When my kids told me about a commercial they’d seen on Nickelodeon, for something called Giant Cheetos, I had a vision of someone walking around with a baseball bat-sized cheese snack across their shoulder.  And every once in a while they’d turn their head to one side, and take a big crunchy bite.

Of course, I knew this was ridiculous.  Frito-Lay doesn’t make products the size of Louisville Sluggers (unfortunately).  And after I reigned in my imagination, I decided it must be like a candy bar:  a single “giant” Cheeto the length of a Snickers.  Which is still fairly amazing, when you think about it.

But I’m a busy man and thoughts of freakishly oversized cheese puffs quickly exited my head…

A few days later, however, Buck sent a photo to my cell phone, of (that’s correct) Giant Cheetos on the shelf of a 7-11 in downtown Charleston, WV.  What the heck, man?  This was starting to become a theme in my life.

I decided I’d better check ’em out, and went on the hunt at a nearby fancy-pants grocery store.  I assumed they were candy bar-like, and sold by the cash registers (confirmed by Buck’s pic), but the boys said they came in bags like potato chips.

So, I checked both locations, and found nothing.  An employee asked if I needed help, but I mumbled that I was OK.  ‘Cause I didn’t want to say, “Yes, where do you keep your enormous snacks?”

Sensing an obsession taking hold, I went to two (two!) convenience store, and was frustrated at both.  I mean, they carry all manner of questionable crap — why no two-hander Cheetos??

I told Toney about my adventures, and she said it had Wal-Mart written all over it.  Outrageous servings of bad shit?  Why look anywhere else?  Good point.

“Will you be going there anytime soon?” I asked, hopefully.  “I’m on it,” she replied.

And so, the very next day I came home to find two large, colorful bags on our kitchen counter.  One was called simply Giant Cheetos (or is it Cheetos Giant?), and the other was also Giant — but labeled “twisted puffs”.

Awesome!

I ripped open the regular bag first, and peered inside.  Check it out:

Frowning, I dropped my booger hooks inside, and grabbed one of the not-so-giant orange balls.  They weren’t what I expected…  I mean, Cheetos aren’t round, ya know?  Wotta rip-off.

The thing was almost exactly the same size as a marshmallow — the big roasting kind.  Here’s a shot of it, beside a coffee mug for scale.

Does it look giant to you?  I’m not so sure.  Yeah, it’s big — the perfect size to block a windpipe — but “giant” is pushing it a little.

Eyeing the ridiculous thing, I didn’t know if I should eat it all at once, or just take a bite.  I opted for the latter, and it was so coarse it felt like my gums were pulling away from my teeth.  “Holy shit!” I hollered, as my kids buckled over in laughter.

“Check the expiration date on that bag,” I said, while popping the remainder of the snack ball into my mouth.  It was incredibly dense, and hard to chew.  It tasted OK, approximately the same as a regular Cheeto, but it was really hard and wreaked havoc on my gums and the roof of my mouth.

The boys each had a big cheese-flavored ball, and also struggled to get ’em down.  Too hard to chew was the unanimous verdict.

I ripped open the bag of twisted puffs, and laughed out loud.  They were bigger (much closer to giant), and reminded me of something we keep on the shelf above our washer and dryer:

No way in hell a person should try to eat one of those big ol’ things all at once.  They’re hilariously large.  So I bit off the top third of the coil, and was surprised to find it much softer than its spherical cousin.

Hmm… not bad.  There’s no obvious advantage to it being comically oversized, but the twisted puffs are more manageable and easier to enjoy.  By a longshot.

I’ll give the regular handball o’ crunchy “cheese” a C+, and the Al Gore light bulb variation a solid B+.

I have a feeling we’ll never have either again, though, since the regular normal-people Cheetos are just fine.  And much easier to eat, too.  Nothing is gained by making them really big; it’s just a novelty that provides no actual snacking benefits.

I will, however, be glad to test and review other outsize snackables.  Like, say, M&Ms the size of an apple, a wearable Funyuns sash, or a Pixie Feedsack.

Do you have any other ideas for snack foods taken to the extreme?  If so, tell us about it in the comments.  Also, if you have an opinion on Giant Cheetos, we’ll need that as well.

Thanks for reading, I’ll see ya next time.

Before we get started here, I have a strong recommendation for you guys.  Amazon’s mp3 Deal of the Day is Sycamore Meadows by Butch Walker, which is a freaking masterpiece.  And until midnight Seattle time (I presume) you can buy the entire album for just $2.99.

Do it!  Do not hesitate.  And don’t worry, I’d never heard of him, either…  Rest assured, it’s nothing weird or experimental.  It’s just straight-ahead pop/rock, done exceedingly well.  The lyrics are great, there are plenty of laughs, and the songs will stick in your head until you feel like sawing the bitch off.

I’m serious, don’t let this one get past ya.  Sycamore Meadows, along with this album, are my favorite semi-new releases.  I recommend both, without hesitation, even at twice the everyday price.

After I posted today’s mockable, I went to Moe’s for a Nerf football sized burrito, and sat near a local celebrity.  People were doing double-takes in there, and bumping into each other, but nobody approached him.  They allowed the guy to ingest his 60 cents-worth of ingredients for $8.00, just like everybody else.

One thing worth noting:  the dude was startlingly effeminate.  I mean, seriously.  I don’t think he has any muscles in his wrists, whatsoever.

There’s a guy who works at that Moe’s, with tattoos all over his arms.  He built my lunch today…  On one of my previous visits an old lady eyed him suspiciously, and finally said, “Are you a musician, or an artist of some kind?”

For some reason I find that to be hilarious.

It reminded me of my grandmother (one of the best humans who’s ever lived), at our wedding party.  Toney and I were married by a judge in Atlanta, and had a kick-ass party at Swissotel in the evening.

My grandmother was starting to lose her marbles by that point, and was walking through the lobby with my Dad.  There was an Asian man dusting there, and she zeroed in on the guy.

Then, after a few beats, she said LOUDLY, “John, I don’t think he’s our nationality!”

She meant no harm, I never heard her say a negative word, she was just making a statement of fact.  Of course, it probably didn’t need to be shouted, like a person trying to communicate with someone trapped inside a collapsed coalmine.  But, still…

A bit of advice:  don’t listen to the George Noory radio show during a swine flu scare.  By the time I got home last night I was near tears, and breathing through my shirt.

At first I was rolling my eyes and making snide remarks.  More people have probably died from hot water tank explosions over the past two weeks…  But as the doom and gloom started piling up, the blood drained from my face.

Yeah, many of the conspiracy theories contradicted each other, and a few were completely ludicrous, but I started thinking, “what if?”  Sometimes the kookery starts to take its toll…

I was listening to Clive Bull talk about the same subject a couple of days ago, and his callers kept turning it into a joke.  Clive was trying to be serious, but the listeners weren’t playing along.

One guy said he’s not worried about swine flu, because he has “oinkment.”  Heh.  Same subject, different perspective.

Have you noticed the gmail spam filter being overzealous lately?  I think something got cranked-up a notch, because half my legitimate messages are going directly to the shitcan.

I think I might write a letter to someone about it.

My Dad told me that a man and woman showed up at their door a few days ago, and said they used to live in their house during the 1970s.  They wanted to know if it would be OK if they had a look around.

Apparently their story was true, because some of the neighbors knew ’em, but I wouldn’t have let them inside.  No way, in hell.  I’m too suspicious, and imagine worst-case scenarios as the default setting.

But I guess they had a good time with these people, and heard a lot of semi-interesting stories about them raising kids in the house, etc.

What do you think?  Would you be so trusting?  Also, have you ever had an opportunity to return to a house or apartment where you lived many years before?  I haven’t, but I bet it would be surreal.  Like bumping into an old girlfriend who is completely familiar, but basically a stranger.

If you have anything on this subject, let’s hear it.

Also, have you ever worked somewhere that ruined a product for you?  Toney used to work at the Dessert Place in Atlanta (are they still around?), back during a previous lifetime, and said she couldn’t stand the smell or taste of cheesecake for a full decade.

What about you?  Have you had jobs that ruined an old favorite?  I’ve got nothing, I’m afraid.

Finally, what’s your favorite food served on a stick?  I like Fudgesicles an awful lot, but will have to cast my vote for corndogs.  Man, I can’t get enough of breaded wieners on a spike!

And that pretty much zeroes out the ol’ notebook, boys and girls.  I’m calling it a week.

Have a great weekend!  I’ll see you on Monday.

Now playing in the bunker.

I’ve been proud of the fact that Metten and I haven’t missed a single day of posting at mockable.  It’s been, what, a month?  Five days a week, for a month?  Pretty amazing.

However… I’m ruining the streak.  This is game 57, I’m afraid.  I have an update almost ready to go, but not completely.  So, I’m the first to miss a day; I’m solely responsible for blowing our perfect record.

For better or worse, I’m comfortable in the role.

Speaking of Metten, he’s been secretly writing a novel.  In fact, he’s not just writing it, he’s written it — the first draft, anyway.  Which, you know, irritates me a great deal…

Anyway, he asked if I’d read it, and I told him it would be an honor.  So, he printed out the manuscript, and mailed it to my luxurious fur-lined PO Box in Olyphant, PA.  And I picked it up on Friday.

On the outside of the envelope, in red rubber-stamped block letters, it said:  REWRAPPED BY THE PHILADELPHIA B.M.C.  I don’t know what B.M.C. stands for…  Big Men in Cocktail Dresses?  I’m unclear on it.  But I sure didn’t get a warm fuzzy feeling from those block letters, of that I was certain.

And when I opened it at home, my fears were confirmed.  The thing looked like it had gotten caught up in a thrashing machine, or some other piece of equipment used in industrial farming.

The postal workers (Black Men in Career Pants?) sent me the original envelope, as a courtesy, and it was shredded, wadded, and apparently flattened by something heavy.  I didn’t even know it was possible for a large balled-up envelope to be mashed so flat.

Frowning, I looked at the manuscript itself, and saw that it started on page 147.  The hell?  Was Metten attempting some kind of weird experimental shit, here?  Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to read it, after all…  But when I saw that the second page was 23, I realized everything was mixed-up.

So I sorted it out, wrinkled page by wrinkled page.  What a mess.  Some were upside down, others were folded in half, and everything, almost literally, was out of order.  How is that even possible?  How could every single page be mixed-up?  Had it exploded from a machine, high in the air, like the contents of Costanza’s wallet?

Three pieces of paper even had footprints on them…  Adidas, I think, size 10.

About twelve random pages were missing completely, and Metten (between fucks and goddammits) scanned them and emailed ’em to me.  Today I think I have the complete book, and suspect it’s roughly twice as thick as it was when mailed.  You know, because of all the wrinkling and moisture-swelling.

Heh, it’ll be like reading something found in the walls of an old house.  It’s on the table behind me right now, and every once in a while I can hear it crackle.

What do you think?  Bloated Mexicans in Corduroy?  Is that who repackaged Metten’s book?  Please help me understand.

Also, on a completely unrelated note, what’s the most unusual or remarkable thing you’ve ever seen in a public restroom?  I thought of this one at work last night, and couldn’t believe we hadn’t covered it before.  It was one of those Eureka moments!

Toney tells a story of walking into a bathroom at a rest area somewhere, and finding a shotgun blast of diarrhea on the wall, with a pair of men’s(??) underwear stuck to it.  Can you top that one?

Use the comments section below.  And remember, it doesn’t necessarily have to be disgusting, just something unusual or remarkable.

And I have to go.  This is my Friday, and I need to get it in the rearview mirror.

See ya tomorrow, at both sites.

Now playing in the bunker.

What’s the difference between partly cloudy, and partly sunny?  Is it just a glass half empty/half full deal, or something more complicated?  I mean, if it’s partly cloudy it’s also partly sunny, right?  And vice versa.

I don’t care for it, not one tiny bit.  I think we’re being manipulated.  The bastards.

On Saturday Toney and I cleaned up the yard, and apparently unearthed the Shanghai of gnat colonies.  Roughly twenty lawn bags-full of leaves and sticks were in our flower beds and piled against the house.  And as we raked, gnats-a-plenty emerged.

It sucked.  I had those things crawling up and down my neck, all over my face, and buzzing in my ears.  I also wished, momentarily, that I’d never given up on good ol’ Hanes briefs — if you get my meaning.  Far too much access to restricted areas…

But we got it fixed up, and the yard looks great.  Right this minute, anyway.  I can’t really enjoy it, because I know every second that passes is another second removed from perfection.  It starts getting worse, the moment the mower and rakes go away, and the garage door comes down.  The degradation begins immediately.

And pretty soon… I’ll be out there again, with bugs on my wiener.

In case you’re keeping score at home, Toney and I shared a six-pack of Samuel Adams Irish Red after the yard work.  If it weren’t for quality beer in the fridge, the whole outside of our house would go to seed, and Half-Shirt would be distributing a petition.  And that’s not really a joke.

On Saturday morning, before the Gnatty Jamboree, we went to Lackawanna State Park and enjoyed the sunshine.  The place was slammed with people, and it was fairly chaotic.

We took Andy (Snoop Manny Mann) with us, and he humped up like a kangaroo and ejected several large turds in front of a family picnic.  One woman lifted a forkful of macaroni salad to her mouth, saw what was going on, and put it immediately back down.  Sheesh, lady.  It’s just a little fresh-squeezed dog shit…

And yes, it was cleaned-up.  Get off our backs already.

As we continued walking a group of scummy characters passed us going in the opposite direction.  Straight-up trash.  One of the guys was all scarred-up, and looked like a meth freak.  His eyes were darting here and there, and all four of these “citizens” looked like they smelled horrible.  And probably sounded like they looked bad, as well.

One of the women was just a skeleton with poorly tattooed skin hanging off.  Each of her teeth appeared to be a slightly different color, and she was all shaky and jerky.

“Can I pet your dog?” she slurred, in a radically slowed-down voice.

Holy shit!  This was a heroin addict.  I’d bet good money on it — heroin or Oxycontin.  Oh, I’ve seen The Wire.  And she wanted to linger and pay tribute to Black Lips Houlihan.

None of us answered her (too much to take in), so she bent over – very deliberately – and started stroking Andy’s fur.  Usually he doesn’t go for such nonsense, but he stood there like a ceramic doodad and let this scary-ass creature pet him.

“What’s his name?” she asked, while bearing teeth that looked like a sample card for beige paint, from Lowe’s.

“Nancy Spungen,” I wish I’d been quick enough to answer.  But, unfortunately, I was too disgusted and uncomfortable to be witty, and told her the truth.

She said nothing to that, and walked to catch up with her high-quality friends — who hadn’t progressed very far, since they were all moving as if underwater.

I wish I could’ve seen ol’ Tater Salad’s reaction to that crew.  She probably just shoved her paper plate away, and said to hell with it.

This update is a super-quickie, typed like an email.  Hopefully it’s not obvious.

I don’t really have a Question for you, either.  So just tell us what you did over the weekend.  Anything exciting?  Use the comments to bring us up to date.

Oh, this just popped into my head…  On Saturday evening we cooked hamburgers on the grill, for the first time this season.  And Toney and I got into a discussion about burger toppings.

If you were, for some reason, restricted to just one hamburger add-on, what would it be?  We both agreed it would be onions, because you get the most bang for the buck with ’em.  Lettuce and tomatoes are too subtle, and the same goes for mayonnaise and ketchup.  Mustard might be a good choice, but I’m going with onions.

What about you?  What would be your topping of choice, if you were limited to just one?

And I need to go to work, unfortunately.

I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

As promised, The Big Gallery of Bosses was launched over the weekend. Check it out. Do you recognize any of those people? I think I do, specifically (or as she would say it, “pacifically”) the third one down.

Keep ’em coming! This is a fun project, but we need more bosses. More bosses, please!

Also, something new was posted at Mockable today. I hate to brag, but I think Metten and I are firing on all cylinders at that site. I know it’s not to everybody’s taste, but please don’t write it off just yet. Subscribe to the feed, and check it out every once in a while. You might be surprised.

We need a new poll over there. The one about Old Yeller has been up for more than a week. Any suggestions? I haven’t had time to give it much thought.

On Sunday I received the following email from kevindust, under the heading Seeking Permission to Display the Smoking Fish:

Hi Jeff,

I’d like to have your permission to display the Smoking fish logo on the side of my racecar (at no cost to you!).  We are a small time race team, out for fun and healthy competition in a low budget four cylinder class.  I figure that if I can’t sell all the advertising space on the car, I’d at least like to cover it with an interesting logo and freely promote something I like.

In my debut season (2008) I won rookie of the year and finished 2nd in points so if I continue to do well and win races, there is a good chance that pictures of the car could be posted on the track website this season…making what I feel would be excellent Smoking Fish Sightings.

Since it is oval track racing, that Fish really will “get around”.

Attached were these three photos. And how cool is that?! Incredible. Kevin: You have my permission. And thanks for making my weekend. That’s nothing short of excellent.

Just so you know, I’m in the grip of a powerful Sebadoh jag. Usually these kinds of things only last for two days, tops. But this one is going on Day Four, or so. I just bring them up by artist on my iPod, and click PLAY ALL. Over and over again.

Will somebody please hold me?

Toney has a job that requires her to be inside middle school classrooms from time to time. She told me about sitting in a biology class recently, and every time the teacher used the phrase “woody stem” the boys would start snickering.

The instructor apparently had no idea why they were laughing, and started getting all exasperated — which only made matters worse. Heh, woody stem.

It reminded me of a clueless math teacher I had in ninth grade. She was one of those Aunt Bee-shaped women in her mid-50s, apparently never married. I think she still lived with her mother, if you can believe it, and had many cats.

Anyway, she was all the time saying things that set off the immature laughter, which completely baffled her.

One time she was telling us to multiply the numbers inside some brackets, before multiplying the answer with a number outside the brackets. Or something like that… She stood in front of us, and said, “Remember class, in-out, in-out, in-out…”

Man, the roar of laughter probably could’ve been heard inside passing aircraft. One guy, Tim M., fell out of his chair, and wallowed around in the floor for five minutes. I mean, that one brought down the house.

And she had no idea why.

Another time the same teacher got into a heated argument with one of the resident smartasses. I can’t remember who she was talking to, but he was taunting her, making snide remarks.  Finally, she snapped.

“Oh, you think you’re something really special, don’t you?!” she bellowed. “You think you’re the cock of the walk!”

WTF? Most of us had never even heard that phrase, which made it even better. Kids were again free-falling from their chairs, because of temporary laughter-based paralysis. I think Tim M.’s head almost exploded, literally. I remember his face turning blood-red.

And once again, the teacher was completely confused by the whole episode…

And that’s the Question of the Day. Can you remember any of your teachers saying something that inadvertently triggered a mass Beavis & Butthead reaction? If so, we need to catalog it.

Use the comments link below.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you about our excellent warm-weather weekend, and Andy’s encounter with a heroin addict.

See ya then!

Now playing in the bunker.