Author Archive

Skeeter Bites: The best damn chili you’ll ever cook… guaranteed!

February 24, 2011 Leave a comment

A couple of weeks ago I ransacked the pantry for something to eat. Being turned away with only the appetizing thought of eating taco seasoning from the packet, I carried on to the one thing that has never let me down – the fridge.

Throwing things together has always been a culinary fetish of mine and this day was like many others. From my tantalizing egg Ramen to chicken & broccoli stuffed manicotti, my imagination has led to some of the heart-burningest creations this world has ever seen. So kick the crock pot on high, throw on some Al Green, and let my chili recipe take you away (and possibly to the bathroom afterwards).


1 lb Ground Chuck (cooked in sauce pan)

1 lb Spicy/Hot Ground Sausage (cooked in sauce pan)

1 lb Ground Turkey (cooked in sauce pan)

3 tbsp Chili powder

1 tbsp crushed black pepper

1 tbsp crushed, dried oregano leaves

1 large white onion (finely diced – after cooking, they will take on a very aromatic spongy feel)

1 small can tomato sauce

1 large can diced tomatoes

4 cans chili beans (to add spiciness to the mix, substitute a can of Chili ‘Hot’ beans)


After all the meats are cooked and drained, open all cans of beans and rinse thoroughly. (I like this step because the beans come packed in a semi-gelatinous red sauce that eerily reminds me of movie blood; that and they don’t taste as good). In a 5 qt. slow cooker, combine all ingredients – in no specific order – and mix vigorously. You can choose to mix sluggishly, however, I prefer the word vigorous. Simply sounds cooler. Cover slow cooker, set timer for 4 hours, and pop in your favorite Tom Hanks’ film.

Following the viewing of Castaway, Big, or The Money Pit, if your intestines don’t fell like exploding, they soon will. Spoon heaping gobs of dripping meat slurry into a bowl, garnish with cheese, and devour to your liking. This recipe is a guaranteed winner.


Categories: Skeeter Bites...

Diary of a snowman…

February 9, 2011 Leave a comment

Day 1…

After a long, hot summer, the kids are finally able to enjoy some much needed snow. I can’t tell you how long I have waited to see all my snowmen homies, or snowmies, if you prefer brevity .

Larry’s always been the fat one. I think the kids get a kick out of overbuilding him. Every year the same brother and sister make him look like some sort of freak show. He has a huge base, small middle, and oblong head. Imagine if Mr. Planter knocked up a snow cone machine and the fruits of their lustful encounter was Larry.

Tom is the more sensibly built one. He’s carefully planned annually by the O.C.D. kid up the block. Each of his sections are perfectly rounded, like the kid drew him on a piece of graph paper beforehand. The kid spends way too much time on him and even more time avoiding the other kids in the neighborhood. None of us have ever seen him outside of a full bodysuit, complete with face wrap. The kid must look like the Elephant Man or something.

Finally, we come to my ol’ buddy Stubby. His name is actually Stanley, but we’ve always managed to get a rise out of him with his nickname. He was built the first winter by the poor kid in the neighborhood. He got the moniker Stubby because the kid’s parents didn’t want to allow him to build his snowman with a regular sized carrot. They pacified the kid by giving him one of those dainty little carrot stubs that you see all the fitness freaks gorging themselves on. Good guy and all, but he just comes up short in the carrot department.

Day 2…

So Mother Nature decided that we needed another helping of snow. It looks so pretty outside. The kids’ footprints – even the prints left by the fat children – have all been recovered in a dusting of white. It lends a sense of completeness to everything around us. I was just mentioning to Stubby last night that even he didn’t look so bad this winter amidst all this beauty. He told me to fuck off.

Day 3…

I’ve been trying to find the right moment to break away from this icy base and make a run for it. Larry and Stubby are starting to piss me off. They convinced the neighborhood bullies that it would be fun to break off my twig arms and sword fight with them. HELLO… need some arms here if I ever plan to get the hell out of Cedar Creek. What a shit hole of a town. Maybe I’ll just stand here and have a beer… ohh wait. No arms. No beer. Laugh it up asshole.

Day 4…

The kids’ infatuation with us is waning. Three days and the little shits don’t even come out any more. Good. You know what, I hope they all develop childhood obesity. That’ll show their little chunky asses.

Day 5…

I was looking in the window of one of the houses last night during the newscast and heard one of the forecasters say it was supposed to warm up into the middle 40’s today. Sounds good and all, but what am I supposed to do for Christ’s sake? I’m a fucking snowman. I don’t know if you passed science class in 6th grade but in case you didn’t know, I’ll melt. Thanks a lot, d-bag. I appreciate your concern. Its not like you were going to go throw on a bikini and lay out in the backyard. I’m too young to die, man. I didn’t do anything to anyone.

Day 6…

I’m a fucking puddle. Are you happy now?

Categories: Uncategorized

Been too long…

December 31, 2010 1 comment

A few years back, we sat in class and were given an
assignment to write a piece of prose that was of our choosing.
Tomorrow is my late grandpa’s birthday and I figured, there would
be no better way than to honor his memory by sharing a little part
of him with all of you. Rest in peace Poe…

Chainsaws and

“Why can’t I go see Poe? He
told me I could come over. I finished my homework, I cleaned my
room and besides, I think he needed help with something.” My
protests rapidly launch at my now-enemy, attempting to topple her
tough defenses. My mom throws an annoyed look my way and reaches
for the corded phone. “Yeah Dad, its Becky. I just walked in the
door and Dustin wants to go over there. He said something about
helping you? Yeah. Ummm, alright. Send him back by eight. Yeah, I
think I’ll have him clean the chimney with his toothbrush. Love you
too. Buh-bye.” A coy smile creeps its way across my mom’s face. She
turns to me, obviously tired and uncomfortably dressed in her work
garb that my brother and I would later describe in life as
receptionist nouveau. “Fine… you can go to your grandfather’s
house. Remember though, don’t touch anything you’re not supposed
to, don’t eat anything still moving, and if its wet and not yours,
don’t touch it.” My mom’s diktats I know are for my own good, but
what kind of self-respecting thirteen-year-old would I be if I went
to school on Monday and didn’t have a story centering in some small
part around sawing, nailing, torching or screwing something? Being
too cool to hug and kiss my mom, because after all, I’m wearing
Nikes now, I wrap my right arm around her midsection as my left
quickly reaches and snatches my hoodie off the chair. “Love ya Mom,
see you around ten!” My pace quickens as I throw open the screen
door. “I said eight Dustin!” “Right… ten. Love ya!” Propelling
myself off the front stoop, gravity takes hold and lands me smack
dab in the middle of the front yard. Without skipping a beat, my
butt is glued to my bike and in a gust, I’m off to Grandpa’s. The
best thing about living a half-mile away from your grandparents
reveals itself the minute something rightfully is not your fault. I
hadn’t meant to mow over the flowers and I soon realized that my
brother’s authentic Sergei Federov hockey jersey was not something
I should play tackle football in on a stormy day. Thank God Poe has
something for me to help him with and thankfully, Mom forgets. At
least I think she does. Gliding down the hill to my grandparent’s
house, I throw my right foot contortedly against the rear tire of
my brakeless BMX. My bike whips around like the rear of that chunky
lady whose moth ball smell fills the checkouts at the grocery
store. My journey comes to a close with a dark black, rubber streak
pointing towards my grandpa’s garage. I jump off my bike and rush
to lean it against the fence. Jogging to the door, some type of
surprise awaits. I turn the knob and press forward. “That was
quick. Nanny and I weren’t expecting you for another half-hour or
so. Hungry?” My head slowly confirms a no. “Alright, suit yourself.
While you’re standing there, hold this.” As he hands me a small
file, my grandpa retreats to his bench vice, slowly rotating a
chain blade around a circular piece of wood and grabs the file out
of my hand. “Gotta sharpen this blade before I forget. “ I stand
awkwardly at first, slowly shifting into a more comfortable
statuesque pose. “So what are we goin’ to do, Poe? Cut some boards…
fix that window… lay some bricks?” Being my grandfather’s helper
always proved to be a quick way to score twenty bucks, no matter
the size of the job. “First off, its brick. Drives me nuttier than
squirrel shit when people say ‘bricks’. I’m a bricklayer, not a
brickslayer.” My grandfather’s words sharpen, like the teeth on his
chain blade. “Well, now that we got that straight, I figur’d that
you and I could straight’n the garage. Got some many damn tools in
here, if I don’t trip over ‘em, I can’t find ‘em.” Like Samson and
his golden locks, I imagine that my grandpa’s tools represent the
last vestige of his manhood. Tools that hammer, screw, cut,
measure, straighten, scribe, point, and level find themselves
haphazardly strewn about on the work bench, some now even calling
the dirty concrete floor home. The only logical thing explaining
this happening is the nearby Sears building must have exploded
during the night and all its contents landing miraculously in my
grandpa’s garage. “Welp. Better get started. I only have you for
three hours before your mom kills me. Can’t ride your bike in the
dark.” A few seconds pass as I grab handfuls of delinquent
screwdrivers. My grandpa’s raspy voice disturbs the metallic
clanking of chisels and screwdrivers being placed on the workbench
as he looks towards me. “Hey, is Nanny coming? Hop up and peek out
the door. She should be in watching ‘The Wheel’ so she shouldn’t
bother us.” I stand up and slide across the floor to the door as my
grandpa pulls a small half-drank bottle of whiskey out from under
one of his shelved hard hats. Quickly uncapping it, he presses the
bottle to his lips and with a swift jerk, throws his head back.
“Poe… she’s coming!” I send up the alert just as my grandma walks
in the garage door. She wraps her arms around me tightly, silently
giving me the once-over to see how much I’ve grown since last time
she has seen me. “Hey sweetie. How are you? How’s school?” I shrug
my shoulders with indifference as my grandma’s innocent
interrogation quickly ends. Turning towards my grandpa, her voice
stiffens a bit. “Don’t stay out here all night George. We have to
go to church early tomorrow morning and talk to Father. He’s trying
to line people up to work the social.” Her soft, wrinkled hand pats
my shoulder as she turns and walks out of the garage and back into
the house. “Good. Now where were we?” We continue to clean, hang
and straighten the armies of tools lying in piles. My grandpa
shuffles around the work bench, snaking his path around various
saws and a pile of misplaced Christmas decorations to the wall
decorated by various sized shovels and picks. Each handle parallel
to one another, they hang ordered and anxious, awaiting the next
opportunity to make their user proud with their effectiveness. He
moves down to my end of the bench, the half-drank bottle in his
hand, the cap slightly ajar. “Well finish up with those
screwdrivers and we’ll call it a day. ‘Sides, the sun is going down
and you have to get back home ‘therwise your mom is gonna kill me.”
He throws back another mouth-sized shot and stands quietly for a
second. His eyes fixed on the door, he looks down at me and motions
for me to take a drink. Apprehensive at first, I sheepishly take
the bottle from his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep look out for
Nanny.” He gives me a little wink and moves towards the door. I
slowly raise the bottle to my lips, trying to catch a whiff with my
nose and take a drink. My throat instantly catches fire as I cough
deeply, trying unsuccessfully to squelch the lava inching its way
down my throat. My eyes begin to water as my grandpa moves towards
me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small wrapped piece
of candy. Proudly looking at me, he begins, “Go on and chew it. Old
Marine trick. Chewin’ bubblegum hides the smell and they can’t tell
you’ve been drinkin’.” I grab the gum from his hand and unwrap it,
quickly flicking the soft piece into my mouth. My throat still
burns a little from the drink but the sugary juices of the
bubblegum helps remove a small part of the sting. My grandma
reappears as Poe’s back faces the door. She projects obvious
annoyance towards him. “George, when are you coming in? Dustin
has to get going. Becky just called and she
wants to know where he is.” She walks back into the house, the
front door producing a sharp thud behind her. Frustrated, my
grandpa turns to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and points a
straight line from his index finger to the center point between my
eyes. “I hope this teaches you somethin’.” His finger slowly wags
up and down. “You might not get everything you want in this entire
world – money, cloths, women, and cars – but ev’ry man should at
least have a garage.”

Categories: Uncategorized

Skeeter Bites: 5 things required to survive the Zombie uprising…

September 21, 2010 5 comments

As most uber-nerds know, December 12th, 2012 marks the day when the world will irrevocably change and fall under siege. There will be no more wars against terrorists, no concern with the economy, and most importantly, if the Gods smile upon us, Lohan and Hilton will be names we celebrate as they fade into oblivion. We will all be under attack by one of the most ferocious, unstoppable enemies we have ever faced. Zombies.

Let us not kid one another. Many of the people you know and love will become part of the army of these ungodly brain-munchers. They will no longer be referred to as Suzie, Mickey, or your creepy Uncle Ron (who wears sweatpants to every family reunion). They are out for flesh, and if you aren’t careful and fail to heed the warning being provided, you too will fall prey to being a lunch buffet for a swarm of the walking dead.

* * * * *

Find a crowbar. On a Saturday trip to the local Home Depot, while shopping for your lawn mulch and random items your wife selects to “vagify” your home, duck quickly into the big tool section. You might not realize the benefits of having such a weapon in your repertoire, but you will soon thank me. Need to pry open a door to evade becoming a happy meal? Want to bludgeon an oncoming meat-pinata with a penchant for gray matter? The crowbar becomes your best friend as you pulverize through the oncoming horde of zombies and then evade them by popping a lock on the local 7 Eleven.

* * * * *

WalMart. Not just any ol’ Wally World will do there Skippy. You have to find a WalMart SuperCenter. Why you ask? Because the SuperCenter version of this capitalist juggernaut carries a full variety of Pop Tarts, Mini Wheats and 47 different varieties of Goya (provided of course that you frequent the SuperCenter located within a largely Hispanic neighborhood.) As a double bonus for barricading your still-alive selves in this Mecca of heathen goodness, you have an almost limitless supply of ammunition and hunting rifles should you choose to saunter your way to the sporting goods section of the store. “No seven-day waiting period here, Little Johnny. Now you go out there and turn that zombies head into canoe, you lil’ scamp you!” (Author’s note: For those lonely nights [if you have failed to discover other survivors], the endless number of Hannah Montana calendars will suffice to give you an all-so-familiar warm and cozy feeling.)

* * * * *

Guns. Lots and lots of guns. The more you have, the better your chances. If a zombie doesn’t get within arm’s reach, they can’t bite you. Well, there’s that and if you put a bullet through their face with a high-powered sniper rifle, they have no teeth left to munch on you with.

* * * * *

King James Edition Bible. Many of you right this second are wondering why I of all people chose to include this in your survival kit. The answer is quite simple… it’s a great collection of fictional tales that you can read around your campfire of Justin Beiber CDs to entertain your fellow shut-ins as they “ohh and ahh” at the sight of his smug pre-pubescent face igniting in the ohh-soo-warming fire. (Phew… now that I got THAT out.) Did I forget to mention that checking in at over 38 pounds makes it a formidable weapon if you are in scarce supply of ammo and require a weapon of mass destruction?

* * * * *

At least one, if not two, fat kids. The old joke goes… “Two guys are in the woods and they stumble upon a mother bear who rears up and growls protecting her cubs. The skinner man turns to the larger man and says, “I don’t have to outrun the bear, I just have to outrun you!” With that, the skinnier man dashes out in a contrail of dust and preserved dreams. The husky gentleman is not so lucky.

The same principles apply if you are outrunning bears or zombies. You don’t have to be faster than them… just faster than your slowest travelling companion. This theory has been known to backfire though in the past. Don’t act suspicious by luring a skinnier fellow into the warmth of your familial bosom, only to try to fatten him up for a later takedown. This part of the plan if fool-proof if enacted correctly. You don’t need to spend the time fattening someone up for the slaughter… simply go to any mid-American public school and pick out a few fattie-snacks. Be sure to befriend them now… you don’t want to be without your very own fattie when the zombies come a’ knockin’!

* * * * *

You don’t have to be Pythagoras to do the math. You + This List = Self Preservation – Friends.

Categories: Randominities

Skeeter Bites: Can we please nuke the ‘Jersey Shore’?

All thanks to The Real World, Americans have found it acceptable to dive into the lives of knowing participants, follow them through their daily routines, and their sexual conquests during the evening. Nothing has really changed since the first rendition of The Real World and as we find ourselves chugging along in our cattle car to reality television Hell, we stop along the way to witness the absolute wreckage of Jersey Shore.

MTV’s latest pop-culture abortion heads into its second season, poised as one of the most popular shows on the network and includes a cast of characters that I can best describe as one part tanning lotion, two parts hair product and four equal parts of absolutely annoying. Jersey Shore does little more than provide water cooler fodder for people who have nothing better to do than watch annoying people, doing nonsensical and idiotically vain things, all while “fist pumping” their way to below average stardom.

While watching a few of the first season’s episodes – for research purposes only and I cannot stress that enough – I found my intelligence level actually decreasing almost to the point of requiring a cloth to wipe the spittle from the corner of my mouth. The debauchery that is on display in this show not only urges me to vomit violently, but also prompts me to lock my niece in her bedroom until the age of 65. Hopefully by that time, all of the male d-bag members of the Shore cast will have passed on due to dreadful bouts of skin cancer from over-tanning.

The only thing that I can see that would benefit anyone with this show continuing would be is if someone decides to punch Miss Piggy, err, I mean Snooki in the snout again.

Skeeter Bites: Man takes the cake… literally!

July 19, 2010 1 comment

Fort Scott, Kansas – Ronald James Hagan, 36, possesses an undeniable love for snack cakes. Unlike his contemporaries, his insatiable desire doesn’t just stop at consumption. Hagan is being sought for questioning by the Fort Scott Sheriff’s department for what some are claiming as the most heinous baked foods related incident since 1983’s highjacking of a Wonder Bread truck in St. Louis, Missouri.

The details at this point are at best sketchy, but from what has been released by law enforcement, its been determined that in the early morning hours of July 16th, Hagan illegally gained access to the Hostess distribution site off Highway-69 two miles south of Fort Scott. According Waylan Johnson, Hostess’ night security guard, surveilance cameras recorded Hagan as he removed his trousers and began performing what was described as “the most disturbing sexual act with a snack cake ever recorded” at the Hostess factory.

A reward for information leading to the whereabouts of Ronald Hagan is being offered in the amount of $500. Ronald Hagan is described as a Caucasian male, brown hair, athletic body, and a red coconut colored penis. Please call the Hostess customer service hotline at 1-800-Hostess or the Fort Scott Sheriff’s Department if you have knowledge of Ronald James Hagan’s whereabouts.

Author’s note – the story you have just read is completely fictional. Ronald James Hagan is a randomly thought up name and the circumstances regarding this fictional crime were completely fabricated.

Skeeter Bites: How to plug BP’s hole…

Some may call me a little behind the times. I’ve never been exactly what one would consider “cutting edge”. I have racked my brain for the past months, attempting to come up with an inventive way for Tony Hayward, C.E.O. of B.P., to fix the oil that gushes into the Gulf of Mexico at an alarming rate. Here are some potential ideas that I have spent long hours on the porcelain throne contemplating…

Dead fish and bird carcasses – Yeah, yeah, yeah. Some of you right now are calling me a monster, but let’s face facts. All the Dawn dish soap in the world won’t be able to cut the grease that these poor creatures are having to live with. For these birds and fish, the amount of oil that coats their feathers and scales leaves them feeling like they just woke up next to Lionel Richie after a long night of “slap-n-tickle” with Jesus of Jheri Curls. The suggestion that would help us all… wrap them in cheesecloth, and plug the oil’s guss-hole immediately. The sacrifices of the few promote the well being of the many. Save the birds able to fly so they can clog jet engines and the swimming little fishies so that they can saturate the wax paper liner in my basket for my Long John Silver’s.

FLOAM – This lovable oddity that sickened thousands of kids would be the perfect economical fix for our issue. With some polystyrene beads, Borax, and glue, we could have endless amounts of semi-gelatinous, oil- plugging goodness. Let’s not mention that we can be the first in the world to have our on designer oil leak color!

Megan Fox’s Toe-Thumb – Granted Megan tops most lists as being one of, if not the most, attractive woman on the planet. But can we be honest with one another for a moment? If an asteroid were on a collision course with Earth, one of the last people being called to the “war room” to brainstorm ideas for our salvation would be her. That is not to say that she cannot be used for more than simply a masturbatory aid. After drowning Megan Fox and allowing the decomposition gasses to slightly bloat her toe-thumb, we could take care of all that ails us by sinking her to the oil’s opening. Following an extensive MacGyver-esque use of duct tape, the leak would be stopped. No more oil, and thank goodness, no Jonah Hex sequel.

Mighty Putty – If the late Billy Mays were here, he would march right into Hayward’s office and with a booming voice proclaim, “Hi, Billy Mays here with Mighty Putty! The oil topper leak stopper. For only $9.95, I won’t simply send you 3 sticks of Mighty Putty, I’ll also do an additional 3 lines of coke off this stripper’s ass, all while singing “God Bless America” and making waffles. Simply pay for shipping and processing!”

Dr. Phil McGraw – If all other options were to fail, we as Americans would have to dig deep into our resolve reserves and sacrifice. With great circumstance comes great consequence and if all ideas fall short of stopping the oil seepage into the Gulf, we can always jam Dr. Phil into the hole. By using a high pressure air cannon – similar to those used to propel t-shirts at high speeds towards unsuspecting fans at sporting events – aimed at the top of the leak, we propel McGraw’s body, rump first, towards the hole at blazing speed. Upon impact, the cellulite in the aforementioned posterior would become lodged in the orifice, plugging our leak. This would again serve a dual purpose as we would no longer be subject to his small-minded, 6th-grade, hillbilly psychology. Judging by the picture, does he not look like a person who needs to be jammed in a hole 6 miles beneath the ocean’s surface?

As previously mentioned at the onset of the writing, these are simply ideas. We have a team of 3rd-graders hard at work drawing Crayola schematics of a Tinker-Toy plug that could also be use. Stay tuned…

Categories: Skeeter Bites...