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Old 03-12-2018, 10:31 PM   #51 (permalink)
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The title of this thread is "Make Your Own Conspiracy Theory" unless you're Ray Bradbury you're really not making your own conspiracy!

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Old 03-12-2018, 11:54 PM   #52 (permalink)
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Ina Garten is actually an eight thousand year old demon-witch who uses (off-camera) the blood and spirit essence of her TV show "guests" to supplement her other, secret herb garden (so that she can continue harvesting the ingredients for her magical elixir which maintains her human facade). The food she serves to guests contains various sedatives and hallucinogens so that after her various glamours/trickery magics fade, they don't really notice the fact that they're actually in a dilapidated barn filled to the brim with eyeless black salamanders & foul witchery. They simply lapse into a food coma (lulled by her soothing voice rattling on about tomatoes or whatever) and never wake up.



She mustn't be trusted.
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Old 03-13-2018, 09:54 AM   #53 (permalink)
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Mars is completely inhabitable, and is in fact inhabited by a vastly superior alien race, who have used their advanced technology to shield themselves from discovery. A black ops NASA mission in the late eighties went there, and negotiations were entered into. The mission to Mars in 2020 will be the culmination of these talks, wherein high-ranking government officials will hand over control of Earth to these aliens, in return for the secret of faster-than-light travel, which will allow them to leave this solar system behind and enter into a new phase of human existence.

Pick up a book, people!





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Old 03-13-2018, 10:13 AM   #54 (permalink)
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The title of this thread is "Make Your Own Conspiracy Theory" unless you're Ray Bradbury you're really not making your own conspiracy!

Ray Bradbury is a big cheat and robbed the idea from me when my back was turned, as I went to get some Jammie Dodgers to put on the plate to go with his cup of tea. I haven't spoken to him since.
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Old 03-13-2018, 03:10 PM   #55 (permalink)
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Ina Garten is actually an eight thousand year old demon-witch who uses (off-camera) the blood and spirit essence of her TV show "guests" to supplement her other, secret herb garden (so that she can continue harvesting the ingredients for her magical elixir which maintains her human facade). The food she serves to guests contains various sedatives and hallucinogens so that after her various glamours/trickery magics fade, they don't really notice the fact that they're actually in a dilapidated barn filled to the brim with eyeless black salamanders & foul witchery. They simply lapse into a food coma (lulled by her soothing voice rattling on about tomatoes or whatever) and never wake up.



She mustn't be trusted.

I believe this. That lady creeps me the **** out.
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Old 03-13-2018, 04:37 PM   #56 (permalink)
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I believe this. That lady creeps me the **** out.
I still want her to adopt me, though.

In terms of famous chefs, I've always considered Chris Kimball to be the creepiest, especially after reading this hilarious and vaguely unsettling series that was inspired by his rambling folksy letters in his magazine on my old favorite blog:

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Todayís a happy day, readers. Today Iím marrying the assistant girl, which marks the beginning of spring. Every fall I shed my old assistant-wife, and every spring I marry the new one. Itís an old Vermont custom Ė as old as sinking your mother into a vat of fresh-churned butter and storing her in the jam-cellar for freshness Ė and it makes for a good harvest. Iíve spent many a lonely winter camped on top of Briar Mountain aiming perfectly hard-boiled eggs (p. 16; the secret is to use a steamer basket) at anyone who dares to mention the phrase ďproperty taxesĒ to me, and itís time to turn my fancy to thoughts of love once more. The only tax Iíll ever pay is the wagonload of Ė never you mind whatís in that wagon, stranger Ė I deliver to Old Henry every year on the night of the Turnabout Moon. And you can count on that just as surely as you can count on my recipe for salt-cured country ham (p. 20, the secret is tightly controlled fury and low heat).

What can you do with an old assistant-wife after sheís finished? Well, friends, here in Vermont you can trade her to the first stranger you meet at a crossroads for a sack of molasses sugar and a witch-glass. Or you can wall her alive in the orchard; the next yearís crop of apples will be small and bitter, but every year thereafter, theyíll be crisp and fresh and red and white as you could possibly please. She also makes an excellent substitute for buttermilk, if you havenít any to hand.

Do you know why they call them long johns? I do. I do. But I wonít tell, not for any price. I canít tell. Only two men under the moon know the promise I made thirteen steps from the graveyard all those years ago to learn it, and neither of us are telling.

If a man eats a cow tongue, he has two tongues in his mouth. Thatís Vermont, all right. Pickle a cow tongue and your basementís whiskey still wonít ever run dry.

A man whoís willing to fight a three-legged pointer dog on a hot duck-hunting afternoon is a man Iíd be proud to invite to my campfire for a fistful of Johnnycakes.

Hasnít been a recipe yet that will get blood out of the mill-stone hanging over my front door. It casts a shadow over my eyes every time I walk outside. Thatíll be the stone that kills me, mark my words. I just hope I manage to finish collecting enough hen of the woods mushrooms to make my quick skillet beef stroganoff (p. 37) before it drops onto this wicked, wicked head.

If you can swallow an oyster, you can swallow a manís heart.

A well-cooked pork chop is every bit as important as a childhood. Who decided that nonfat Greek yogurt was mandatory in $250 restaurants? Why canít a man hunt New Hampshiremen that swarm across the Old Wall in his own backyard? My own mother used to leave me for dead at the base of a powerful waterfall every morning with only a curse and her spit in my eye to guide me back home, and Iím seven feet tall as a result of it.
(..this is pretty much exactly how the horror stories I write tend to go, actually. Except mine are bad, obviously)
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