Director Quentin Tarantino is known for creating fake products for his films. Pulp Fiction features the Big Kahuna Burger, a Hawaiian-style hamburger restaurant in Los Angeles. Jules (Samuel L Jackson) samples a Big Kahuna Burger, exclaiming "Mmmm, this is a tasty burger!" The audience begs to know what makes the Big Kahuna Burger so tasty. I was shocked to find that still frames and product mock-ups show a double cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato and pickles on a sesame bun - but no pineapple! The mystery of the Big Kahuna Burger continues; I'll tell you how I made the Real Big Kahuna Burger.

The vital ingredients in this burger are pineapple and pickle. A thick slice of pineapple makes a savory sandwich slightly sweet. I chose thinly sliced bread and butter pickles since they are sweet and tangy. I prefer to keep my burgers vegetarian - at this point you may deviate if you wish. The featured patty is a Morningstar Farms "Grillers Original." Also appearing are sliced tomato and mozzarella. I'm sure cheddar, havarti or swiss would be equally delicious. Rounding out this setup are Heinz ketchup, dijon mustard and a potato bun, which I toasted.

A classic side to the hamburger is fries. These are very easy to make! Wash russet potatoes, slice them until they look like french fries. Skin removal is optional; I went about 50/50. Put them on a baking sheet, drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt, pepper, paprika, onion powder and garlic power. Bake for 45 minutes at 450 degrees.

The greatest strength of the hamburger is its consistency. Short of burning ingredients, it is hard to screw up a home made burger. In my opinion, if you pay attention to having crispy vegetables, cheese and a hot patty, you are in for a winner. My Big Kahuna Burger was a great success. The pineapple introduces unique flavor to the sandwich. I found the mozzarella to be a great choice for cheese; it is mild and has complementary texture. I would like to thank Quentin Tarantino for giving me this idea. Hopefully a future film will reveal the truth about the Big Kahuna Burger.

Final score (out of five):

Only one thing could break my Internet silence and return to posting on my very own site: Youth In Revolt: The Movie. I am a very big fan of the book – an immense fan of the book. It's basically my favorite book ever. I have been looking forward to this movie with equal parts eager anticipation and loathing dread for over a year and a half now. It's been almost three years since I have patronized the local Cineplex – the last movie I saw was The Simpson's Movie. It's good to see that the great recession still hasn't prevented Hollywood from greasing up their fingers and sliding them ever so gently into my wallet and taking $7.50 for a matinee. Clearly supply and demand is no longer in effect, because there were precisely four other people in the theatre with me. I also noticed that they no longer play 'The Ten Spot' or whatever they called it before films. They no longer feed you trivia about actors or actresses that will be appearing in upcoming films. They gave up the false pretense that they were somehow entertaining you, and decided to show nothing but advertisements for television shows and future movies. Also, there are no good movies coming up. Did you know that Bruce Willis and Tracey Morgan are starring in a movie together? You'll never guess what it is. See, Bruce Willis a hardnosed cop, and he gets teamed up with a new partner, who just happens to be black! And as a team they don't play by the rules. It's from the same studio that brought you Dirty Harry if that is any consolation. High jinks will ensue! Revolutionary filmmaking! Anyway, about Youth In Revolt…

I was all prepared to hate this film. As I mentioned earlier, I dearly love this book. I feel a part of me is Nick Twisp. I followed all the casting decisions and was somewhat disappointed. I had never seen Portia Doubleday, but judging from her glamour shot she didn't look like Sheeni Saunders to me. Likewise, Justin Long is no Paul Saunders. When I saw the preview trailer, I gave up any hope that this film was going to be good in any conceivable way. The trailer had everything you don't want to see in a movie. Ironic use of Bon Jovi? Check. Guys standing awkwardly without clothes on? Check. Lots of general necking? Check and check. It looked like just another general raunchy teenage sex comedy.

I'm glad I was wrong.

The film actually is pretty fantastic. I always pictured Michael Cera as Nick Twisp, and I was quickly won over on the Portia Doubleday as Sheeni Saunders thing. Though, Justin Long as Paul Saunders did not work for me, but this may be because I despise Justin Long. Luckily, he is barely in the film, and plays a much less prominent role than in the book. In any event, the movie was entertaining, and remained fairly true to the book (more on that later). They made sure to include many of the one-liners found in the book. Obviously, when you have a 500-page book, and an hour and a half movie, some things are going to get cut. It's akin to trying to stuff a size-30 woman into a size-8 dress. Also, people who have not read the book will probably have difficulty keeping up with all the characters. The movie had very poor character development. People seem to instantly appear, and then disappear just like that. I assure you that it makes complete sense in the book. The movie completely transmogrified the ending of the book, and thus ends in a completely different manner. Like I mentioned earlier, I completely understand the need to do this. I'd still encourage people to see it. However, if you like the movie, you would love the book to pieces. I'd like to copy a section of the first page on the book, with a quote so wonderful that I actually wrote it down the first time I read it:

"The next thing you should know about me is that I am obsessed with sex. When I close my eyes, ranks of creamy thighs slowly part like some X-rated Busby Berkeley extravaganza. Lately I have become morbidly aware of my penis. Once a remote region accessed indifferently for businesslike micturition, it has developed—seemingly overnight—into a gaudy Las Vegas of the body, complete with pulsing neon, star-studded floor shows, exotic animal acts, and throngs of drunken conventioneers perpetually on the prowl for depraved thrills. I walk about in a state of obsessive expectancy, ever conscious of an urgent clamor rising from my tumescent loins. Any stimulus can trigger the show—a rhythmic rumble from the radiator, the world "titular" in a newspaper editorial, even the smell of the old vinyl in Mr. Ferguson's Toyota."

Amen.

I have now become everything I hate, and have signed up for Twitter. I'm really not sure how it is supposed to work, but you are more than welcome to follow my exploits by visiting this link. Please don't hate me.

Here is some of the wacky humour that I have selfishly kept to myself instead of sharing with others: Dutch Bros? Allann Bros? Menendez Bros! Hilarious!

First and foremost, I'd like to apologize to anyone who may have grabbed a waning-seconds-of-Christmas gift idea off last year's list; if said gift resulted in a) your Facebook relationship status suddenly becoming "single," b) your incarceration, or c) tears, I profoundly, deeply don't give a fuck.

That said, boys and girls, it's time for Burson's (On-Time) Holiday Gift Guide 2009®, the long-awaited and much ballyhooed tome that assures those on your list get the gift equivalent of a kick in the jock. Looking to tell your girl it's over? Looking to extend the finger to your boss in gift form? Look no further. Burson's got you covered, both literally and figuratively, and is ready, willing and able to hook you up.

In the intervening year since the inaugural edition of this guide, you may have noticed that everything's kinda gone to shit. Nowadays, you can barely scrape together the two bucks for your dinner of cat food and Olde English, let alone buy gifts . . . what's a boy to do? Considering that everyone's pretty much in the same boat (i.e. "fucked"), the trick is to go practical. A box of Hefty garbage bags should fit the bill; considering that many of your recipients are half a step from homelessness, they'll be well-prepared thanks to you!

Speaking of hard times, in an economic climate such as this one, a less scrupulous individual might be inclined to hit a lick or two. For the stickup kid on your list, I submit for your consideration the Glock 17, a fine handgun guaranteed to make the Plaid Pantry clerk shit him/herself, particularly if equipped with a suppressor, or "silencer," as the kids are calling it these days.

It wouldn't be Christmas if Burson wasn't lamenting the sorry-ass state of his beloved Oakland Raiders. Now he and other Raiders fans can effectively hide from the world with the Raiders Fan Face, an ingenious device that simultaneously displays the ashamed fan's team spirit and obscures his identity from bosses, spouses and parole officers. Though I'm certain that Raiders fans are no strangers to masks (see Glock 17 and suppressor, above), the Fan Face is a true multitasker; a wearer can hit the aforementioned lick and still make it in time for kickoff.

If said Raiders fans want to get that "in-game" experience, they could always check out the Official Raiders Tackle Buddy, which is nearly as easy to tackle as an Oakland receiver. Note that the Tackle Buddy has no hands; also reminiscent of a Raiders wideout.

For those of us on a budget this holiday season, Christmas dinner can be something of a challenge. Nothing takes the spirit out of the season quite like bringing home a family five-pack of WinCo pre-smoked "turkey" legs and some off-brand Jell-O for dessert. Never fear, the good folks at McDonalds have it on lock: McRib is back! Just imagine the bucolic scene when you dash in (through the snow) carrying that festive paper sack of low-grade pig parts slathered in corn syrup . . . okay, stop imagining, you're making everyone sick.

For that special lady in your life (or Savage), try a sequined G-String, complete with garters. Why, you ask, would one purchase such a ludicrously impractical garment during one of the coldest times of year? Why, I ask, would you be asking that, instead of thinking about that special lady filling it out? Seriously, though, I see how those sequins could irritate some of the more sensitive areas that may contact them, so you might want to consider something more plush.

Who hasn't said, presumably after a half-rack of Natural Ice, "wow, I wish I could smell like a country music superstar?" Tim McGraw has just the thing for you, "McGraw" by Tim McGraw cologne. While the description may say some shit about "musky," "woodsy" and "masculine," you can be safe in reading this as "smells like horse rectum." If you're a lady (since you're reading wyvern920.com, you're probably not) looking to outfit her guy with that signature scent, look somewhere else. Unless you want your man whiffing faintly of '83 Firebird transmission fluid and tobacco spit, steer clear.

If you're shopping for a particularly angst-y teenage girl or homosexual gentleman, Jewel's A Night Without Armor may be just what you need. While ordinarily a "night without armor" results in pregnancy, HIV or worse, Jewel leans toward a different interpretation in this abortion of a poetry collection. Will someone save her soul? Fuck if I know, I'm too busy hanging my head in shame for this gift even entering my twisted brain.

Finally, I must express both my joy and sadness at penning this guide. On the one hand, Christmas is a time of reassurance, hope and togetherness; a time when we set aside our troubles and come together. However, the fact that we need gift guides at all speaks to something of a hole in our culture, a deep longing we seek to fill with impossibly grand material goods. With each gift, we try to prove to the recipient how well we know them, how much we love them and how much better we are than them for coming up with aforementioned perfect gift. We tear through the malls like Sherman cutting a path to the sea, clawing over the prone figures of less-devoted shoppers, all to find that ab-so-fucking-lutely perfect gift. It'll make the emptiness go away, right? Ah, fuck it, just stock up on some Kingsford, wrap that shit up, and your gift shopping's complete. Plenty of time to go back to bed, curled up with a bottle of bourbon.

Ah, I'm just pulling your collective leg with that last one (except the bourbon - that's a frickin' fantastic gift). In truth, this is one of my favorite times of year, and I wish you all the best. I hope you all have a wonderful Holiday Season, and whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, or Friday, I wish you and yours the best. Muthafuckas.

Burson . . . out.

I recently embarked on an epic bicycle excursion to purchase some dried goods at my country store. After returning (and avoiding numerous collisions with motor traffic and pedestrians) I found myself famished to the point of exhaustion. I needed a hearty (vegetarian) manwich before I could even consider tackling the rest of the day. Continue to the next paragraph to see what I mean.

Time to break down the ingredients to this delicious sandwich. Sometimes it is difficult to come up with good meat alternatives for a non-traditional sandwich. If you agree with this sentence, check out Field Roast's Celebration Roast, a vegan grain roast that is very tasty and dense. Though I made this sandwich outside of the 'brunch' window, I decided to include two fried eggs. Adding fried eggs to a sandwich like this pushes it from great to outlandish. Next, a few slices of sharp cheddar cheese. I wrapped things up with some thick-sliced 10-grain bread fresh from my bread machine.

Summary of preparation: slice the Celebration Roast, rub with olive oil and bake for 10-15 minutes. Fry the eggs to your liking. Toast the bread to your liking. Slice the cheese to your liking. This can be a good time to reflect on your day, center your chi and think about fighting the good fight. Add desired condiments (mayonnaise, mustard, relish, horseradish, etc.) and pile everything on.

I designed this sandwich to let people know that I still have what it takes to rock the house (and do the right thing in a topsy-turvy world that challenges our faith every day). This sandwich is worth about 900 calories, 60 grams of protein and 40 grams of fat (though less than 20 of it is saturated). This is the perfect sandwich to encourage growth of your 'winter coat,' ensuring comfort during long walks with your loved ones during the holiday season.

You've waited long enough for my conclusion, so here we go. This sandwich was delicious. Everything came together wonderfully. Though not the prettiest sandwich I've ever made, it made up for it in character. After consuming it I felt refreshed, recharged and ready to do many difficult physics problems (results may vary, talk to your doctor/academic adviser if you are considering this sandwich). Highly recommended.
Final score (out of five):

The NFL is world-renowned for its marketing prowess, displaying a deft advertising hand that has taken the league to the apex of popularity in America. Ever hungry, the NFL in recent years has looked overseas, playing pre- and regular season games in Mexico, England and Canada. By and large successful, this international expansion will be put to the test next week when a nuclear blast of suck is sent across the pond to Wembley Stadium, where the Tampa Bay Buccaneers will take on the New England Patriots.

Look up "mismatch" in the dictionary, and the definition is going to mention this game. I don't care if it's the original 1828 edition of Webster's Unabridged, there will be a crude woodcut of Josh Freeman on his back. And yes, I did have to look up who the hell their current QB is, because no one, including Tampa Bay's coach, knows the man's name off the top of his head. To illustrate, Tampa Bay is 0-6 this season while the Pats just laid a 59-0 smack-down on Tennessee this week. This is worse than Washington Generals v. Harlem Globetrotters, this is like playing against the Lions in Madden on "Rookie."

Speaking from a personal standpoint, I hope both teams somehow find a way to lose; my hatred of the Pats is well-documented, and I still harbor a grudge against Tampa Bay from the time of the 2003 Super Bowl. Much as I think the Bucks suck a fat one, this is not the way for them to catch an ass-whupping. This is not a game to export to an allied country; the Taliban and/or al-Qaeda are the only ones who deserve to be subjected to this suck-fest.

If the NFL is looking to expand their international popularity, why send this game over? The rest of the world has since the post-WWII years been the dumping ground for our cultural garbage, from McDonald's to 80's butt-rock, and is presumably quite sick of it. To endear the English to American football, send an exciting game over, not something that amounts to a 60-minute prison rape. Seriously, is the league looking to undo four years of international hype-building by FedEx-ing a crate of dog shit to Wembley? For the love of God, call it a mercy killing and just award this game to the Pats; don't make the Bucs and the British populace suffer through this.

September gurls do so much
I was your butch and you were touched
I loved you, well, never mind
I've been crying all the time

December boys got it bad

September gurls, I don't know why
How can I deny what's inside
Even though I'll keep away
Maybe we'll love all our days

When I get to bed, late at night
That's the time she makes things right
Ooh when she makes love to me

-Big Star, "September Gurls" 

Those who are familiar with me know that I'm a venerable Whitman's Sampler of hate, containing a wide assortment of slightly different topics in which I can no doubt hate upon. Speaking of which, have you ever notified that there is no actual box of Whitman's candies, only the Whitman's Sampler? Sampler implies that there are unique groups of confections available for sale somewhere, and the Whitman's Sampler is a conflation of all these different kinds of specialized candies. Kind of like how Red Lobster has the Seafood Sampler. However, notice that one never sees a box of Whitman's candies for sale – only the Whitman's Sampler. The whole thing makes no sense. In any event, the point is I hate on things, and today's topic deals with my new bank, Chase.

About five months ago, Washington Mutual, my former bank, had a minor flaw in their business model, in the sense that they went bankrupt. JPMorgan Chase decided to buy them at a discount rate, which meant all the Washington Mutuals would become Chase banks. This was all fine and good, until Chase decided that they needed everything converted from the old Washington Mutual to the new Chase. All the signs came down, all the websites changed, and as of last Saturday, they decided to merge the Washington Mutual customer deposits into the Chase customer deposits. This would be okay if they did it, say, in the middle of the night, and they were quick and efficient about it. However, they decided to do it at 4:00pm on a Saturday. All their ATMs no longer functioned, and of course they closed all their branches so no one could have access to their hard-earned capital. No one, including me, could get access to his or her money at all. Somehow I am the only one who has a problem with this. Some guy named Lefty could have been threatening me with the business unless I paid him off, and I wouldn't have been able to do it, and then would have found myself at the bottom of a river sleeping with the fishes. So thanks JPMorgan Chase for almost killing me last Saturday. I look forward to doing business with you in the coming years.

After a nearly four-month absence, I finally have another clown-related story to share with the masses. Patricia Ingalls, a professional clown, was arrested on Friday for alleged drunken driving after she left the scene of an accident. The story is complete with mugshot goodness. Ingalls was apparently, according to her version of the story, driving to a children's party when she got into an accident. She then fled the scene and drank heavily before continuing to the party, where I can only assume she continued to drink heavily in front of children. Police then showed up to arrest her. Here is where her story falls apart:

"They[the children] were all hanging on me and saying, 'Don't take the clown,'" said Ingalls.

Uh huh, sure they were. What a magical place it must be to live in blood alcohol level .252 land, where your profession is respected by children, and they beg law enforcement officials to forgive your felonies, even after you show up at a party looking like this woman did in her mugshot. Good times. 

It's that time of year again – the time in which I congratulate myself for being able to afford the 35 dollars a year it takes to have my unique brand of humor and observation placed on the intertubes. You might have noticed the lack of updates here, except for Burson's posts, whose sole function is to report about sports and sports-like information. This reminds me, are you aware that there is a television program that airs after Portland Trail Blazer games entitled Talkin' Ball? And yes, they really don't include the 'g' in talking. They also don't specify what ball they are indeed talkin'. It could be football, baseball, golf, softball, tennis, croquet, and maybe even cricket. In fact, they could even been talkin' 'bout quidditch. I think quidditch uses flying balls. That's a little bit like an Earth ball. And speaking about the Earth, am I the only one who actually despises Earth Day? I don't really care about the Earth. As someone who isn't going to have kids, I have no vested interest in saving the Earth. When I die, it will be someone else's problem. Let them deal with it. Also, if global warming wiped out all the major cities that were less than 100 feet above sea level, I think that would be a positive thing. Los Angeles, Miami, and New York City can all eat a full bag of it. Speaking of eating a full bag of it, were you aware that there were mass demonstrations of people protesting high taxes in major cities, and they called them tea parties? I was under the impression that everyone loved paying his or her taxes. They referred to this act of civil disobedience as teabagging, which clearly means that no one who organized these protests were under the age of 40. Here is a link to the best article I have ever read regarding this issue, which includes a summary from MSNBC's David Shuster about said teabagging:

He described the parties as simultaneously "full-throated" and "toothless," and continued: "They want to give President Obama a strong tongue-lashing and lick government spending." Shuster also noted how the protesters "whipped out" the demonstrations this past weekend.

Genius. If only they could make every important issue involve crude sexual acts. Also, has anyone else been receiving a large amount of spam recently? Also, doesn't this spam seems awfully specific toward your interests? I've had about 20 emails per day these last few weeks offering me Vicodin, Valium, Xanax, and Zoloft overnighted to me without a prescription. Perhaps Google is the one who sends out these spams based off one's search history. The whole thing fills me with fear and anxiety. If only there were something I could take that would fix that.

Well, that's about it. I can't release too much anger and bitterness in one post. After all, that would make me look like a crazy person, know what I mean? Uhh, yeah, and go!