Uncle Geo’s homemade chili and jumbo dog dinner

Uncle Geo’s homemade chili and jumbo dog dinner.


This is the recipe for the dinner I made mom and I tonight.
First, go to Walmart and buy a can of chili. As a bonus you can then write a funny anecdotal story about the Walmart trip when you get home.
While you are there at Walmart buy a package of the Jumbo hot dogs that you know your mother likes.
Optionally you might want to buy a package of the jumbo hot dog rolls to go with the giant package of jumbo hot dogs.
Okay, try very hard to be good at Walmart so that when you write the anecdotal humorous story it doesn’t have any felonious descriptions in it or even worse have to be delayed due to an arrest warrant misunderstanding of some sort.
When you are ready clear a space on the counter top next to the stove. Get a few squares of paper toweling and place them there because if you are like me there is going to be one hell-of-a mess by the time you are done. And if you are a neat person, well, good for you.
So get the jumbo hot dogs out of the freezer and place them on the paper toweling. This would be after you have split the hot dogs into packages of two and thus made it easy to retrieve and use them. Um, I didn’t do that this time but I do it almost every other time… Sometimes. So get out the dullest butter knife you can find and carefully try to pry two of the hot dogs from the frozen blob. NO! Do not even think of using a butchers knife or a steak knife because, as I can attest you may lacerate a finger… Or two, or hell, even three before you pry lose two of those frozen suckers.
Okay, now open the cupboard door and retrieve one of the cans of chili (I purchased two because very often one will end up on the floor somehow… Damn, I wish we had a dog.).
Okay here I would like to extol the virtues of the ring-pull topped cans Walmart is now selling for some items like this chili I purchased. Grasp the ring firmly; no, not with the nearly amputated pinkie finger from the computer incident, use the ring finger which; let’s face it, is never going to have a ring on it again so if it is injured who cares. Okay now toss the lid in the garbage. Yes, I will be yelled at later about how it should have been rinsed and recycled and blah, blah, blah, yackity yack.
Set the can down and compose yourself because this is usually where the contents of any can I have opened ends up on the floor somehow. Get a spoon and spoon the contents into a saucepan. Yes, spoon them, because trying to shake them out into the pan has never gone well. Clean out the can, lick the spoon: Taste that? That is home made chili right there. Put the can in the sink and run some water in it and then peel the label off and throw it away outside in the garbage can so know one can ever find it.
Next take the two pried apart and pretty chewed up hot dogs and toss them into the pan also. Slap a lid over that. Turn the heat to very low, clean up the mess and go load a guitar video to Facebook… Unless you don’t have any guitar videos then you’ll have to load something else.
Come back a few minutes later; stir the frozen jumbo dogs and the chili and then take about a 1/4 pound of bacon ends and pieces and put them in a bowl, cover the top of that bowl with a saucer plate. Microwave that for five minutes. When done you will have crispy bacon pieces, give or take adding another minute or so to achieve that.
Stir that chili again, notice the hot dogs have thawed and are swelling. Wait another three or four minutes and then shut the heat off, remove the bacon from the bowl and towel it and then cut it into small pieces.
go into the living room and announce to all present that you have made home made chili and it is ready to be served. Add a tortilla to the plate as I did for myself, or a jumbo hot dog roll or just plain dog and chili as mom had it with bacon chunks spread on it. Top all of that with grated cheese and serve it hot.
Oh, deny you bought any of it at Walmart. Talk about how the tomatoes nearly failed this summer, but pulled through. Talk about how it was your first year growing Jalapenos. Everyone will be impressed including the dog if you have one. Cats, probably not so much, mine wasn’t.



Hey! Check out my Earth’s Survivors series. This series is only around for a short time longer and then it is gone forever. Get this book free while it is available, Geo…

Kate is trying to stay alive after most of the Earth’s population has been wiped out… She may not make it #eBook Click Here: https://goo.gl/y2fzZr



 More in this vein from Geo Dell…

Hash, beans, messy counters, Houdini the cat and ice cream

A basic trip to Walmart and free eBooks



 

My life as a social outcast was short lived

Posted by Geo on 07-26-2017

I decided to entitle this What the hell is wrong with me, but maybe it’s a little too dramatic. Even so, there is something wrong with me. I just don’t seem to see things the same way as other people do. For instance, just before I sat down to write this I turned the channel to a movie channel to listen to movies while I work. Pathetic, I know, but I do it every night. The T.V. Is behind me so I have to turn to see it. So, I don’t. I just listen. But sometimes it’s so good that I do turn to watch for a second and I’m usually disappointed. Well, tonight I turned the channel and there was a sports show just ending, and one of the commentators turned to the screen and Said “We want to thank you for tuning in.”

“Really,” I asked?

He didn’t say anything. I guess we would all be surprised if he did. But, I continued… “I didn’t tune in. I hate your show! I wouldn’t watch it if you paid me.” He did seem to flinch a little at that, but the T.V. Went to commercial with no further incident… Not that there could have been one. I’m just saying…

Anyway, my point is that I do not like sports the way other men do. Several times in my life other men have stopped and looked at me like…. “Whoaaa, what’s up with this dude.” or “Did you play with dolls when you were a kid?” I learned early in my life that it is unmanly to say you do not like sports, or hint it, or not know the answer to a sports question. It’s just not allowed. Since I was young I had to go along with it, even so I couldn’t always keep up the facade. Occasionally someone would trip me up…

“So, what did you think of Babe Ruth?”

“Oh… Babe Ruth… It’s a damn good candy bar,” I answered.

He looked at me funny and I knew I screwed something up, but, eventually he laughed, I went home and asked my little Brother who Babe Ruth was, a hockey player? (My brother is a Hockey fanatic) “Sure… Sure… A hockey player,” my little brother tells me. That was payback for all the mean things I had done to him.

As I got older I’d pick a little and ask guys why they didn’t just give both teams a ball and send them home, I mean, wasn’t the point to get the ball? And didn’t they seem to take an awful long time to get it? And wouldn’t it be easier to just give them a frigging ball of their own? Wouldn’t it. That didn’t win me any points, and then, in ninth grade, I decided to not major in smoking behind the school that year and I took Home Economics instead.

My life as a social outcast was short lived though. I got kicked out of Home economics and went back to majoring in smoking behind the school. Then, voila, it hit me. Maybe not liking sports was… was… I couldn’t make the connection though. I had probably burned out too many brain cells smoking joints behind the school instead of cigarettes. Too bad, if I could have only made the connection I may have been able to see that real men need sports in their lives as much as they need to fart and burp… (Some men, not all men.). And sports lends a well rounded social adaptation you just can’t get any other way. I remember so many times at work some guy would say… “So, what do you think about those Dodgers?” And I would say, “Oh… Well they ought to go to jail…(Then, because it’s manly to swear and cuss), Frigging A! They ought to, those bastards!” Another potential social connection missed. Another opportunity to be a success in society missed.

At an early age I did decide to make a concession. I decided that I would watch Stock Car Racing. That was a sport. That would be my sport! It would solve everything. But no. Footballers, Baseballers, All those other ballers (It’s all games where you play with balls, right? … I’m just saying…) they don’t all believe that stock car racing is a real sport… What? So I had managed to like the one sport that wasn’t really a sport. What was wrong with me? I just didn’t know.

As I grew up and went to prison I realized that I had to be honest with myself about my shortcomings when it came to sports if I ever hoped to break the cycle and stop going back to prison. My whole life was in ruin. Virtual ruin. So I sat down and examined it and realized that I was uncomfortable with the games. I paid attention, I took notes, and I realized that I had some prejudices and hangups concerning the way the game was played. And, I plain didn’t understand the rules. So I took a closer look at them. And wrote down the ones that really confused me:

#1. Did you pat the other guy on the ass after he made a basket/home run/touchdown or before?

#2. Did you grab your junk whenever you wanted to or only when people were watching?

#3. Did you cry only in a strong emotional circumstance like your coach retiring, or could you cry if you just had a bad day, or the dog crapped on your new carpet?

#4. If you patted a guy on the ass more than once did it mean you had to buy him dinner?

I learned these are not questions you ask other men in prison.

After I got out of the infirmary, I tried to figure these questions out on my own after watching my sport for a while, but I only became more confused.

In NASCAR, nobody pats anyone on the Ass. At least not in public (Tony Stewart excepted, but he’s nuts anyway). I’ve seen dozens of finishes and never once have I seen the other drivers run up and pat the winner on the Ass. Not Once. There are no balls to play with. None. The drivers never grab their junk in front of the cameras, and if anyone cries, why one of the other drivers will just beat him up! Even the women drivers don’t cry, and, I’m pretty sure they don’t play with dolls either.

After much thought I decided these things:

#1. I’m not patting any guy on the ass whether it’s a game or not, and if one pats me on the ass there’s going to be trouble.

#2. I will only grab my junk when no one’s watching.

#3. If I feel an urge to cry I will remind myself that it could be worse. I could be a footballer and some sweaty, three hundred pound guy could be patting me on the ass all the time…


Okay. That’s it for this week. Check out my book series. I’ll be back later in the week…

 

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