Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Archive for the category “gross food”

Correspondence Hall of Shame, End of Year Edition, and more

Greetings, readers. As this will be my last post of 2016, I thought I’d present a hodgepodge of treats for you. So grab a beverage of your choice, whack off a chunk of that stale fruitcake with a hacksaw, and settle in.

First up, a few CHoS entries:

I swear this sounds lile so fucking fun and a turn on
Lolol love it when a women love other thing beside sex 
You do have a sexy ass that should always be SMACK!! Good when that se,y booty is out

Uh… what? I’m sorry, I’m not bilingual; I don’t speak Moronese.

hi cutie, my name is Xxx and we have the same sexual interests.. I enjoy passionate kissing, foreplay, oral sex, anal sex, FWB, LTR, BDSM, role playing and doing anything to please you. I would love to explore every inch of your body with my hands and tongue. I like hard and fast sex, but prefer marathon all night sex.. I may be older than what you are looking for, but age is just a number and PLEASURE, weather it comes from yourself, someone younger, or older, is still PLEASURE. I am always horny and available. If this is what you are looking for, check my profile to see if we match and message me back

I don’t know whose profile you were reading, but it wasn’t mine, since mine said I wasn’t seeking sex. Yes, age is just a number, and so is IQ. Yours, apparently, is in the double digits.

You may have seen this comment before, since it was left right here on this blog. I thought it deserves its own special message. What a shame this person thinks they’re so clever.

I bet you only get spanked on the left side of your ass

Wrong again, Breitbart Breath, as is evidenced by this recent photo:


And finally, to my special hater out there: Really? You think my last blog was all about little ol’ you? Tsk… now who’s vain, hmmm? My upbringing in the “entertainment world” had nothing to do with my political views — I am a well-educated woman and I have a mind of my own — so you may can the condescending claptrap. But hey, thanks for saying I have a pretty face. I do believe that’s the first time in all these years that you’ve ever said anything nice about me. 🙂

Interesting side note: Someone very close to me — who is a conservative and voted for Trump — read my last blog. He could have been pissy about it, but all he had to say about it was that it’s a funny and satirical piece, and some of the best writing he’s seen from me. How about that. I thanked him for his civility, and he said, “I’m the norm. The people who act like a-holes are the exception.” I’m afraid I disagree with that; I think it’s the other way around. But we’ll see.

Moving on — did you guys miss my annual sniping about fruitcake? Then this is for you. Our ever-trendy coffeehouse, Starbucks, unveiled a Christmas treat this year, available for one week only: the Fruitcake Frappuccino. It was described as a blended iced coffee drink with hazelnut and cinnamon, topped by whipped cream, caramel and matcha (whatever the @#$% that is). What’s fruitcake-y about this, you might ask? Well, also blended into the beverage are bits of dried fruit. That’s right, so you can eat your Frappuccino as well as drink it. It’s creamy! It’s chunky! It’s chewy! It’s disgusting!

And if you’re not already sick, here is a real view of it:


I’m sorry, but this doesn’t resemble anything drinkable to me. It looks like the inside of a Times Square toilet on New Year’s Eve.

Did everyone have a nice holiday? Mine had some pleasant moments, although I was struggling a bit. Earlier this month, Alex and Paul had a lovely little party, and I did my best to get into the spirit, dressing myself up, complete with black stockings that had red bows at the top, red pumps, and a black shirt that had “Naughty” on the front and “Nice” on the back. Last week, Alex, SC and I had a long-overdue girls’ night out, where we chatted for hours and exchanged presents. I got some nice things, including a beautiful, soft and plush robe from Alex, and SC gave me a Lego set… to build the Yellow Submarine! I haven’t played with Legos since I was a kid; this should be fun. But I think my favorite gift was one that came as a surprise in the mail: it was from Lily Starr, and when I opened it, I smiled, then giggled, then guffawed. It was a crystal pendant… of a snowflake.

I think this might have been the beginning of a turnaround for me. I felt my humor, long dormant, kick back in a bit. And my feistiness. Damn right I’m a snowflake, and I’ll accept that term, meant to be insulting, with pride. In fact, Lily’s gift inspired me to shoot this little video. 🙂 Screw with me, and I’m screwing right back. I may go down in a nuclear holocaust in the coming year or so, but I’m going down laughing.

* * *

Now, if I can be serious for a moment. This has been a brutal year. No, not just because of the obvious, but for so many other miseries befalling people I care about. Job losses, illnesses, broken relationships, getting outed. Deaths… so many deaths. John lost his own closest friend last month, and we are still reeling from that. And this was a terrible year for our beloved icons, with an unbelievable count of losses. Actors. Musicians. Authors. Sports figures. Astronauts. Just this week, we lost Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds, one day apart. Reportedly, Ms. Reynolds’ last words were “I want to be with Carrie” before she had a massive stroke. I guess it is possible to die of a broken heart. My own heart breaks for Todd Fisher, who lost both his sister and mother within 24 hours, and for Billie Lourd, who lost her mother and grandmother. Sometimes life is very cruel.

If you have never seen Singin’ In The Rain, I am telling you to do so. Even if you say you don’t like musicals, see it anyway. It is so much more than song and dance, although those numbers are dazzling, and it’s impressive to watch a 19-year-old Debbie Reynolds, who’d never danced professionally before, holding her own with two of the best dancers of the 20th century. It’s funny, clever, energetic, romantic, and if it doesn’t put a smile on your face and lift your spirits, you might want to check for a pulse.

What’s my point? Life is short. Hold your loved ones close. Hang in there, and do the best you can. I say this as much to myself as I do to my friends. I’m going to put on my rain gear and boots, and plow bravely forward into the crapstorm that 2017 is looking to be, determined to have fun and experience love and joy where I can. May you all do the same.

Have a great weekend, y’all. ♄

OT: Yup, it’s time again for disgusting food!

OK, I gave you guys a nice long break from my food rants. My last one was a year ago, about disgusting sandwiches. This week, I became aware of a brand-new gastric monstrosity from Burger King that couldn’t be ignored. So, I present to you, their newest side:

Mac ‘n Cheetos.


Because what’s better than macaroni and cheese? Deep-fried portable macaroni and cheese, of course. They’re kinda like mozzarella sticks, but there’s macaroni, too. And they’re encased in a crunchy Cheeto-inspired shell, complete with greasy orange dust that gets all over everything.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, people. I get the allure of mac and cheese, truly I do. Guess who used to eat good old Day-Glo Orange Kraft Macaroni and Cheese by the potful? Yup, yours truly, back in my chubbier days. I am not a fan of cheese, but if it’s mild and melted, and combined with something starchy like bread or pasta, I enjoy it. But I definitely don’t like the Redneck County Fair mode of deep-frying everything. Mind you, a crunchy crust on a mac ‘n cheese casserole can be delicious. But not one made of Cheetos.

Apparently, this is the latest entry in the “fast-food mash-up” trend, along with Taco Bell’s Taco Waffle (a waffle folded into a taco and filled with spicy sausage and eggs, hence mashing up breakfast with Mexican food). I do not trust this term “mash-up,” any more than I trust the latest foodie term, “fusion.” To me, they both mean the same thing: “We’re just throwing a bunch of shit together to see what might work. We have no idea what we’re doing.”

Granted, the serving size of this orange menace isn’t going to kill you: there are just five sticks in a box, costing $2.49. Oh, and if they’re not gross enough, they come with a side of ranch dressing. Ranch?? What the hell for? Who decided on that pairing? Do you pour ranch dressing on your mac ‘n cheese? Of course not! Who made the rule that every goddamn thing in fast food has to have a dipping sauce? There’s melted cheese inside! Isn’t that enough goo for you? (And no, that is not a typo for “good.” I meant “goo.”)

Speaking of nausea (how’s that for a segue), I had to laugh at the Trump insults on Twitter today. I don’t care to repeat most of them, but when I saw that one guy had called Trump “Cheeto-face,” I laughed out loud.

Hey! Maybe Mac ‘n Cheetos should be Trump’s new favorite snack. When he gets that orange crap all over his face, it won’t show.

And on that note… have a great weekend, y’all. 😉


OT: S#*t John says

Saturday was… interesting. I went with John to his 40th high-school reunion. Mind you, he went to a small-town private all-boys Catholic school, so his class was small. And it wasn’t a big fancy do, just a potluck at someone’s house.

(Warning: This is going to be a long story leading up to John’s words of hilarity. The buildup is all part of it and it wouldn’t be as funny without it.)

So, for those who know me — tell me, how much was I looking forward to going to this thing? A bunch of people I don’t know, inane small talk, having to put on an interested face when I couldn’t care less… yup, you guessed it. I’d rather go to the dentist. But this is one of those things you do when you’re part of a couple. The event was scheduled from 4:00 to 9:00; John promised we’d hang out a couple of hours tops, then he’d take me to dinner. OK, I can last through two hours. I figured we wouldn’t eat any of the potluck stuff, since we were going to dinner afterward.

It was OK at first. A flurry of greetings and introductions; looking at old yearbook photos; hearing some funny stories. I found out the host had four dogs, but unfortunately, they were all being kept in the bedroom upstairs. The table piled up with food, and I saw John starting to chow down on some hot hors d’oeuvres and homemade pizza. So much for not eating because we were going to dinner. And as he settled into various conversations, I felt my willingness to put on a face slipping away. The two-hour mark passed, and there I was, sitting outside (they had set up tables and chairs in the back yard), cold (I was wearing a sundress and it was overcast), hungry (I nibbled a few baby carrots, nothing more), bored out of my mind. I saw a few plus-ones sitting around, looking equally bored, but I didn’t have it in me to reach out to them. I went on my phone and entertained myself with that for a while… until the battery died. Finally, I went inside, went into their den and settled myself on a couch in the far corner, hoping I wouldn’t be seen.

Let’s see… no phone, so now what? I checked out the host’s bookcases. There was nothing in them but religious tomes and books about dogs. Speaking of which, I even entertained the idea of sneaking upstairs and hanging out with the dogs, but I didn’t think that would go over well if I was caught. So, realizing I wasn’t going to find any sort of distraction, I wrapped myself up in an afghan, curled up into the corner of the couch facing away from the room, and shut my eyes.

John found me there at 7:15. He promised we’d be out of there by eight. I groaned, but figured OK, I’ve made it this far. But let me tell you, kids — forget watching paint dry. There is nothing more boring than being a guest at someone else’s high school reunion. And did I mention I don’t do well with strangers? Or that it’s even worse when I’m hungry? By now, I was starving. I looked at the potluck table. The usual stuff — pizza. KFC. Chips and dip. Lasagna (now cold). Croissant sandwiches. Soggy salad. NO. Don’t start picking at that crap, Erica. You’ll be sorry. Wait for dinner.

(At least I got to see the dogs. They finally let them out.)

When we at long last left, I was lightheaded with hunger, but relieved to be out of there. John asked where I’d like to eat — of course, he wasn’t hungry, because he’d been chowing down for the past four hours! I said let’s just keep it simple; there’s a little Italian place in his town square, and he could maybe get a bowl of soup and I’d get dinner. So we drove to the town square; because everything is in a radius of few blocks, we parked in front of the Starbucks, which we’d be going to after dinner, and walked two blocks to our restaurant.

It looked the same as we approached, so we walked in. But once inside, I realized it was completely different. And then we were seated and handed menus… it wasn’t our Italian restaurant anymore. Apparently, that had gone out of business, and we were now sitting in a brand new Asian Fusion restaurant.

Translated? Pretentious foodie crap. Weird combinations and sauces and unidentifiable ingredients. I looked at the menu and my heart sank. Nothing simple, and certainly nothing inexpensive. Example? How about chicken salad sliders with truffles, currants and kewpie mayo? WTF is kewpie mayo?? Whenever I saw something I might have liked, it was immersed in something asinine. Yellowtail with jalapeno reduction. Who the hell puts jalapeno peppers on fish?? What the hell are “crispy kalettes”? Ooooh — “duet of beets”! What do they do for an encore — repeat on you? I can’t stand beets. I don’t even want a freaking solo of beets, let alone a duet.

It was too late to get up and leave, and my head was spinning at this point; I needed to eat something, anything. It was nearly 9:00. So I ordered a dinner salad and a bowl of soup with soba noodles, mushrooms and other vegetables. Can’t really go wrong with that, right? John ordered an appetizer Caesar salad. Naturally, it had kale in it, because kale is trendy.

My salad was fine; you can’t really screw up a dinner salad. Then I got my soup. The fact that the broth had a reddish tinge to it was my first hint that my taste buds were about to be assaulted. I then tasted it… it was So. Effing. Hot. And I don’t mean heat-wise. I mean spicy, burn all the way down to your gut spicy. And I hate spicy food. I don’t even like black pepper.

By now, I could have put my head on the table and cry. All I wanted to do was eat! John asked if I wanted to order something else, and I said no. I just wanted to make the best of this and get out — I ate my salad, and I managed to spoon the noodles and vegetables out of the broth and choke them down, drinking copious quantities of water every few bites. Mind you, John likes spicy food, so when I was done and the bowl of broth was left, he took it and tasted it himself, intending to finish it. But after one spoonful, he made a face.

“Forget too spicy,” he said. “This just isn’t good.”

“So it isn’t just me?” I asked.

“No, this is awful,” he replied. “It tastes like fermented rat pee.”

Aaaaand then the whole damn day and the tedium of the reunion and dead batteries and boring people and hunger and lousy food crashed down on me and I started laughing so hard, I thought I’d pass out. Tears were leaking out of my eyes and I had to clamp my hands over my mouth. “Please,” I wheezed. “Let’s just pay and get out of here.” Of course, the hostess tried to sell us on dessert (what the hell is Japanese cheesecake? Does it have seaweed in it? Miso crust? Wouldn’t be surprised!), but we politely refrained. While John was signing the credit card receipt, a man sitting behind him was looking at the menu, trying to decide on what to order. John grabbed his customer copy and scrawled, “Good luck trying to find something edible, dude!” Then he folded it up and kept motioning like he was going to toss it onto the man’s table. “NO!” I hissed, grabbing for it, and finally I snatched it from his hand and we hightailed it out of there, never to return.

So now, “fermented rat pee” is a permanent part of our private lexicon. (Guess it’s not so private now that I’m sharing it with the world!) Only for this wonderfully twisted man would I put up with such an abysmal afternoon/evening!! 😀

But here’s what I want to know: How does John know what fermented rat pee tastes like??

OT: More sandwiches that should not exist

Can you stand yet another one of my disgusting food rants? (Just to clarify, the food is disgusting, not my rants.) I just had one a couple of months ago, about bacon-wrapped pizza. Now, we have two new sandwiches that endeavor to pile as many substances onto one poor bun as is physically possible. Whether or not you should eat them is another story.

First up in the barf bag queue, we have Carl’s Jr/Hardee’s “Most American Thickburger.”


What makes it so American, you ask? Well, number one, it’s excessive. And for another, since it couldn’t decide between hamburgers and hot dogs, it put both in the same bun. Along with a serving of potato chips. Oh, and cheese too, of course.

Mind you, I have nothing against hamburgers, or hot dogs (especially if they’re the good all-meat Kosher kind, not the El Cheapo variety that are 2% pig testicles and eyeballs, and 98% cereal filler). I don’t have an issue with potato chips, either. But for God’s sake, have we gotten so @#$%ing lazy that we can’t even eat our different sandwiches separately? Is it too much effort to put down the sandwich and reach for your chip bag?

Speaking of effort, isn’t it difficult lifting such a hefty sandwich? I have a better idea. Do like KFC does and pile the whole freaking mess into a bowl. Throw in the cut-up burgers and franks, and a jumbo bag of potato chips, smush it all around. Dump ketchup and cheese sauce over the whole fucking thing and then top it off with a slice of apple pie. Yes, I said apple pie. Call it the “Fourth of July Picnic in a Bowl.” When I mentioned this to John, he made a face and said, “You can’t put apple pie on a burger!” Why the hell not? If the sweet/savory fanatics can put bacon on ice cream, or beef jerky in a chocolate bar, or ruin perfectly ripe, luscious sweet fruit with chili powder, I can damn well put pie in a sandwich. Serve it all up with a mini-plastic shovel, and there you go. You even have a bowl handy afterward for… well, you know. Blorrrgghhhhhh, as they used to say in MAD Magazine.

Anyway, should you decide you want to attempt consuming this monstrosity, it will set you back 1030 calories, 64 grams of fat, and 2350 mg of sodium.

If you haven’t already turned green reading this, wait, there’s more! Next up is Applebee’s “Triple Hog Dare Ya.”


Look out, arteries, here comes the Cholesterol Express! Not one, not two, but three kinds of pork. Barbecued pulled pork, plus ham, plus bacon. My ankles swelled just reading about it. Of course, that’s still not unhealthy enough, so they throw in fried onions and cheese sauce as well.

For Christ’s sake — eat a pulled pork sandwich if you like. Enjoy a BLT. Order a ham and cheese. But all three in the same sandwich?? And once again, are we too lazy to eat our side dish separately? Blech.

What IS it with this trend of piling everything but the garbage disposal between two pieces of bread? Please, make it stop. More is not necessarily better. How do you even taste all the separate flavors when they’re conglomerated like this?

Oh, and this heap of Hog Hell has 1140 calories, 62 grams of fat, and a whopping 2640 mg of sodium. Just to give you a perspective on sodium: John, being a heart patient, is supposed to follow a low-sodium diet, because salt makes one retain fluid and that’s hard on the heart. You know what his recommended daily allowance of sodium is? 150 mg. That’s one hundred and fifty, not one thousand and fifty. I believe that’s about two-and-a-half salted peanuts. Or a few crumbs of this sandwich.

Please, people. Stop. Eating. This. Crap. John and I spent a lot of time in the Cardiac ICU recently. Believe me, this is not a place where you want to be.

Rant over. I do believe I’ve earned some crunchy organic peanut butter.

OT Rant: The latest and greatest in disgusting food

Been a while since I did one of these. Last April, to be exact, when I ranted about Denny’s bacon sundae. Well, they’re at it again.

Having come to the end of their “Baconalia” cholesterol fest, they decided to move on to “Let’s Get Cheesy.” Imagine the possibilities. Now take those possibilities, stuff them with cheese, dump cheese on them, and then cover them with cheese sauce. There’s so damn much cheese, you don’t know whether to eat it or take a bath in it.

All the items on this featured menu are disgustingly decadent, but I’m focusing on the most outrageous: The Mac ‘n Cheese Big Daddy Patty Melt. (OK, I don’t know about you, but I’d feel like a horse’s ass just ordering it. What a stupid name.)

Here it is, in all its gluttonous glory. Buttered and grilled potato bread (God forbid it should be wheat bread). A burger patty, melted cheese, and Frisco sauce (whatever the @#$% that is; probably mayonnaise-based). And then? Yup. A layer of macaroni and cheese.

This sandwich has 1690 calories (I don’t eat that many calories in a whole day!!) and 99 grams of fat. If you were to eat a stick of butter, that would be a healthier choice.

But wait, there’s more! It comes with a side of French fries, accompanied by dipping sauce. Ketchup? Nah. Cheese sauce. In case you’re still cheese deficient.

When does this stop, people? According to the latest statistics, 33.8% of adults in America are obese. No, not overweight, obese. As in morbid. Obesity-related diseases and conditions are on the rise. Children and adolescents are getting fatter. Food portions are getting bigger, fattier, cheesier, breadier, sweeter. The media tell us to diet. The restaurants and food ads gleefully encourage massive gorging.

Let’s just make it simple, shall we? Take a wheel of cheese, batter it and deep-fry it, smother it in chocolate sauce and whipped cream, and eat that six times a day. At least that will cure one of the world’s problems: overpopulation.

Granted, I don’t like bacon and I’m not all that crazy about cheese either. But even if I did like these food items, I’d eat them in moderation. A slice or two of pizza with a normal amount of cheese is fine. Do you really need triple-thick-crust pizza with five kinds of cheese piled on it, with more cheese baked into the crust???

Oh, and if you’re hankering for some dessert after that macaroni mashup, another “Let’s Get Cheesy” item is a Strawberry Cheesecake Milkshake. Ice cream blended with cream cheese and cheesecake chunks.

Could be worse, I guess. They could have crafted a Hot Cheese Sundae.

OK, I just made myself sick with that one. Later, y’all.

OT: Yet another rant about disgusting food

So, what do I like to bitch about, people? (And don’t say everything.) Yes! Gross food! In the past I’ve ranted about the KFC Double Down sandwich (bacon, cheese and sauce between two fried chicken breasts), IHOP’s Pancake Stackers (two pancakes layered with cheesecake filling and topped with fruit and whipped cream), and Friendly’s Grilled Cheese Burgermelt (a grilled cheese sandwich, topped with a burger and all the fixings, and then another grilled cheese sandwich on top of that). I’ve also critiqued marshmallow peeps, and made sure everyone knows that I think cottage cheese is one of the most revolting substances on Earth.

What’s on today’s Barf-O-Rama menu? Denny’s new Maple Bacon Sundae.

Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is. Vanilla ice cream, layered with maple syrup and crumbled, cooked bacon. It’s one of Denny’s limited-time-only (thank God!!) “Baconalia” selections. Other items include Bacon Meatloaf and a BBBLT (a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich with triple bacon).

OK, I hear you out there — Oh, come on, Erica. You just don’t like bacon. That’s not it. Granted, it’s one of the things I don’t eat anymore, but I used to. And I can see the appeal of it with eggs at breakfast, or in a sandwich, or crumbled into salads and baked potatoes. But in dessert????? NO!

What the hell is up with this country’s love affair with bacon, anyway? It’s turning up everywhere! I have actually heard of chocolate-covered bacon, the thought of which makes me want to hurl. And my beloved Danny has actually ordered a Bacon Martini at a dive bar near Vegas. Today on FetLife, someone posted a link to a Bacon Chocolate-Chip cookie recipe. Stop the madness!!

OK, I get it, people love bacon. But just because a food is good, does that mean it belongs everywhere and combined with everything? I adore chocolate, as many people do. But come on. There are limits. Would you put hot fudge sauce on your prime rib? Sprinkle your mac-‘n-cheese casserole with chocolate chips instead of bread crumbs? (OK, maybe some people would, but I’d rather not know them. They’re the same people who would hear Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and say it needs more cowbell.)

Apparently, journalist Robin Wheeler agrees with me; see her amusing commentary on the bacon sundae here.

And while I’m in rant mode, what’s up with this trendy BS of combining sweet with spicy/savory flavors? I do not want freaking seasalt on my caramel, thank you very much. And I sure as @#$% don’t want cayenne pepper in my chocolate bars. Stop with this designer food nonsense. Putting pepper in chocolate is like mating a dog with a cat. Oh, and stop putting flowers in my chocolate too, while you’re at it. I like to smell the roses, not ingest them.

OK, I’m getting off-track here. Just say NO to bacon on ice cream, I beg of you. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a salad.

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