposed to hunt Speedy Gonzalez and not just any old random Gonzalez? Nobody's been able to catch that slippery little Mexicano rodent in decades. I bet my Gonzalez Hunter performance bonus depends on it.

Crap, crap, crap.

Just Because Tiny Tim Makes Me Irrationally Happy........

Tiny Tim says: "God bless us, every one....while we Tiptoe Through The Tulips!
Amen.

And All The Sailors Say: "Elastic, You're A Fine Girl....."

The sailors also say: "What a good wife you would be."
They obviously haven't had many in-depth discussions with my man, Papi.
Okay, so I've only flung myself into Hokey Karaoke twice in my entire life.....and the world is a much better place for that decision.
Coincidentally, both of the times I faced sudden stage death I chose to sing the most recognized of the ode-to-chicks-named-after-alcohol songs, "Brandy."
Hey, I tend to stick with what I know.
Maybe next time I'll diversify and perform a totally sober version of "Margaritaville." I'll whip out a salt shaker during the grand finale and proclaim: "Here it is! As Jimmy Buffet as my witness, I will never search for my lost shaker of salt again......"
As me and my backup singer Sunbum took the stage, I huskily spoke into the microphone dedicating the song "to all my peeps who find infinite musical inspiration from the stylings of Kroger in-store radio."
And after that lively intro, a bunch of raucous DOO-DOO burst forth from the speakers.
That would be the DOO-DOO background chorus.
The Looking Glass sure did like to surround their "Brandy" with a lot of DOO-DOO.
At the end of our performance I gleefully told the audience that I had been saving up all my powerful DOO-DOO just for them.
They didn't seem impressed.
Anyway, before each and every "Brandy" refrain I encouraged the audience to sing along with me. Nobody did. At least not out loud.
Undeterred, I embraced my inner lounge singer and started dialoguing in between the lyrics...."What did all the sailors say? Come on, I can't hear you! All the sailors said Brandy, you're a fine girl...."
By the way, I was wearing my amazing tie-dye sneakers. I credit them with keeping me swaying and stepping in time to the Brandy-soaked rhythm.
The remainder of non-participating mini-Infidels later remarked that roughly half the audience did indeed lip sync along and seemed genuinely amused at our antics. The other half though, well, they appeared torn between looking embarrassed for us and/or sitting completely stone-faced as though "Brandy" didn't have the power to save their mortal soul.
Luckily, I know different and can readily bear the testimony of "Brandy" at any given moment.
Oh, I saved the best part for last. The venue happened to be a gathering of Constitutionally-minded people participating in the newly-instituted 912 Project that's predicated on an ideology based not on politics, but on principles and values.
I wanted to start a Conservative Conga Line, but my inner voice nixed the idea. It might be viewed as a tad too risque to lead a room full of people into grabbing at stranger's hips while lining up, one behind the other, to shake it jungle-style to Gloria Estefan. As it is, I think some folks already assumed that I must have spiked my Diet Coke with a hidden Brandy flask.
I'll admit it: I DO LOVE my "Brandy."

The Looking Glass guy who sings "Brandy" looks nothing like I assumed! The official article on Wikipedia details how he started a heavy metal band just a few years later. How you evolve from squeezing out soft processed cheese like "Brandy" to heavy metal, is beyond rationality. It is amusing to note, however, that the Red Hot Chili Peppers also did a rousing cover of this song.

I don't care what anyone says: I'm going to make it a point to serve up "Brandy" at all my parties.....and you should too! I bet Brandy likes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain while wasting away in Margaritaville with her friends Jose Cuervo and Sherry. Poor Sherry, she's still on the run from that stalker, Steve Perry. He's relentless even though she told him it would never work out because Sherry Perry makes for an abominable married name.

I Would Have Preferred A Kosher-Observant Stimulus Bill......

Despite Obama's virulent rhetoric on the campaign trail decrying the use of earmarks, he just passed a stimulus bill with close to 9,000 of the bloated little darlings.

I firmly believe that all omnibus bills, TARP, or whatever the flying fart they're calling it by today, should be examined by a Rabbi or a Muslim Imam beforehand. We can implement our own style of a Jewish/Muslim peace pact as they diligently work together to make sure that the government's massive spending bills at least adhere to Kosher and Halal regulations.

This would also serve as a great concept for an inventive new T.V. series in the vein of the odd couple crime-fighting partnership genre.
"Habib Ali dazzles with his pearlescent white teeth and award-winning beard that has taken him to certain victory in the ZZ Top Look-A-Like Contest, 3 years in a row. He's also a mild-mannered Imam who enjoyed crocheting festively patterned skull caps for the poor and engaging in marathon prayer sessions. Hezekiah Sharon is a Torah-loving Testament of righteous manliness; living big matzoh ball dreams and driving the local ishas crazy with his boisterous blonde curls that descend from his yarmulke like effulgent rays of sunshine. Together they'll join forces to storm the corridors of Washington D.C. and ensure that all unhealthy fat and hamminess is rooted out and expunged forever to save the American taxpayers. We admiringly call them "Heroes".........but the crusading duo chooses to refer to themselves as "The Pork Patrol!" (The Pork Patrol: A new comedy about an American tragedy; debuting this fall on the Fed Up With Feds Channel)

I'm offering up this sage little bit of whimsy free of charge for any bacon-slashing politician running for re-election in the next few years: "I'm not a vegetarian.....but I play one whenever government pork is shoved in my face."

In 2010 Vegetarian Conservatives Will Rise Again!

P.S. My beloved fellow citizens: I tried so hard to protect you from the truth that your newly anointed class of effete leaders (both left and right) despise, disdain, and harbor the most insidious contempt for you lowly "commoners." Anyways, it's time that you see for yourself in this :16 second clip how Senator Chuck Schumer of New York really feels about you and me. To him we're "the chattering class" who doesn't really care what Obama does, says, or signs. Is he right Americans?

P.P.S. Is anyone else getting a pay raise in these turbulent times of economic moan&groan? Are you being rewarded for abysmal job performance and low approval scores? Well, the United States Congress is. Congratulations American suckers.....as of last week we are now being coerced through our tax dollars to pay even more to our Congressional leaders for their deplorable 18% satisfaction rating. Yes, they voted themselves a fat pay raise. It's good to be the Kings and Queens in a royal dictatorship, isn't it?

My English Professor Has Banished Me To The Land Of B-List Misfits......

I'm currently under attack from an onslaught of Killer B's.
Does it sting?
Oh yes, does it ever.
Sadly, I don't think there's any sort of exterminating spray on the market to make it go away either.
My Professor, Professor Meso Smart, may not have ever listed the position of "Professional Head Shrinker" on his resume, but he does indeed possess an amazing knack for shrinking a Jolly Green Giant-sized ego down to miniature pea status using nothing more than a scribbly wave of his red pen.
You know, I didn't even get the benefit of receiving a nifty little dangling shrunken ego keychain to carry around with me afterwards. Is it too much to expect that Professor Meso Smart at least enshrine my deflated little speck of ego into a glass display box so I can pimp it out like a freaky side show spectacle and maybe make a little ka-ching?
I ran a little experiment to test the boundaries of Professor Meso Smart's sinister grading pen.
The rought draft for my assigned opinion essay consisted of nothing more than the blandest of facts and statistics. I then proceeded to sprinkle it with some milquetoast regurgitations of wholly uninspired data to support my opinion. Pure, unadulterated drudgery.
That effort won an emphatic "A+" from Professor Meso Smart.
I labored and agonized over the final copy of the essay for a week. I passionately employed brilliant personification and mixed it with sharply pointed verbage designed to evoke an unforgettable landscape of mental imagery in the reader's head. If you can't unleash the searing fire burning in your soul within the confines of an opinion paper, then where can you?
Professor Meso Smart read my final copy and chose to sting me with yet another Killer B.
While he declared my paper to have achieved "the highest plane of critical thinking as evidenced by my argumentation and reasoning" he also said that my "exceedingly excellent paper was marred by the usage of turgid wording."
Yes, "TURGID" as in wildly exaggerated or embellished.
Other words used to describe my masterpiece: "bombastic" and "florid."
I may have tumbled off the A-list bar stool like the uncoordinated Shirley Temple-drinking lush that I am, but last week's class set the scene for my ultimate vindication.
While reading aloud to the class from a featured article in The Houston Chronicle, Professor Meso Smart stopped to slobber and praise the writer's stuffed-full-of-adjectives style as "magnificent!" He then inquired of the class: "Who in here can write like this?"
Without hesitation, my hand rocketed straight into the air as I blurted out "ME! I write exactly like that."
Stunned, Professor Meso Smart paused, momentarily closed his eyes, and then, after a brief interlude of reflection, quietly admitted "Yes, Elastic, it's true. You DO write like this."
Victory is mine!
It's not as sweet as a warrior team of A's bursting into the classroom to vanquish the Killer B's back into the realm of scholastic injustice from whence they sprang, but just instigating a moment of stark epiphany in Professor Meso Smart made the moment so very worthwhile.

Special thanks to my flappy friend, clean counter confidant, and Vicodin muse, Carrot Jello who assures me that Professor Meso Smart refuses to award me an "A" because he's so insanely jealous of my genius. I'm convinced that's the real reason.

From The Ankles Up, I'm All Business.......

But from the ankles down, I'm all party.....

More specifically, I'm a hippy-dippy, tie-dyed Bob Marley party. You should see my magnificent toe hair dreadlocks.
When wearing these shoes, my feet relentlessly tap out the Morse Code version of "One World, One Love" all day long as though independent from the rest of my body.
"Let's get together and feel alriiigghhhttt....."
That's the real reason why Asians bind their feet. It's to shut them up.
I finally was forced to adopt a zero tolerance stance prohibiting them from burning any kind of "incense" in the sanctity of my footwear. I understand that my feet may consider my Good Time shoes as their special private place where they can do whatever they feel like, but you know, sometimes I do need to get through security and ultra-sniffy dogs to get places.
Man, I'm such an unmellow fascist pouring holy water on their little smoke-filled lovefest.
Reluctantly, I did compromise and purchase some lovely socks for my feet made from the most organic hemp crops. They feel positively toasted in them.
Anyway, I think I've long established my predilection for the most bizarro WTF?-ery of novelty socks, but I've never before shared my bizarro WTF?-ery shoe fetish.
I picked up these little homage to the Grateful Dead beauties at a new thrift store that caters to teens called Plato's Closet. I visually scoured the shoes for any traces of foot funk left over from the previous inhabitants. I also did some deep and profound sole searching. I'm happy to report that these shoes were undoubtedly never worn and yet still bore an amazing price tag of only ten bucks.
I am a little disturbed to think about Plato, one of the greatest philosophers in history, as a cross-dresser, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that the sparkly tube dress and high heels in his closet were cheap. I do like a frugal man!
I only have a few pairs of weird shoes. Certainly not enough to open up my own FooFoo Feet Museum in the shoe closet just yet.
See, I have certain stringent criteria regarding price, function, and comfortability factors. I'm not easy. Not just any old random oddball shoe can apply for employment at Smiling Infidel Central.
Here's some of the lucky few who made it past the rigorous selection process:

If Papi and I ever get divorced, I'm going to date both Dr. Scholls and Mr. Vans so I can be sure that my poor, defenseless little feet will never be stinky or cold again.......

One Of The Most Clever Music Videos I've Seen In A Long Time

As an added bonus, I absolutely love the song too. Oren himself directed this snappy and brilliant little video that moves seamlessly along with his lyrics.

I Had An Explosively Big DM Movement Yesterday....

DM= Depeche Mode
Depeche Mode= French For "Fast Fashion."
I'm sure you knew exactly what I was referring to by the post title, right?
Anyway, I created this funky little fashion ensemble for my oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum.
My gosh, it looks as though this child was orphaned at birth and raised by a Flock Of Seagulls, doesn't it?
Sunbum's first words weren't "goo-goo-gah-gah" like most babbling babies. Nope, it was more like Kajagoogoo.
Did you ever watch that emotionally manipulating movie with Christopher Reeves and Jane Seymour called "Somewhere In Time?" Well, basically Christopher has to dress himself head-to-toe in authentic period clothing before venturing back in time. If he doesn't, the space/time continuum will be broken thus sending him careening back to the present day.
Yeah well, using that important time traveling criteria, Sunbum is more than ready to hitch a ride in a passing plutonium-powered Delorean headed towards the year 1985.

Here's The Valley Girl Approved Checklist That I Studied Like Scripture Before Attempting My Feat Of Creatively Monumental Proportions:

• Utilize blinding fluorescent colors as though your nickname is Neon Leon. Check.
• Scrunch and bunch your socks like you're playing an accordion made from cotton. Check.
• Flippy-Floppy hair with a totally rad headband. Check.
• 3 garishly designed plastic wristwatches climbing up the arm letting everyone know you take fashion cues from the black market watch hustlers on Madison Square. Check.
• A Vintage Guess? black denim jacket that used to belong to your mother when her entire wardrobe consisted of overalls. Check.
• Activate the Popped Collar Sequence on my mark....3....2....1....... Check.
• Black pencil skirt that allows you a justifiable excuse to back out of any and all breakdance challenges. Check.
• A groovin, grommeted belt to cinch and bind and bring it all together like a corn tortilla encapsulating spicy taco meat goodness. Fer sure. Check.

What? What's that you say? You said, Wang Chung to you??!?
Well, may the power of Wang Chung also be upon you, my fair reader.