I have fed several species of deer, meat, to their apparent relish. Cooked, Mostly in Texas.

Spaghetti meat sauce and chili was very popular with them too.

...fallow deer, axis deer, mule deer, and whitetail deer. No fangs though.

Happy Birthday James ... relish the day

Oh yes and sincere thanks you enoch, for keeping my rage against the machines created by a broken society in-check'n perspective-I am continually reminded by those close to me who can't stand my robotic reactions to bullshit, of the same dynamic. I can play nice when I chose to, but relish in every opportunity to hijack myself.

This is solid reporting, especially by the Center for Investigative Reporting.

However, the gotcha tactics in the parking lot are crafted for broadcast, and wastes valuable screen time by relishing about a past crime, rather on the actual story at hand.

This is just as bad as the "YOU'RE DOING PEANUT BUTTER WRONG!" video that was sifted a while back, where they pull an infomercial-esque "I can't figure out how smashing my knife full of peanut butter into the bread technique isn't working!"

No, just because you're mixing wasabi and soy doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. It's the same as putting relish on a hamburger. Do I like relish? No. Is it a condiment, to be used when you see fit? Hell yeah.

I am a line cook, I literally make people food for a living, and if anybody at that restaurant is telling a customer that they're not allowed to do what they want with their food once it's at their table, then that restaurant won't stay open long. It's a service industry, we serve you. (within reason of course.)

A sushi chef especially should NOT be offended if you dunk the fish in soy, I mean absolutely no offense to sushi chefs, but for sashimi, literally all they do is cut the fish for you.

bah, these kinds of things just annoy me.

sugar is a natural preservative - it has been used to make just about every relish known to man in order to compliment and balance out other preservatives such as strong acids in vinegar and of course saltyness.
Tomatoes in particular can be very acidic and it's common to use sugar to even out the taste as some varieties of toms are more acid than others and there will be varying ripeness.
Ketchup is a concentrated tomato paste so you are getting 'refined' sugar from somewhere - e.g either added or from sugars in the sweet tomatoes themselves.
I'm not saying that there isn't too much sugar added to food, but there is a reason for using it in cooking. If i'm making home made ketchup - it often needs a pinch or two of sugar to mellow the acidity.

"Hey ladies, remember how good it felt down there when you were eleven?"

Thanks to internet porn, even your fucking grandmother trims the beaver hutch nowadays....Quite frankly, we miss the thigh furbies......can't stand stubble and ingrown hars down thars, OH, and tell me this ladies..

Does rendering your snatch hairless make that particular area of your anatomy more desirable or aid in her proper function? NO. Hairless beavers are tantamount to corsets and high heels-It's a discomfort endured, touted by horny douchebag males as a hip, new style. Not so thinly-veiled pedo-bear new rules....

Notwithstanding my personal tastes, some nappy dugouts are quite hard to regard with relish.....Maybe YOU should consider the laser, hon....

Ok, I'll bite. I have no issue with the chimpanzees. They are just doing what they do. In the wild they hunt, and they will in captivity given the chance. They also struggle for stimulation in captivity hence the relish with which they approach this situation. It's a game to them, they know no better.

What really irks me about this video is the braying spectators. They way they find it funny that the raccoon is being treated this way. Just because it's natural doesn't mean it's OK to take pleasure in the suffering of another animal. They are laughing at an animal being hurt.

The chimps don't understand the situation, but the laughing idiots should. There are funny things in nature and there are horrific things in nature. The chimps are blameless, but that doesn't stop what they're doing from being horrific.

That's what my issue with this video is. By upvoting a video here people are saying 'yes, I enjoyed watching that'. I can't imagine who would enjoy watching this demonstration of the awfulness of people.

If it didn't seem so inevitable, I would have been disappointed to see the place having fallen into such disrepair. It had been @critical_d who had boarded the place up, of course; this kind of thing seemed to be his passion. (Only one other person seemed to relish it more.)

I did what I could. Wouldn't say I was proud of the final result, shaky as it was, but at least the place was back in business. I tucked a few extra supplies into the corner, in case the place was boarded up again the next time I wandered through.

On my way out, I rapped a finger against the neon sign above the door. Apparently that was all it needed to spring back to life.

>> ^EvilDeathBee:

I've watched it 5 times now. Not once did I see a bike... is it some sort of new invisible bike technology?
Perhaps "bike" is a euphemism? (I don't relish being a buzzkill, but does this not run afoul of VideoSift's content policy?)

Actually, this is made using the ingredients they use in Canada. This video is only linked on McD's Canadian website: http://yourquestions.mcdonalds.ca/questions/66

The stuff in the USA is different: http://nutrition.mcdonalds.com/getnutrition/ingredientslist.pdf (page 2)

Soybean oil, pickle relish [diced pickles, high fructose corn syrup, sugar, vinegar, corn syrup, salt, calcium chloride, xanthan gum, potassium sorbate (preservative),
spice extractives, polysorbate 80], distilled vinegar, water, egg yolks, high fructose corn syrup, onion powder, mustard seed, salt, spices, propylene glycol alginate,
sodium benzoate (preservative), mustard bran, sugar, garlic powder, vegetable protein (hydrolyzed corn, soy and wheat), caramel color, extractives of paprika, soy
lecithin, turmeric (color), calcium disodium EDTA (protect flavor).

Problems manifest themselves when trying to eliminate "bad" habits. One available solution for those who relish in the pleasure of drawing smoke into their lungs without the pain of having their case-study photos on fag packets?? The electronic cigarette.(Powered by batteries/vegetable glycerine/propylene glycol and sweet, sweet, nicotine they won't damage your lungs, but let me tell-It'll sure amp-up your heart-rate what with that sweeeeet mainline of Nic-o-tine!

Heart-attacks come faster now. But at least I smell pretty again!

>> ^alien_concept:

I dinnae geddit?


In India (and a number of other countries), they have skin whitening products to make themselves more pale, they aspire to be more western in appearance, as being more western-like is a status thing, more like the rich.

Which is damn sad.

Now this is just fricking insane, it's not bad enough that she's whitened herself everywhere else, apparently now she depressed because her vagina just isn't pale enough.

It's sick, sad, and just so wrong. Damnit women of colour other than pale white, be damn proud of it, love it, relish it

SREDNI VASHTAR

Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. De Ropp, who counted for nearly everything. Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin's cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome necessary things---such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dulness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.

Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him ``for his good'' was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out---an unclean thing, which should find no entrance.

In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit-trees that it contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner lived a ragged-plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a long-secreted hoard of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe, sharp-fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day, out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion. The Woman indulged in religion once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon. Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial before the wooden hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret. Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient side of things, as opposed to the Woman's religion, which, as far as Conradin could observe, went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals were of irregular occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. De Ropp suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day the supply of nutmeg would have given out.

The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. De Ropp was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability.

After a while Conradin's absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the notice of his guardian. ``It is not good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers,'' she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. Something perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of it ``gave trouble,'' a deadly offence in the middle-class feminine eye.

``I thought you liked toast,'' she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it.

``Sometimes,'' said Conradin.

In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the hutch-god. Conradin had been wont to chant his praises, tonight be asked a boon.

``Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.''

The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty comer, Conradin went back to the world he so hated.

And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the tool-shed, Conradin's bitter litany went up: ``Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.''

Mrs. De Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of inspection.

``What are you keeping in that locked hutch?'' she asked. ``I believe it's guinea-pigs. I'll have them all cleared away.''

Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bidden to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining-room the door of the shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin stationed himself. He saw the Woman enter, and then be imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time. But he knew as he prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom, till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol:

Sredni Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white.
His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death.
Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful.

And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them over and over again, with one eye always on that swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patience of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the pæan of victory and devastation. And presently his eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on his knees. The great polecat-ferret made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.

``Tea is ready,'' said the sour-faced maid; ``where is the mistress?'' ``She went down to the shed some time ago,'' said Conradin. And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region, the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy burden into the house.

``Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn't for the life of me!'' exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.

I think of JC Penny as an ancient brand. Kind of like Marks and Spencer. Anything they can do to leverage some publicity, well good on them. Is it really a human rights issue, though, that she supports it? I think she is leveraging her sexual politics to promote a historically traditional brand. Each mention of the name she gets 100k, or something like that. Do you really think she shops there? Has anyone seen her shop there? Perhaps she gets truckloads of merch just by implying she shops there.

No hate implied, I used to love Ellen. Now she is kind of like Relish - I am not sure if I like her or not. It just seems like a poorly contrived ploy. IMHO.