Blue Sky: The Essence of Terrible

Introduction: A Brief Explanation Regarding Hippie Food Stores

There is a craze sweeping the nation, and this craze is extremely similar to earwigs, in that it is also tunneling through people’s ear canals and eating their brains. The craze is hippie food stores, stores which sell food specifically designed to cater to hippies.

If it were just hippies buying this ridiculous food, there would be no problem. But normal people also buy this food, especially yuppies and the mentally disabled*. Now, this doesn’t really make any sense. One would think that marijuana-deadened hippies would not be the ones you’d want to buy your food from, considering that they were willing to eat ketchup-and-mayonnaise sandwiches back in the sixties. These are people that would be willing to put used cigarette butts on toast and eat the resulting tobacco sandwich if they couldn’t find anything else to eat when they started having their marijuana-induced munchies.

*People that voluntarily eat tofu.

But no. Thousands upon thousands of mentally-challenged yuppies, all over these United States of America, are willing to spend their hard-earned dollars on food chosen by dirty hippies. Naturally (excuse the pun) all of this food is exactly what you would expect it to be. Here’s a rough estimate of what kind of food is stocked at hippie food stores:

  • Food that tastes like shit: 123.5%

As you can see, by my estimates approximately all of the food at hippie food stores tastes like shit. The extra 23.5% is because the food at these stores is so bad that it actually makes food from other stores taste like shit.

Let’s say you buy some food from Albertson’s one day. Very preservative-laden, fatty, and abhorrently unfriendly to the environment. Basically some real good food.


This is Celestial Raven, owner of Happy Apple Farmer's Market. She would be happy to serve you.

Well, let’s say the next day you buy from Happy Apple Farmer’s Market, run by Celestial Raven, who practices Wicca. She only sells hemp seeds, natural tofu, organic produce, and various spices that are to spice what Phil Collins is to music. She doesn’t want you shopping at Albertson’s. She wants you shopping at Happy Apple Farmer’s Market. So she uses her bizarre Wiccan powers to put a spell on every piece of food she sells. She makes the spell so that it transfers its bland, boring taste to everything around it. She makes sure of this. She is afraid that if only her food tastes like bland nutritious garbage, you’ll stop buying her food.

So if you put Albertson’s food next to food from Happy Apple Farmer’s Market, the latter will make the former taste like salted cardboard. And it’ll cost more, too, due to the spell waves emanating from the food from Happy Apple Farmer’s Market. It’s a very strong Wiccan spell.

Sunflower Market

Hippie food stores take different forms all over the United States. For example, here in Albuquerque they have the “Sunflower Farmer’s Market”, and their slogan is “Serious food, silly prices”.

If by "serious" you mean "shitty", and by "silly" you mean "ludicrously high".

I have tried the “organic” food in Sunflower Market, and I can vouch for the fact that it is some of the most serious food I’ve ever tasted. After all, there is nothing fun about eating it at all.

Sunflower Market pretends to be a cutesy-poo little flower of a food store by adding cute little fonts to everything. Everything has its own font, and a piece of clipart. You go to the produce section, there is a produce font. You get meat, there is a meat font. You want olives, there is an olive font.

If you go to Smith’s, you get food. If you go to Sunflower Market, you get clipart and fonts.

These stores are concentrated around New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, Colorado, Utah, and Nevada, and their central theme is that they try way too hard to be “home-grown, good ol’ nat’ral food” stores. One would think this would mean most of the food would come from near the store (in this case Albuquerque, New Mexico), but no, I go there and most of the food comes from Mexico or California. Most of the food from New Mexico is salsa, on a little shelf off to the corner marked “FOOD GROWN IN NEW MEXICO!”. Thank God. I would not trust Californians to make salsa for me if they were the last Western peoples on earth. They’d probably add habanero peppers and hemp seeds. And then they’d restrict its right to marry the same sex by constitutional amendment.

Blue Sky Soda: The Drink Hippies Like

One of the many products in Sunflower Market that comes from Satan’s asshole California is Blue Sky soda.** I tried their “Organic” root beer, which they call “Root Beer Encore”. It is the most terrible root beer I have ever tasted. It is worse than Barq’s Root Beer, it is worse than drinking Gatorade, it is worse than drinking rhinoceros piss. If you like Blue Sky soda (God help you) I can only assume that your taste buds are burnt off, probably by the habanero peppers you eat in California. Because it is terrible. God is it ever terrible.

**It says “Santa Fe, New Mexico” on the front, but it’s actually made in Corona, California at this point. It actually got sued over this.

Let me write it out in large bold red letters for you:


It would be flashing, but I can’t use CSS until I finally find a half-decent webhost. Close enough.

The kind I got was “USDA certified organic”, and had “real cane sugar.” Judging from just the taste of the drinks I’ve yet tasted with actual sugar in them, I would guess that sugarcane is the most disgusting substance on planet Earth, followed closely by high-fructose corn syrup. I mean, seriously, Mexico gets Coca Cola with real sugar, while the closest we can get is Blue Sky “Organic”?

When the version of a soda with sugar in it is more disgusting than the version with high fructose corn syrup, SOMETHING IS WRONG.

Is this some kind of conspiracy or something? Do I have to invade Europe to get some actual sugar in my system without subjecting myself to this disgustingly fruity and tasteless crap?

I guess so. Let’s get some AK-47s from the army surplus store, looks like it’s time to invade Germany again. And possibly Poland. Hey, it might not be nice, but we’d might as well invade Poland. It’s not like the Poles could stop us.

I guess that big American corporations think sugarcane-sweetened carbonated beverages are the kinds of drinks that hippies like. The real sugar must go along well with Doors albums and Volkswagen buses. Good to know.

The Truth About Hippie Food Stores, And Who is Responsible (Aging Baby Boomers)

Like hippies, all of the kinds of foods they sell at “farmer’s markets” are flavorless, bland, and annoying. This food tries to make people feel like they’re making a difference by eating food grown and prepared without preservatives or growth hormones, but all it really does is allow lazy and brainless tools to go through life without doing anything productive or beneficial to the human race.

Frankly, I blame the Baby Boomers. Baby Boomers are just as flavorless, bland and annoying as hippies, and they are equally obsessed with achieving some kind of unobtainable enviro-green future where we all drive recycled hybrid cars and fart oxygen and pixie dust out our asses. Bullshit, I say. Give me a camper trailer. Fuck Toyota Priuses, I want to see the forest, not imprison myself to living in some paved-road shithole subdivision where the people are all pasty-white middle-class zombies and everybody drives environmentally-friendly cars in some kind of surreal dystopia.




I think people who go to these stores think a little too much of themselves, don’t you? I mean, maybe I’m just a moron. Maybe I just can’t appreciate the subtle classiness of buying your Keystone “Light” beer for an extra five dollars at the local “farmer’s market” and buying only foodstuffs that have the words “Natural” and “Organic” emblazoned right on the box in Comic Sans MS font .

But let’s look at the facts. First off, how in the hell is a store like this a “farmer’s market”, anyway? I don’t see any farmers when I go there. Some may have a garden or a couple horses, but I don’t see any farmers peddling their wares anywhere. Hell, I wish they had farmers at the “farmer’s market”. I could buy food from them directly, rather than through a faceless corporation that puts mooing cows on its homepage in a misplaced attempt to appear rustic and homely.

Because let’s face it: These hippie food stores are just big corporate monoliths, and are just like any other supermarket chain. The only difference between a hippie food store and a regular supermarket is that a hippie food store sells organic food at higher prices. Also its board of directors regularly participates in a drum circle. Their conference table may also be shaped like the peace sign.

And while some people may look at all of the peons down below them in the social hierarchy and think how intelligent and classy they are for buying only grain-fed hormone-free free-range naturally-raised humanely-killed organic home-grown all-American wave-the-flag-around-awhile-while-we-roast-this-dead-cow ground beef, we gotta remember that most people don’t buy their food from Albertson’s or Wal-Mart because they want to, it’s because they can’t afford better.

Y’know, I’m not saying Wal-Mart is great. Hey, it’s gigantic and an eyesore and it doesn’t really have every buyable product known to man. Some of its products aren’t great. Sometimes it doesn’t even have the lowest prices.

So we agree: Wal-Mart’s not perfect. But at least it’s honest.

Nihao from the Village that Time Forgot, Namely, Corrales, New Mexico

Beyond the hills of Jemez, down to the heights of the Sandia valleys, just south of Bernalillo, New Mexico, United States of America, lies the famed Village that Time Forgot. Here is the vortex which stops and reverses time, depriving all others of their ability to achieve progress, the pinnacle of Farcical Astrophysics. And out of this vortex shoots only one substance of importance for the people of Spaceship Earth, namely: Speeding tickets.

The land that time forgot.

Corrales: The land that time forgot. Hey, I didn't say it was all bad.

Here, time stands still. While many cities have such things as running water, sewer systems, a working electrical system, stoplights, and rainy days when the air is not filled with the smell of horse manure, the people of Corrales have elected for a town atmosphere that can be most succinctly described as “colonial Spanish village, with Internet access.” Many residents in this tiny region still live on dirt roads, by their own choice, because they want to ride horses while simultaneously allowing their cars to jiggle over rocks like Jell-O in an earthquake. Here is the city which was told that traffic would be so bad on its main road that it would need a traffic light at a certain intersection, but refused to build it because it said a traffic light would make the intersection more dangerous. However, they did remove stop signs at another of their busiest intersections because they wanted people to use it more than the main road, and as such experienced a rash of traffic accidents; and refused to take down a stop sign at another point on the same road they wanted people to use because they were afraid it would create more school bus accidents, and because, of course, the Mayor lived on that street, and you can’t have the Exalted, Mighty Leader of the Village of Corrales, Established Nineteen Seventy-Something, having to watch out for plebians racing past at thirty miles an hour in their Toyota Corollas, unless they opposed the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit when it was enacted, in which case they will be driving past at twenty-miles an hour for the entire stretch of the road, less if you’re in a hurry to get to work on time, just because they wish to watch you squirm.

To the extent of my knowledge, Corrales has also added fences to keep people from coming in from other cities next door, and has had its government reject skate parks, a Krispy Kreme donut shop, and various other things. Apparently, Krispy Kreme didn’t want to build in a town that didn’t have a water or sewage system, and Corrales didn’t want a place that used newfangled electronics technology like lightbulbs and telephones to distract from its “special flavor.” Corrales people, it should be mentioned, call themselves “CorraleƱos”, pronounced “COH-Rahl-Yehnyohs”, like you would talk if you were a drunken Spanish person who was inventing Spanish words as part of a surreal bar bet (“Hey, Lopez, let’s come up with a word to describe retarded people!”).

As you might have guessed by now, Corrales is one of those snoot-ass pretentious little flowers where everybody lives right next to a major metropolitan area but wants to pretend like they live in colonial Massachusetts or whatever the hell they think New Mexico is.

These towns are always right next to a Whole Foods market or a similar hippie-food supermarket, because the vast majority of the towns’ citizens are hippies or “flower children” who require special nutrition, such as tofu, which most people would not use for dog food. In Corrales’ case, the supermarket is named “Sunflower Market”. However, because Sunflower Market is the only place in Albuquerque that still offers custard-filled Long John donuts, which I should not have to state is awesome, Sunflower Market gets a free pass.

Regardless of “special flavor”, I don’t understand why my hometown has to act like this. For one thing, these people seem to be against making Corrales feel big and modern, as if somehow things like stoplights and buses would make Corrales a major metropolis overnight. I don’t get it. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I’ve never seen stoplights and paved roads as what makes living in cities terrible. Y’know, I always kinda thought it had more to do with the fact that cities are festering hellholes of corruption and crime and violence that are overpopulated and beset with pollution and noise. And, ironically enough, the one thing that has kept Corrales from becoming overpopulated–its lack of a water and sewer system, which means that each house must have at least one acre surrounding it–is under attack from the same merchants and shopkeepers that want to keep Corrales rural. Apparently, stoplights make a city modern, but sewers and a municipal water system do not.

Or at least that’s my understanding. Since we got excluded from a vote to decide what we would do with our own road, my family has kept out of Corrales politics. My neighborhood road was a dirt road, with houses on only the south side of the street. A developer wanted to build new houses on the opposite side of the street.

Here’s the thing; each person on our street owns the portion of the road directly in front of their house. This meant that the incoming neighbors would share our road. The developer offered to pave the road for free in exchange for our giving up the portion of our property we used for a road, as well as creating a neighborhood association with the new neighbors.

People on our side of the road–everybody on our side of the road, except my family and a couple of hardy holdouts who supported the developer because they didn’t want to live on a dirt road for the rest of their lives–disliked this plan. They had several reasons:

  1. They wanted to ride their horses up and down the road, and paved roads hurt horses’ feet.
  2. The developer was an asshole.
  3. The new people coming in would be snooty Damn Rich White People–a sensible concern for anybody, as they might be driving Subaru Bajas, Toyota Prii, or those little ugly “Smart” cars that look like a Mini Cooper got in a fight with a can-crushing machine and lost.
  4. They would have to give up something.

When it came time to meet to decide what was to be done with our road, those who supported letting the developer pave the road were not informed, and thus the road would remain unpaved.

The developer, at this point apparently figuring that the residents of our road were beyond reasoning, wisely decided to give up, and build a paved road right next to the dirt one. However, as I already said, he was an asshole, and thus whenever people on our side of the road began using the new, paved road, he installed fences so that nobody on our side of the street could use the road.

Thus, in my neighborhood, we have two roads; one, made of dirt, which the Village of Corrales will not pave because it assigns the task of paving roads to housing developers; and another, right next to the dirt one, which is fenced off with barbed wire so that the people who own the land on the dirt road can’t use it either. If we were to pave our road, at a tremendous cost, they would have a four-lane road, made of two two-lane roads, both paved, one paved at the expense of its residents, with a brick wall in between so neither side of our street can use the road the other side made. Our side–I swear I am not making any of this up–now wants to turn our dirt road into a road for riding horses on. They are trying to get an injunction by the Village of Corrales to force our new neighbors into sharing their paved road with us, which the new neighbors helped pay for by buying the new houses their developer built the new road for.

I have no hatred of Corrales. I want to make this quite clear. It is nice to live in a place where you generally do not have to worry about meth labs, noise, violent criminals, or inept police officers, except for when our neighbor next door operated a meth lab out of his house and operated semi trucks at three in the morning and invited crack addicts to his house and shot off guns in the middle of the night and the police refused to intervene because Corrales is a rural community. Corrales also has a large population of coyotes, which kill off annoying dogs who would otherwise yap loudly into the night; and a large population of rabbits, which my dog used to eat and get tapeworms from.

Nevermind. Truly, I don’t hate Corrales. For all its problems, it’s no different than any other city. But, then, that’s exactly my point. The reason I wrote this article is to illustrate that every person’s community in the United States of America is, ahem, unique*. If you live in a major city, you can be certain that your community is unique*. And if you live in a small village, well, it’s probably like Corrales and that means that your community is unique* in its own special way, too. And if you live in a normal town, well, that splits the difference between what makes a village and a city unique*, so your town is unique* too. And my community is unique*, and my cousin’s town recently got hit by a hurricane, and my other cousin’s town is a festering hellhole of violence and crime and stupidity. Don’t worry, your community is as unique* as mine is, and so is your neighbor’s, your brother’s, your cousin’s, and my cousin’s. Isn’t that what makes America great? United we are unique*, divided we are unique*, but united we are unique* together. And I can think of no greater thing on earth than that.

And so, as I finish writing this, I think to myself about one truth, separated from all the other truths I have discussed with you, and, as I mull over the merits and the truthiness of this truth, I come to but one conclusion: Hey, all that money that went into building a new paved road for the rich white kids going to the new private school north of here could easily have covered paving my road! And then some! And I think that truth describes Corrales most succinctly.

*Stupid approaching mildly retarded.