Where Paris Hilton will spent Orientation Week in hell.

Let us examine the particulars. Of the daisy-mirror we need not speak. Of the orange pot a-boilin’ over with plastic daisy stew we will certainly not speak. But what is that on the wall?


Of course, it’s an old-timey meat-grinder painted avocado green, stuffed with fake vegetables, and mounted on a plaque you bought at Escutcheons ‘N’ Things. But <tevye voice> You may ask . . . how do I make it?

Here we have the mindset of the Thifty-American community down pat: if you’re lucky enough to have an old fashioned meat grinder. There’s something about the term that brings Joan Collins to mind, eh? Hi-yo! Yes sir! </edmcmahon voice>

And if you’re like me, you’re tired of “meat grinder” and “ammonia” showing up in every set of instructions these days.

Surely this is all one can do with the medium of hand-opered flesh-crushing machines, no? No.