Are You Ready For Some Football?

Mrs. Apron and I went to a party on Saturday night.

Didn't you feel the seismic activity?

It was a relatively small gathering for one of Mrs. Apron's friends who is turning 30 today. 30 is generally a big-deal age, though I don't quite remember it being so for me. Maybe it was. I don't remember. I'm 30. I can't remember what this blog is about or why I'm wearing socks.

Anyway, I get pretty jumped up when I have to go to a party. As a non-drinker and non-socializer, putting me in a room where people are drinking and socializing is pretty much all the ingredients you need for a full-on disaster.

"What if I throw up on somebody?" I asked me wife earlier in the week.

"You'll say, 'excuse me,'" she suggested demurely.

Mrs. Apron likes to tell me that I flourish at parties-- quick-witted, polite, affable are words she has used to describe me -- but, in party situations, I view myself more like somebody's whiny, Jewish grandfather trying to seduce the editor of Vogue. The painful awkwardness is enough to actually hurt people. I'm talking like bloodshed. And nobody wants bloodshed, (or vomit, for that matter) at parties. Unless they're Roman parties. They loved blood and vomit at their parties. Oh, and lots and lots of jeet.

Fortunately, my jangled nerves about going to a party were at least calmed in one respect because the party's host deemed that this would be a "Mad Men"-inspired party, and encouraged guests to dress up. Don't you know that my wife made her dress? Of course she did. Don't you know that I didn't have to make/buy anything special? Of course I didn't. I had my pick of vintage 1950's-1960's blazers, skinny ties, fedoras, and prescription-ready chunky eyeglasses from which to choose.

And choose I did.

However, awkwardness ensued anyway, even though Mrs. Apron and I were the best-dressed couple there, down to her handbag and my Florsheims.

"Who's feeling like they have more upper body strength than me?" asked a rather broad-shouldered, Israeli female partygoer. My wife turned to me. I wanted to disappear between the floorboards.

The chick was trying to uncork a bottle of "Menage a Trois" (a white wine made from three different grapes-- how clever) and was not having much success. I sat and watched her struggle for a little while, content to not participate in something which I knew nothing about, but she turned and looked at me with a look that said, "Why aren't you coming over here to help me, you asshole?" and so I did.

I don't need to tell you that there are lots of things in this world I've never done. Like have sex in a minivan. Like ride a camel. Like watch an entire episode of "Maude." I'm sure you won't be the least bit surprised when I tell you that I've never uncorked a bottle of wine. And yet, there I was, on Saturday night, in my skinny tie, ardently working to uncork a bottle of wine.

And I did it. And I was praised. And I was sweating through my wool sportcoat.

Awkwardness continued when my wife and I sat down to chat with another couple to the left of us, when three bovine, middle-aged women seated on the sofa in front of us started making faces at us-- actually scowling at us. One of the women was a midget, her feet dangling in front of the sofa, not touching the floor, and I thought perhaps she wanted a footstool or something. I then realized that my wife and I were blocking their view of the television, which had on the Colts and Jets, who playing football or something.

"We're trying to watch the game," one of the middle-aged sows mouthed at me, gesticulating impishly towards the television.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, scooting over to the side, "I forget that some people actually like football."

What I should have said was, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought people were here to celebrate this young lady's 30th birthday, not watch a fucking football game. If that's so important to you, why didn't you just stay home with your miserable, bubble-butt, dump-ass, midget self?"

I'm no etiquette pro, especially when it comes to parties. I routinely make off-color, inappropriate remarks, and I am loathe to eat in front of people (I had three slices of pepper, six grapes, five crackers, a bit of cake, and two mysterious, Russian cured beef slivers the entire night) but I like to think that I have enough knowledge of what is appropriate to know that you don't go to a person's birthday party to watch fucking television.

Even someone who's never uncorked a bottle of wine knows that.

Bring Out Your Dead

My wife and I like to complain that we "didn't get the memo."

Like the time we went vacationing in this supposed winter wonderland in the completely wrong season. Or like when we go to stores that, by all rights and signage, ought to be opened and are, in fact, quite closed, with no further or apparent explanation. Or like when everybody seems to be doing one thing, and we seem to be accidentally doing another. This happens to us a lot. I'd say that not only are we not getting the memos, but maybe somebody is deliberately hiding said memos from us, but then you might start to think I'm paranoid or something crazy like that.

By the way, stop Googling me and putting pigeon shit in my Brita.

Anyway, as I was walking one of my dogs early yesterday evening, I noticed something quite odd happening on my charming little block-long street, and I was confused for a bit, and then it hit me.

The Christians must have gotten a memo.

The memo, I believe, must have said something like:

"MEMORANDUM:

To All Christians,

Today, Saturday, January the 8th, is the day ordained for lawful curbside disposal of any and all trees relating/pertaining to the Christian holiday known as 'Christmas' or, colloquially, as 'X-mas.'

You are hereby and forthwith directed to commence today, at your earliest convenience, the act of Swiffering/vacuuming pine needles from your living room floor and depositing all Christmas trees outside of your house.

If you are widowed, elderly, obese, or otherwise infirmed, please utilize the traditionally Jewish tactic known as 'guilt' to convince your offspring and/or more physically fit relatives/friends to assist you in the endeavor of removing your Christmas tree from your home.

Depending upon the size and girth of your tree, said act should be accomplished with relative ease utilizing two able-bodied Christian persons and one bedsheet, one able-bodied Christian person on either end of the bed sheet, with the tree in the middle, like a dead body. The body of Christ, if you will.

If your tree is not removed to the curb by sundown (4:52pm, EST) you will be obliged to tithe an extra 10% for each of the ensuing Sundays, with a 2% increase per week, until such time as your tree is removed from your home. There will be inspections.

For those Christians in more rural portions of the country who may be in possession of a wood-chipper, please feel free to eviscerate the holy bejesus out your Christmas tree to your heart's content on this date.

Sincerely,
The Christians United Memorandum (it's an accident that this spells "C.U.M.") Corp, LLC."

Seriously, though. I actually watched as my neighbor and her daughter carried out their Christmas tree inside a blanket. They looked like two WWI-era ambulance corpsmen, carrying a wounded comrade across the frozen fields of France. Our street was littered with tree carcasses yesterday.

It was kind of sad, in a way. The finality of it. There they were, lying on the ground like freshly slain victims, left there to rot. No longer the center of attention in the living room. No longer adorned with sentimentality and glow. No more star or angel. Reduced to what they were before: just ordinary fucking trees, now more of a burden than anything-- a lift-with-your-knees problem. A disposal and waste management headache.

Goodbye, Christmas. I trust you'll be back next year. For the Christians, of course-- but for us curious, semitic onlookers, too.

I was at least relieved that, finally, a memo went out that we weren't supposed to get.

Well, Ring In the New Year With a Kiss on My Taint, It's... DEAR APRON!

You're reading this, so I have every reason to believe that you're just as sick, depraved, and dubiously-proportioned as am I.

Boy, am I glad you're here. Because making fun of emotionally vulnerable, anonymous schdorks alone is just as bad as drinking alone. Or shooting up heroin underneath my toenails alone. Or conducting Nazi-era experiements on feral cats in my garage at odd hours of the night whilst wearing radioactive underpants alone.

Um....

Yeah.

Strap on your strap-on for another rock-em, sock-em, waka-waka, gluten-free edition of...

DEAR APRON:

Just how honest should you be with a friend? My friend "Frannie" did not receive a promotion in her department, and I think I know why -- her appearance. The promotion would have required more interaction with clients.

Frannie is bright, hard-working, has Christian ethics, a beautiful, trim figure, a wide smile and dresses well. But -- she wears no makeup, doesn't pluck her huge unibrow and wears sandals that expose her very hairy toes and the hairy tops of her feet.

Many people have commented to me about her hairy feet and face, but I have not had the heart to tell her what they say. She has also been asking me why guys shy away from her.

Do I say nothing, or should I offer helpful advice? -- FRANNIE'S FRIEND IN NORTH CAROLINA

DEAR FRANNIE'S FRIEND:

Wow. "Christian ethics" AND " a beautiful, trim figure"? I've gotta tell you, the hairy toes only adds to the intrigue for this hepcat...

People often write in to advice columns wondering exactly how far they ought to go in Ye Olde Honesty Departmente as far as friends go. Speaking as one who lost his best friend of many years because he was a bit too honest, I say, go for it. What do you have to lose, you know, besides your friendship? If Frannie can't accept the fact that you're just trying to do her a solid by advising that she bikini wax her toes, then that goddamned Christian Wildebeest just doesn't deserve you.

Although I have to say-- I'm a bit suspicious about one thing... you describe Frannie as "bright, hardworking" someone who does not wearing make-up, "doesn't pluck her huge unibrow and wears sandals that expose her very hairy toes and the hairy tops of her feet."

Are you sure she isn't Jewish? She sounds like every girl named "Sarah" that I went to college with.

DEAR APRON:

My husband and I separated more than a year ago, but we have remained friends for the sake of our children. During our marriage, my sister moved in with us. When I moved out, she stayed on to help my husband financially, and also to help with our children.

Yesterday, my husband confirmed that he's now sleeping with my sister. I must see them almost daily and I don't want to make a difficult situation worse. How can I get over the hurt and betrayal I feel toward them -- especially my sister? How can I forgive them? Will time really heal this wound? -- BETRAYED BY MY SISTER

DEAR BETRAYED:

Oh, Jesus Christ-- give me a break. You're actually surprised about this? I knew they were sleeping together midway through the first sentence, before you had even mentioned you had a sister.

DEAR APRON:

My friends and I were recently discussing supermarket etiquette and hope you can provide some insight. When checking out at the grocery store and a customer is standing behind you ready to unload her basket, is it your responsibility to move the divider bar to the end of your order or should it be the person behind you? Which is more proper? -- CONSCIENTIOUS SHOPPER, ERIE, PA.

DEAR CONSCIENTIOUS SHOPPER:

Just when I think there are no meaty, insightful, societally poignant questions left, there's always someone in Northwestern Pennsylvania who pokes through the woodwork like a Hep-C infected termite to prove me wrong.

Hon, I'm glad it's you.

It is, in fact, the responsibility of the nearest poverty-stricken, toothless sharecropper to place the divider bar onto the checkout conveyer. Typically, said sharecropper will be outfitted in a worn pair of overalls with rust on the buckles, and he will have a half-consumed pack of "Red-Man" in the center pocket of said overalls. If he does not provide the divider-bar service with due haste and humility, averting his gaze as he does so, you are protected by law and may break his knee with a swift kick to the side of his left leg.

DEAR APRON:

I have been unable to ask "Mary" out -- or at least see if she's into me -- because we both work at the same place. I am not the type to be shy with my feelings, but with her it's different. When I see her, I forget everything else. It's as if my whole world stops when I see her smile. She's amazing!

I want to ask her out, but I'm unsure how to, considering that I am a woman. She does not know how I feel about her. What should I do? -- HAS IT BAD IN ARIZONA

DEAR HAS IT BAD:

From the tone of this letter, you're not only a lesbian, you're ten. Go do your fucking homework in your marble composition book and don't write to me again until you've bled at least three good times. And email me your mother's phone number. That bitch and I need to talk.

Earth, Salted

Being human, as I am, I am diligent about some things, lazy about others.

My mother and I will sometimes chat after 9:30pm and, in the wintertime, she invariably asks me if Finley and Molly have been out for "their last walk."

I put this phrase in quotes, because it is, essentially, a joke. "Their last walk" is anything but, especially when it's as cold as Witchtit, Kansas. "Their last walk" usually consists of me or Mrs. Apron opening the front door and shoving the old dog outside to urinate on the pachysandra that constitutes our front yard, and leashing up the young dog to do exactly the same. Maybe some day she will be able to go out there without a leash on, but I expect we're at least 4.5 years away.

Anyway, after nearly two years of dog pee, the pachysandra has, um, suffered. Last night, as I stood in the doorway watching Finley eliminate urine all over one section of brown schmenk that was, two years prior, vibrant and lush green pachysandra, I thought to myself, "Here I am, at 30 years old, feeling guilt over the wanton destruction of my own property." I've made it, kids. Middle age is here. Pardon me while I go trim my ear hair.

Really, though, there is a circular swath of land on the right side of our pachysandra that is wilted, brown, awful, disgusting, and it's, um, large. It calls out, "Here live two lazy shitbirds who cannot be bothered to take their dogs on a proper walk down the block because it's dark and it's cold and they really shouldn't even be allowed to have dogs anyway if this is the way they treat them and, while we're at it, they really shouldn't be able to own a house with a pachysandra lawn if this is how they treat it. Let's hang them."

We're pathetic. I mean, Jesus Christ-- it's pachysandra. One of the heartiest, most durable, most brainless-to-care-for subshrubs out there. Pachysandra's Wiki-entry refers to it as "leathery" with "coarsely-toothed" leaf margins. And yet, we've managed to assassinate it. Drenched under a relentless stream of steaming hot dog piss, the pachysandra that graces our front lawn was doomed from the moment we closed on this house. Sure, we've made improvements inside. We've stripped tons and tons of old lady wall-paper, we've put in a serious closet in the master bedroom, we've even de-Jesuified the house and put our Jew stank everywhere, but we just couldn't manage to keep that pachysandra alive. And, for the first time in my life, I am suffering from an acute case of horticultiguilt.

Seriously. We suck.

We're Gettin' the Van Back Together...

Uh-oh... they're trying to trick us again.

They're trying-- oh, how they're trying-- to make us think that the minivan is *gulp*... cool.

See?

They're trying to make us watch a commercial or look at an ad featuring a minivan and think about... um... sex?

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

I don't know. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's just because I've never had sex inside a minivan, but I just can't muster up the genital fortitude to think about sex when thinking about a minivan. Here's what I do think of when I think about mini-vans:

Diapers

Vomit

Poop

DVDs

Orthodox Jews

Roman Catholics

Communion Wafers

Hepatitis-A

Sorry-- my mind's wandering. But did you hear about the parishioners who were exposed to Hep-A over Christmastime from nastid-up communion wafers? Whoa, right?

Anyway, sorry. It's just that I can't quite seem to get myself in the mood about the minivan. I can't get all hot-n-bothered about the minivan. I can't get all feathered in my nethers. Quite apart from being anonymous trapezoids on wheels, I just don't understand, and I never understood, the need for them. On "Car Talk" a couple of weeks ago, some schlep from Ohio or somewhere like that called in and said something that irked the shit out of me. He was like, "Well, we have two kids now, and so we knew we needed to get a minivan."

Cracka say wha?

Since when is having two kids an automatic death-sentence to minivandomhood? People have been bustin' out vag-puppies for centuries and centuries over and over and transporting them here and there with very little difficulty. Vagabonds, gypsies, even the Neanderthals figured out how to do it without the trusty Town & Country.

According to an article yesterday's New York Times, "Minivans Avoid That Name in Search of a Sporty Image."

Ah, the branding monster rears its ugly, pernicious head. Folks, it doesn't matter what you call it: the C-Max, the Sienna, the Odyssey: it's a fucking minivan. I don't care how many cupholders you shove in it or how many flatscreen TVs you jam in there, how many coolers or stowage units. You can swath the seats in Alcantara hide and burled walnut on the dash-- it is what it is.

Or is it?

The commercials with the balding, bearded d-bag and the slim-n-trim blonde wife and their Toyota Sienna are credited with an 18.5% sales increase. Does the new Sienna look that different from the previous incarnation?

Well, let's see.

Here's the Toyota Sienna in 2011:


And here it is in 2008:

Hm. Gee. They're both... so.... uh.... sexy.

Excuse me... I just.... I just need a couple minutes, um.... alone....

Okay, I'm back and all toweled off. Composed and dry enough, in fact, to compose a short list of things that have also been recently deemed sexy.

Diabetic Shoes

I know. I've gotten in deep shit horsing around about diabetes in the past. Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment bringing up this infamous footwear, but, according to a CBS Gallup Poll, diabetic shoes are the sexiest things for feet since blue suede shoes. Think of them as platform shoes for the elderly.

Calculus

I wish I knew enough about Calculus to make Calculus-being-sexy jokes, but the simple fact of the matter is that I never took Calculus and I wouldn't recognize a Caluclus equation if it bought me flowers and started hobbing my knob. The point is: Calculus is sexy again-- especially when you call it "Calc." Grrrrrrrrrrowwwl!

Pistachio Nuts

Nothing says "hawt" like a spicy night on the couch while you and your lover run dusty, pink fingers through hair and over breast. That sickly, salty breath, the shells between the sofa cushions-- oh, man-- the aphrodisiac of 2011 is totes mcgoats pistachio nuts. You heard it here first, lovers.

The 1976 Plymouth Valiant

Need I say more? This thing is so sexy it could compete with today's minivan. Hell, imagine if a 2011 Honda Odyssey fucked a 1976 Plymouth Valiant. Why, they might just have the sexiest looking offspring you could ever imagine. It might look something like this:



Oh, yeah-- that reminds me. He's sexy again, too.

The White Birds Did It

No doubt you've heard by now about the 5,000-or-so dead black birds who died, inexplicably, on New Years Eve.

Inexplicably, my ass. The fucking white birds did it.

Whenever there is violence perpetrated against whites, everybody is super-quick to point the finger at blacks. In fact, I wrote a post about this a long time ago called "The Black Guy Did It." I'd hyperlink to it, but, you know...

Anyway, are our memories so short and faint? Do we not remember the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s, when Southern blacks faced violence in untold numbers at the hands of angry whites, railing against integration and Rosa Parks and James May and the right to vote? Doesn't anybody remember that?

And now, in Arkansas, we have thousands of dead birds-- dead black birds-- and is anybody pointing an accusatory wing or beak at the fucking white birds?

No.

The news media is too cowardly. They're afraid. Christ-- I'll bet the head of AOL-Time Warner owns a few murderous doves himself. I'll bet that the owner of Knight-Ridder is having an affair with an albatross. No doubt there's some fucking seagull feathers in the pockets of Ann Curry and Dianne Sawyer.

Disgusting. That's all I have to say.

We're talking about mass murder, here, people. Thousands and thousands of deceased black birds, birds of color, and where is the public outcry? Where is Jesse Jackson? Where is Al Sharpton? Had these birds all been taken out by white police sharpshooters, well, you can bet there'd be rallies up the ying-yang. But no. Because this crime was perpetrated by an anonymous squadron of white supremacist birds, who answer to no calling and no master other than the power that justifies the wanton slaying of black birds, there are no speeches, no righteous indignation, no shouts from the pulpit.

Doesn't anybody find it somewhat unsettling that not a single white bird was felled in this 2011 inaugural massacre? Isn't it just a little too... convenient? A little too... curious?

Not everything is racial, I know-- but one thing is clear: this is.

And I would never be one to preach violence under normal circumstances, in normal times, but let me tell you brothers and sisters something-- these are not normal circumstances, and nor are they normal times. WE ARE IN THE MIDST OF RACIST AVIAN OPPRESSION AND IT IS TIME TO BEAR ARMS IN DEFENSE OF OUR NATION'S PRECIOUS BLACK BIRDS.

That's right. You heard it here on My Masonic Apron. A call to take up arms. If you, in your travels, come up on a so-called "peaceful" dove-- don't be afraid to shoot it right in the face.

Yeah, that's right. REVENGE!

Snow-owl? Right between the eyes.

White swan? Choke the racist life out of that gimpy little neck.

White-tailed Tropic Bird? You know what to do. You. Know.

REVENGE, YOU WHITE-POWER BIRD ASSASSAINS!

And some day, some fine day, maybe the black birds of Beebe, Arkansas will fly, free from fear from their villainous oppressors, and, together, we will vanquish the white power birds. Together.

Amen.

Bitch, You Already Know This Cracka

Expired crackers.

That's what ended up in our food bag as we were frantically trying to leave the haphazard home of my in-laws over our ill-fated, blizzard-laden Christmas break.

While my wife and I struggle to pack dog and crate and clothes and laundry and skis and diminshing shards of sanity and cellphone chargers and sewing projects and library books into our bag, Mrs. Apron's mother is prancing around downstairs, finding stupid, random shit to stuff into our bags. We make a trip to the car in the driveway, in goes a pair of socks. Or a McCalls pattern from 1972. Or a small stuffed animal. Or some food-related impulse-purchase from T.J. Maxx.

This time, it was a pack of "Kraft Macaroni & Cheese Crackers."

"The hell," you say?

The hell I say.

On the very good chance that you did not know that such a product existed, which, hopefully, you didn't, I'm delighted that you get to hear about it first here. Don't worry-- they're "Made With REAL CHEDDAR CHEESE."

My mother-in-law, who never purchases anything unless it has one price already crossed out, purchased this packet of cheesey hum-dingers from Building 19 (a cut-price warehouse-style chain store in New England) for $0.97 (crossed out) $0.49!!!!

Yo. Don't say she never bought ya nothin', smart-mouth.

Whilst packing my lunch at some obscene hour yesterday morning, I blearily grabbed at bags in the cupboard and, when I opened my lunch yesterday, I smiled when my eyes fell upon this silly-looking blue bag. I had packed the macaroni and cheese crackers. How fucking fabulous. Even more fabulous than the inanity of the product itself was the Sell-By date.

December, 2009.

Nice.

I put one of the "macaroni shaped" bits into my mouth and one word popped into my head:

"Cheez-It."

It was a fucking reshaped, repackaged, rebranded Cheez-It. To say that I was crestfallen would be, well, accurate.

Though it's not really my style, I decided to do some investigating. I wanted to know if my taste-buds and neuro-receptors were, in fact, correct. Now, obvs, the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese Crackers are manufactured by Kraft. Cheez-Its, Sunshine.

I was stunned to find that, first, Kraft does not own Sunshine. It owns everything else, from Stove-Top to my left testicle.

To further this probe (heh, heh) I knew I had to go to the ingredients. At the risk of sounding like one of those insufferable foodie pedants who blogs about food then makes millions of dollars by turning it into a book (Oh, please, God, let it be me) here we go:

CHEEZ-IT BAKED SNACK CRACKERS

ENRICHED FLOUR (WHEAT FLOUR, NIACIN, REDUCED IRON, THIAMIN MONONITRATE [VITAMIN B1], RIBOFLAVIN [VITAMIN B2], FOLIC ACID), SOYBEAN AND PALM OIL WITH TBHQ FOR FRESHNESS, SKIM MILK CHEESE (SKIM MILK, WHEY PROTEIN, CHEESE CULTURES, SALT, ENZYMES, ANNATTO EXTRACT FOR COLOR), SALT, CONTAINS TWO PERCENT OR LESS OF PAPRIKA, YEAST, PAPRIKA OLEORESIN FOR COLOR, SOY LECITHIN.

KRAFT MACARONI AND CHEESE CRACKERS

Enriched Flour (Wheat Flour, Niacin, Reduced Iron, Thiamine Mononitrate {Vitamin B1}, Riboflavin {Vitamin B2}, Folic Acid), Cheddar Cheese (Cultured Milk, Salt and Enzymes), Soybean Oil, Partially Hydrogenated Cottonseed Oil, Whey, Tapioca Dextrin, Salt, Leavening (Baking Soda and/Or Yeast), Sour Cream (Cultured Cream, Skim Milk), Cheddar Cheese Powder (Cultured Milk, Salt, Enzymes), Blue Cheese Powder (Cultured Milk, Salt and Enzymes), Dextrose, Lactose, Monosodium Glutamate (Flavor Enhancer), Lactic and Citric Acids, Vegetable Color (Annatto Extract, Paprika Extract), Onion and Garlic Powders, Skim Milk, Autolyzed Yeast Extract, Romano Cheese Powder (Cultured Cow's Milk, Salt and Enzymes), Parmesan Cheese Powder (Cultured Milk, Salt and Enzymes), Artificial Color (Yellow 6 Lake, Yellow 6, Yellow 5), Spices, Disodium Inosinate and Disodium Guanylate (Flavor Enhancers), Natural and Artificial Flavor, Malted Barley Flour. Contains: Wheat, Milk.

Because you are smart and cute, you will first observe that the ingredients for the Cheez-Its are in all capitals. Sorry, that's how it was on the Sunshine website and I just c&p'd that shit. I guess they like it when ingredients scream at you. Kraft doesn't need to scream at you, because they hold the sexclusive proprietary rights to my left hair-fig.

Next, because you are pert and fine, you will notice that there are a cack-load more ingredients in the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese Crackers than in the Cheez-Its. If you look at it from a linguistic standpoint, it stands to reason. There are far more letters in "Macaroni & Cheese Crackers" than "Cheez-Its," so, really, why shouldn't there be more ingredients?

Now, similarities:

Both Cheez-Its and M&C Cracks start out the same: Enriched Flour (Wheat Flour, Niacin, Reduced Iron, Thiamine Mononitrate {Vitamin B1}, Riboflavin {Vitamin B2}, Folic Acid). I-fucking-dentical, word for word. Now, to Kraft's credit, it uses Cheddar Cheese, as it claims on the front of the bag-- well, it's a bastardized, hydrolized version of Cheddar Cheese, but it's at least different from Cheez-Its, which utilize "Skim Milk Cheese."

The Macaroni & Cheese crackers also bafflingly and barfingly use sour cream. I mean... why? To make the little children cry and pull out their eyelashes?

Basically, almost all, if not all, of the ingredients in Cheez-Its are in the Macaroni & Cheese Crackers, though in the Kraft product there are a shitload more in general. (Sour cream? Really?) Food colorings. Annatto. Salt. Soybean oil. You name it. The Kraftards use MSG in their crackers, and I blame my splitting 2:00pm headache on that and not on the screaming, feces-smearing psych-patients, thank you.

All this is to say... when you go visit my in-laws, search your bags carefully. Cracker.