I have to admit that the words Primate Sanctuary are what pulled me in. I read the email from groupon, luring me into buying some sort of 5-admission-pass to some sort of weird monkey hotel. I read the email thoroughly. As the lines flew by me, I was more and more perplexed by the language. My eyes began to squint dangerously close to a completely-closed state.  Then I read the email again. And still have have no idea what those people were talking about. So I am pasting it in for you. It is possible, though unlikely, that my lack of comprehension is related to a recent habit involving Nyquil and a short stint in the Betty Ford Clinic. But I prefer to believe that the writer of the Monkey Hotel Marketing materials is smoking something very strong. You be the judge and take notes for Scrabble: (italics are mine and are accompanied by confused expressions.  Bold italics represent extreme confusion and are also added by me.)

Animal sanctuaries protect endangered creatures from peril and are significantly different from animal houses, which shroud residents in beer-stained togas and discourage high grade-point averages. Eschew rowdiness for an altruistic respite with today’s Groupon: for $25, you get a five-admission pass to the Suncoast Primate Sanctuary in Palm Harbor (up to a $50 value).

The nonprofit, volunteer-run organization rescues in-need animals deprived of shelter and fetes them with affection, food, and a loving abode while welcoming human visitors Thursdays through Sundays to glean knowledgeable tidbits about primate life. Take in orangutans and monkeys as well as tropical birds and reptiles basking in their nourishing surroundings, or get schooled in chimpanzee facts, learning they can live up to 50 years in the wild or into their 70s in supervised areas, enjoying leisurely days of shuffleboard and discussions on how many miles they used to knuckle-walk to buy bananas in the wintertime. Although dubbed a donation, the admission fee is mandatory as well as tax deductible, much like dues to labor unions or high fives from opposable conscience owners.

What? Beer-stained togas? Grade-point averages? Eschewing rowdiness? Gleaning knowledgeable tidbits? High fives from opposable conscience owners? WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT?

I’ve seen enough Planet of the Apes to know a monkey takeover when I see one…

Dear All People Who Make Salsa,
I have been a long-standing fan of salsa far and wide for many years, since my babies were diagnosed with Robbie Benson’s Bubble Boy syndrome and I was reduced to a diet of salsa and meat and flax chips as I attempted to ‘purify’ their food source. During my salsa dieting days, I learned a thing or two.  You, Salsa Makers of the World, have learned nothing. So let me inform you of four things.

1. Taste and freshness matter. Some salsa makers are aware of this. Green Mountain Gringo Medium Salsa is a fresh as a babbling brook and as tasty as my grandma’s fried chicken. So to speak. Pace–just stop trying.
2. Texture matters. If I have to chew anything, besides the chip itself, I’m done. Also, the tomato paste/pizza sauce consistency is quite icky. Somewhere in the middle is where you ought to be. I should not have to be telling you this, since this is your chosen profession.
3. Price matters. And though Green Mountain Gringo can kill any other salsa producer on the planet in taste and texture, they are quire unaware that the economy tanked badly. There are, I would imagine, a goodly number of people who can skip the freshness when $5.19 is the price you have to pay for it. I am one of those skippers. It hurts my heart to pass it by, but at that price, I have broken up with Green Mountain Gringo.
4. SIZE OF JAR matters gargantuanly. I am baffled that there is no salsa maker out there who understands this point. The life’s purpose of a jar of salsa is to be a swimming pool for a triangular chip. So why, OH WHY, is every jar designed to cause Salsa Knuckles when you go for your 10 minute chips n salsa fix every afternoon? To Chi Chi’s, I must specifically say: Woe to you for your tall, skinny jar. Only a pickle should come in a jar like yours. Put some thought into your packaging, people. What am I supposed to do, crush up a chip into the balled-up fist of a 10-week-old baby  and somehow dip out some salsa? Even if that worked, I’d still have Salsa Baby Hands to clean up. Perhaps I could cinch up my Tostito into a corset and lower it through that scary funnel you call a jar opening?  Don’t make me pour my salsa into a bowl like I’m a farm donkey from 1898. Don’t make me nibble the corners off my perfectly shaped tortilla chip until it is thin enough to lower down your little mine shaft. If I was willing to do that, I would be snacking on cold corn on the cob. And what about Man Calves? Her hands are twice the size of mine. She will be reduced to using a teaspoon just to get the salsa out. If this is where we land, we may as well be spreading jelly on scones.

So how about a jar that is short and fat? How hard is that? Do you know how much money you would make off of that? You can target women with french manicures or people who hate eating ribs.

Or how about a jar that has a little wheel at the bottom like a tube of chap stick? As my salsa gets lower in the jar, I can adjust the bottom and keep pushing the salsa up as I go. This one may be slightly cost prohibitive, but I’m just brainstorming in an area that is clearly unexplored.

I am tired of salsa knuckles. It is ruining my snack time.

.