Holy ale blog.

Some fun spam lines to start my Monday:
• Beef up the size of your willy!
• Unhappy with your short comings?
• Turn your Spud into a Stud!

Haw, haw. My willy? I'm fond of it, as is. You might say I'm attached to it.

It was a new products weekend at our house. Or rather, we tried a few things that we hadn't before. One was because the long arm of marketing managed to reach us, even though our television and radio consumption is measured in hours per week, rather than per day. The other was seemingly random, but I have to wonder...

Yuriko pays more attention to the circulars in the Sunday paper than I do, and she pointed out some coupons for a chain pizza joint known as Papa Murphy's. A name like that -- the best pizza pie in Galway! -- gets your attention. Turns out a franchise had just opened down the road from us, in one of the endless strip centers in my part of the world.

That was the first I'd heard of the chain. No surprise there, I'm out of most of the world's loops. But when I went to pick up the pizzas we ordered Friday night, a sign at the shop informed me that his was the 800th Papa Murphy's. According to the company Web site, it's mainly a Western and Midwest operation. Its gimmick is this: you buy the pizzas uncooked. They aren't frozen, but they do have to spend 12 to 15 minutes at 425 F in your oven.

Verdict: Not bad. Better than frozen, slightly better than Papa John's and its ilk. But something about having to cook it at home irked me, even though I knew I would have to, going in. But the pizzas are cheap. Sort-of-fresh pizza at frozen prices. Still, the business model works, it seems.

On Sunday, I washed down my hayashi rice -- a slightly spicy brown sauce with vegetables, covering steamed rice -- with Monty Python's Holy Ale. I'd bought it a few weeks earlier on impulse at a small grocery store in the northern suburbs. Made by Black Sheep Brewery, Yorkshire. The label actually says, "Monty Python's Holy Grail, with the "gr" crossed off. "Ale" is written under that, along with the words "Tempered over burning witches." A sound method of brewing, I'm sure. Verdict: A tasty brew.

Sir Bedevere: There are ways of telling whether she is a witch.
Peasant 1: Are there? Oh well, tell us.
Sir Bedevere: Tell me. What do you do with witches?
Peasant 1: Burn them.
Sir Bedevere: And what do you burn, apart from witches?
Peasant 1: More witches.
Peasant 2: Wood.
Sir Bedevere: Good. Now, why do witches burn?
Peasant 3: ...because they're made of... wood?
Sir Bedevere: Good. So how do you tell whether she is made of wood?
Peasant 1: Build a bridge out of her.
Sir Bedevere: But can you not also build bridges out of stone?
Peasant 1: Oh, yeah.
Sir Bedevere: Does wood sink in water?
Peasant 1: No, no, it floats! It floats! Throw her into the pond!
Sir Bedevere: No, no. What else floats in water?
Peasant 1: Bread.
Peasant 2: Apples.
Peasant 3: Very small rocks.
Peasant 1: Cider.
Peasant 2: Gravy.
Peasant 3: Cherries.
Peasant 1: Mud.
Peasant 2: Churches.
Peasant 3: Lead! Lead!
King Arthur: A Duck.
Sir Bedevere: Exactly. So, logically...
Peasant 1: If she weighed the same as a duck, she's made of wood.
Sir Bedevere: And therefore...
Peasant 2: ...A witch!