I love you, Magic Bullet!

Current mood: Compelled to make salsa.

I watch infomercials like some people watch the playoffs. I mean, I am invested. Even when the footage begins to repeat itself in that ourobouros-type way, I keep watching. It's the rhetoric I love, the promises made. An infomercial is like a first date with a guy who seems perfect. (Four dates later, you discover that he "just doesn't like" doing certain key things in the sack. But still! Rhetoric!)

In the past, I've bought and/or been gifted with such products as the Rotato (only useful if you're militant about peels and/or my mother) Yoga Booty Ballet and the Total Tiger (I literally threw that thing into the alley behind my San Diego apartment circa 2002.)

But the Magic Bullet ...for lack of a finer metaphor ... eats pussy.

I grind coffee beans in this thing. I make smoothies. I make guacamole that doubles as a soothing face mask. You can pour bourbon and ice directly into the Magic Bullet, pulse that bitch a few times, throw in mint and pretend it's a Julep and that you're not an alcoholic.

I haven't tried making the BLOOBERRY MOOFINS! that the British guy in the commercial keeps crowing about, but I may have to try it. Maybe pulverized batter will cure my methface.