Big R: Should we take him out now and
collect the reward money?
Little R: No.that wouldn't be fair, wait till
he finishes his run.
SCAPE
EDOR
The Mess takes an unplanned hiatus
from his temporary abode at the L.A.
County incarceration facility.
COME
AND
Skarfing
Material
with Chef-Boy-Am-I-Hungry
H
ello? Are you out there? Is anybody
listening to me? Does anybody
realize that the dastardly dude out-
side this little box of tubes and solid state
micro-wizardry left his mind and sent
everything in my whole little dimension reel-
ing, feeling nothing at all like myself or
anything else for that matter. In fact, matter
is the antithesis of my current situation con-
sidering I only have a black two dimensional
identity and you couldn't hold me, scold me,
scald me or roll me over. Let's face it, my
identity is bordering on non-existent and my
constitution grows weaker with every Xerox.
I'm a creased pancake of ink and process-
ed pulp and it's my destiny to get flipped, rip-
ped and at times completely overlooked.
Hey! Are you listening? Can you hear me?
I could ask you to lend me your ears, but
where would I put them and what would I do
with them anyway? I don't have an aural
canal. In fact I don't have an orifice, an aura
GET
IT
or even any orange cheese snacks and
pickled gibberish. I am merely one identity
among many. I am the remnants of a literary
triple bypass that feels sometimes more like
an overpass or even a fat lass passing gas.
If, by this time, your smarmy sense of self-
righteous putrid purity has finally regurgi-
tated the placebo of neo-intellegence that's
been shoved down your throat for the past
fifteen years of your life, you might begin to
get a grip on the genuine wood grain veneer
of my filo dough philosophy. Understand that
hunger is a way of life for some and a way
of death for others. The tines of a fork are
a haunting skeleton when there is nothing
on them, and the naked truth is still a lie until
you feel the bite of the fork tine. You can face
the facts and taste the nectar of success or
you can tie cans to the stump of your neu-
tered sensitivity and hope the wind will blow
and the cans will make noise. The problem
is, the only sounds that ever do happen fade
so quickly you're not even sure you heard
them and you don't really care anyway
because the face you're staring at is a flat
piece of lifeless flypaper and you sneer so
hard and spin so fast that you don't even
notice you've been looking in the mirror...
YOUR OWN PRETZELS
1 package dry yeast
½ teaspoon sugar
1½ cups warm beer
4% cups all purpose flour
• 1 egg, beaten
• Kosher salt
Dissolve the yeast and sugar in a large
mixing bowl. Add the flour and mix well. Slam
the dough out onto a floured surface and
knead it for 8 to 10 minutes (until it's smooth
and elastic). Place the dough in a greased
bowl (greased with a little butter or Crisco;
Tri-Flow is not acceptable), cover it with a
damp cloth and let it sit for about one hour
or until it has doubled in volume. Now, using
kitchen shears (or clean scissors if you have
to) cut the dough into 24 pieces and use your
hands to roll each piece into a rope about
14 inches long. McTwist those strands into
good ol' pretzel shapes (or any other artistic
forms you desire) and place on greased, foil-
lined baking sheets, about 1½ inches apart.
Brush each pretzel with egg and sprinkle
with the Kosher salt, then bake 'em at 475°
for 12 to 15 minutes or until they're light
brown. (Recipe submitted by Robin Kelly,
Birmingham, AL)
BOSS INDY CROSSES
• sliced bologna
frying pan
Take as many bologna slices as you're
prepared to stuff down your gullet. Make four
one inch cuts, equal distances apart, on each
slice (like slicing a pie, but don't cut all the
way to the middle). Now fry those pups in
the pan and voila, they shrink into bitchin'
Indy crosses. Eat them on bread, crackers,
cheese, or whatever. (Recipe submitted by
Todd Bell, Rindge, NH)
VEG-O-RAMEN
+1 package of your favorite ramen noodles
1 fistful of mixed frozen veggies
Crush the ramen and rush it into a nuke-
able bowl. Now add the vegetables and
enough wa-wa to cover the whole deal. Add
it all up, cover it, nuke for one twelfth of an
the nickle bag of flava-flave soup powder, stir
hour, then slurp till you burp. (Recipe sub-
mitted by Michael Cornellus, Phoenix, AZ)
FLOWER OF HELL
⚫1 quart shredded cabbage
½ a green pepper, hacked to bits
1 maliciously grated carrot
1 cup buttermilk (lumpy old milk works if
your budget is restricted)
1 tsp. vinegar
½ tsp. dry mustard
2 tsp. salt
• 4 tsp. sugar
Mix the vinegar, salt, mustard, sugar and
roughly in a big bowl. Dump the sauce on
buttermilk in a small bowl. Mix the roughage
the slice, whirl it, and you've hefty slaw on
which to gnaw. (Recipe submitted by Greg
Triebes, Midland, MI)
FESTIVAL of MUCK
Yo grubheads! Chef Boy-Am-I-Hungry
here, inviting you to enter the 1989 Gastro-
International Righteous Recipe Rally.
Whether you're a barbecue guru or a
microwave slave, if you think you have a
recipe that's worthy of publication in these
hallowed pages, send it in. Our highly trained
staff of culinary critics will taste-test your treat
and select a grand prize winner. Said lucky
soul will receive a bounty of free THRASHER
paraphernalia. Peanut butter, hot dogs and
chocolate chips aren't the only nutrition
sources available to man-be creative. Fic-
tional accompaniments are welcome, and all
entries must be received by August 30th,
1989. Send 'em soon to: Festival of Muck,
c/o THRASHER, PO. Box 884570, San
Francisco, CA 94188-4570.
33