Greetings from the Omnigraphic Blogopticon. On view are vile sticky things dragged from the attic, snarky commentary on the world at large, and all-encompassing ennui. All that and a weird rubbery smell. A horrible time will be had by all.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Ice Ice Baby

I was saving this for another day, but since my buttheaded brother seems to be having a minor stroke about my Thanksgiving post I'm forced to use it now.

Picnic Menus, New Idea Woman's Magazine, June 1906.


Not only do they not give the recipes for any of the more distressing dishes, they also insist that one invites Vanilla Ice to the picnic and somehow contrive to get him into Tiny Nutmeg Melons. Perhaps he wears them like a brassiere and does a suggestive little dance.

Word to your mother.

3 comments:

Scott said...

You are history's greatest monster.

Severina said...

Grrrrrrr, watch me stomp a city!

Crypt Stitch said...

It's 9pm here. It is still 39 degrees C. I kid you not. I have been cranky ALL DAY because of the heat, I mean what sort of insane person lives in Australia? But thanks for making me giggle. No better place for Vanilla Ice if you ask me....
Ice ice baby, bum dum dum dad da da da, Ice ice baby...kill me now...
;)