Culturally Insensitive: or something like that.

Dear Post Coital Couples, anyone who has strawberry blonde hair that I have referred to as a ginger, and any men who can grow a beard bigger than mine, which I know isn’t hard but still fuck all you guys:

Pop culture is one of those things I can generally do without in my life on a regular basis, but it’s also one of those things I really fucking love being part of my life. It’s a conundrum, I know. But good god it’s a really large issue for me.

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And honestly it raises questions internally that I come to find I have about myself. Like when I’m standing in a group of friends three days after I tell my girlfriend that pop culture doesn’t matter that much to me, and I’m trying to play it cool, glaring at friends through my horn rimmed glasses and flicking the cherry of my clove cigarillo, listening to all of them go on and on about the drivel that takes up their lives and then one of them says something like “ugh I can’t believe the Kardashian’s are even still relevant” and then something clicks inside me and I feel this need to defend the honor of these strangers I don’t even know and I come back with something just undeniably ridiculous like, “Excuse me what the fuck do you mean by that? The Kardashian’s are one of the most relevant groups of celebrities today!” And then I see them judge me and I’m quick to cover my statement and make it sound like I was truly just being sarcastic by following that up with “Kim gave one of the most memorable blow jobs of our time!”

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Everyone lol’s. Crisis averted.

For now.

But then I remember how close I was to admitting I have a problem.

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I think my brain gave up hope on trying to justify my cultural likings. Obviously I won’t be that guy who justifies going to see the next Nicholas Sparks movie because honestly fuck Nicholas Sparks and fuck his movies. Did you even bother taking time to see ‘A Walk to Remember’? That was the last culturally relevant movie that was made based on a book of his. You can put eight million Zac Efron’s and twelve Ryan Gosling’s into a Nicholas Sparks film but no matter what the context, even if you make them have the all time greatest homosexual on screen romance with graphic animalistic sex scenes, but you cant top the performance Mandy Moore gave to that film. Honestly, when she died, I died.

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I don’t believe anyone that says they didn’t.

I digress…

The problem, is that my tastes, while firm and finite in my mind, are scattered all over the fucking place like the lost souls of celebrity children who end up cutting their hair, experimenting with drugs, and filming themselves taking it on camera.

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For example. because I know this isn’t going to resonate with everyone, lately there have been a multitude of things that hit home for so so many in their heart of hearts. But for so many other reasons than the actual ones that I enjoyed them for.

Like ‘Hotline Bling’.

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You remember it. Drake, came out of the woodwork following some bang up tracks that put Meek Mill’s name to shame when he was trying to have a disgustingly simple rap battle over the interwebs. And suddenly, in all it’s glory, there was neon glow, backgrounds, and Drake. Dancing alone.

Why on earth was it so good? Was it good because of it’s healthy and incredibly catchy tune? Yes.

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Was it good because Drake is a cultural icon for anyone that feels the need to continue finding beer pong relevant and require background jams to get them through the fact that everytime they miss a shot they are admitting to the world just how inaccurate they are, both in sport and in life? Yes.

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But the reason it resonated with me? Drake officially gave his okay to white men everywhere to get drunk at weddings, bar mitzvahs, or whatever culturally boring event they want and dance like they are five stanky legs away from shaking out that bowel movement they have been holding in for an hour. I can literally scoot my pelvis around, point my fingers, and generally just wave my hand in different directions, and no matter what happens, if someone tries to call me out on it I can just start singing “You Used to Call me on my Cell Phone…” and they chuckle, and I continue my generic whitebread dance, and we all get along and go home after the wedding or four year old’s party at Chuckee Cheese and the whole world falls sleep saying something like…

“Damn, remember how awesome Alex was at dancing that hotline bling jig?”

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Straight up I have an issue with how I view things in the entertainment world. Are you enjoying watching American Horror Story this season?

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Awesome, me too! But guess what, not because its quality television! This whole baby vampire plot line was some twilight bullshit that Ryan Murphy ripped straight from the headlines of every article about how Twilight made a lot of money and teenage girls wanna watch Vampires scrump and feed on each other.

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And thank GOD we found all the hot gay actors to use as an opportunity to make GAGA appear well suited for the season, am I right ladies? Because that’s totally gonna work out when you become famous and come face to face with Matt Bomer and he feigns interest so he can keep scoopin on your male date’s wing-wang. Because how else would this season work, what with all of the awesome garbage they’re visually stimulating our eyeballs with, like blood, bleeding, and things covered in blood. Go team GLEE! You learned how to scare five year old kids with no imaginations!

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Want to know what does it for me? I am watching eagerly because I am hoping that eventually there is going to be something that genuinely scares me. I have such hope after the first two seasons that there is going to be something that would genuinely scare me, and then they went and put out two seasons filled with timid characters trying to find their ‘real selves’. I know…

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Gripe Gripe Gripe.

But seriously that’s the draw for me! I want that horror that genuinely instills fear in me. I haven’t seen an actually scary movie in SO LONG. I used to do a podcast centrally focused around movies and I even said on there that the horror films that get put out today are just a gross misrepresentation of what directors think we will be most afraid of, like gore, and sex, and gory sex.

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The Human Centipede series was legitimately the most mind numbing thing I have ever seen, even watching a persons mouth be pulled by needle and thread into the anus of another human, only to consume their poo and continue on in life as the nazi science project they are. Still no scare.

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Horror has lost its edge man. You wanna step back on the band wagon? Make some horror films about scary ass shit. Make me a horror film where you pull up the McDonald’s Drive through and everyone inside has been murdered and its late, and you know you cant go in there but the sheer fact that you wont be able to get that Big Mac you showed up for in the first place is just fucking terrifying lets be honest.

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Do you see where this is headed? I am a confused man child who cant get a grasp on what it is he likes. The good movies bore me. The boring movies make me horny. And porn just doesn’t cut it anymore. Give me plot! Stop picking up girls on the side of the road and banging them in the back of a van. There is nothing sexy about that.

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That’s how you get the clap.

Am I honestly supposed to believe you just pick up these women who look like someone that has been rode hard and put away wet, and your first thought isn’t ‘How do I know this woman is clean?’

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You’re just going to chance it? BangBus I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.

I am going to be the guy that likes Batman v. Superman or whatever because Ben Affleck gives a stellar performance that I can actually hear because he isn’t grumbling through his overbite like that half bit hack Christian Bale used to. (Thank God)

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I am going to be that guy who gets stoked when the next Adele record comes out because I want to hear a female singer that might actually put out an album that doesn’t have more than one song on it about how a guy did her wrong. Adele already did that. I have high hopes that this one is going to have like A SINGLE song on it that references whatever sad bro gave up on a thicky thicky thick girl and now she hella famous and he’s shootin smack on the weeknights because his rent check bounces.

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I WILL STRAIGHT UP BE THE GUY WHO GOES TO SEE EVERY SINGLE TYLER PERRY FILM WHEN IT HITS THEATRES BECAUSE THOSE FILMS ARE EMOTIONAL GOLD. Not to mention the plot twists and sincerity that goes into the man’s work is just inordinately good! I give zero fucks! If you cant Madea then friends we can’t be-a.

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Do you understand internet? The straightforward course that you’ve all been running is misguided!

And now I’m here to fix it.

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One post at a time.

Sincerely,

Someone slowly slipping into the depths of irrelevancy.

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Lessons in Thanksgiving: I may be a chef, maybe.

Dear mothers who took offense to my last letter header, anyone shoveling out of Buffalo NY, and Michael Jackson’s children:

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I spent all last winter walking home alone from the mall bus stop during snow storms and frigid winds alike to know that according to my nipples, it is officially winter.

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Don’t let the weather get you in a bind. I know you’re all looking forward to reuniting with family for the holidays, unless you still live at home. And if you do still live at home…good on ya! My mortgage payments and grocery bills weep for your ability to sock away funds for whatever harmonic and melodious things may come your way this holiday season.

My friends and family are getting an autographed photo of me wearing leggings for the holidays.

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That’s what happens when you’re on a budget.

Everyone suffers.

But the holidays aren’t all doom and gloom, and neither should your outlook on them be!

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Think of all the wonderful things you’ll get Christmas morning. Or for 8 days if you are of the Chanukah persuasion. And I’m not sure how Kwanza works (*remember to check Wikipedia later*), and if you worship that weird moon holiday that is non demographic or whatever, then congrats on breathing and avoiding all things fun!

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But in between the hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping at your work desk on your handy dandy iPhones that are probably still covered under a family plan, unless you’re unbelievably well off in which case congrats on marrying a doctor early in life, there must be made time for something special.

Seasonal depression is a serious issue and I’ve come up with some solutions to combating the darkness this holiday season.

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I give you, the ‘Most Things Are Garbage’ holiday series:

Plenty of entries involving tips and tricks to fight the cold that is your heart this winter. Mainly because I need it too, and writers block is a bitch.

So to kick you off, just in time for Thanksgiving, an instructional guide to cooking a Thanksgiving Turkey!

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Go Go Gadget Gobble!

Step 1: Grab a pen and paper. You need to document everything that we are doing here. Especially if it’s your first time like me! Draw pictures, take notes, record recipes, produce a tracing of a hammerhead shark. The bottom line is, you’ll want your original recipe for years to come!

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After all, where do you think KFC would be if the Colonel hadn’t jotted down the secret recipe and blatant racism in his notepad?!

Gone. That’s where they’d be.

Step 2: Go buy a goddam turkey. This is a step I shouldn’t have to tell you. If you preheat your oven, and don’t have a turkey, and are confused as to why you can’t get this recipe correct, quit now.

I can’t save you. This blog can’t save you.

Martha Stewart can’t save you.

But, if you do this all in the correct order, head to your local Price Chopper, Hannoford, Piggly Wiggly, or Wegmans (unless you’re in Albany because we don’t deserve Wegmans or something, right Wegmans? You’re too good for Albany is that it Wegmans?) and roll your cart on back to the meat section.

What Should We Call Veganism: A Vegan Life in GIFs, Part 1

Picking out the turkey you want is a delicate art in itself. First, count the number of people you’re cooking for. The higher the number, the bigger this bird needs to be.

For every three people you are cooking for, add ten pounds. For example, serving six? Get a sixteen pounder. Because you know all your greedy fucking friends are gonna say:

‘oh! Free thanksgiving!’

What Should We Call Veganism: A Vegan Life in GIFs, Part 1

…and you’re gonna say:

‘oh! Where’s all my leftover turkey for my hot turkey sandwiches? Oh! My greedy fucking friends ate it all!’

What Should We Call Veganism: A Vegan Life in GIFs, Part 1

So do yourself a favor and get more than you need.

Make sure the final selection is perfect. Punch it a few times to verify it built up its breast muscles out in the yard while it was being raised in captivity. It should be able to take a punch. Not like those weak ass organic turkeys raised on some farmers couch where he spoon fed it all the right grains and gave it baths and shit.

What Should We Call Veganism: A Vegan Life in GIFs, Part 1

It’s no wonder organic costs so much when you consider all the unnecessary spa treatments the animal got before it ended up in your grocery store.

And finally, if you’re eating for one. Don’t buy a turkey. Get a can of chef Boyardee ravioli a or something. Save the birds for people who need them.

Or get a Cornish game hen.

What Should We Call Veganism: A Vegan Life in GIFs, Part 1

Whatever.

Step 3: Buy all the ingredients you need to stuff, baste, marinate, fry, or whatever other unhealthy verbs you feel like doing to your bird.

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I’ve compiled a list of ‘could do with’ products below:

Celery
Carrots
Onions
Apples
Chicken stock
Rosemary
Thyme
Sage
Pepper
Salt
Butter
Margarine
Butter alternative spreads
Beer
Oil
Breadcrumbs
Juice
Spam
Matzah
Ice cream
Twine
Flour
Potato
Whatever you fucking feel like.

Step 4: Pay.

And I don’t mean ‘don’t steal’…

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…I mean wait till you see how much this shit costs you…

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…you’re gonna fucking pay.

Step 5: Thaw that bird.

Your friends aren’t coming until dinner tomorrow night, but you don’t wanna try cooking that turkey frozen. You need it to be able to bend with your every creative whim.

Because today you are Emeril Lagassii. You’re a food artist.

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So bring that sucker to room temperature. And if when you wake up the next morning, you find that garbage is still frozen, run him under some hot water.

Because you don’t have time for that shit. You gotta get to prepping. After all, it’s 7:30 in the morning and you’re friends will be here in eleven hours so shits gotta get done and you haven’t even had your first cup of coffee.

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Step 5: Prep your stuffing and rub.

Do you know what you’re stuffing your bird with yet?

Actual stuffing? Vegetables?

Fruit salad?

What Should We Call Veganism: A Vegan Life in GIFs, Part 1

Whatever it is, you gotta use a knife. Unless you’re lazy as fuck in which case throw a whole onion up in that booty.

What’s a couple of full length carrots gonna hurt?

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You’re not a savage! Don’t treat the bird like it betrayed you and ratted to the Chinese mob about the deal you made with Foo to hide the guns he was trafficking. Treat it like a human.

Dice that fricken onion. Slice those carrots. Give them a sensual rub down with some canola oil action.

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As for the rub?

Throw some salt and pepper in a bowl. Then go to town adding other spices.

The more the merrier right?

Just remember to say ‘Bam’ every time you throw some in.

Paprika. Red Chili Flakes.

Ground Mustard. Chive.

McCormick Grill-Mates Sweet Asian Fusion Grill Rub.

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Go nuts.

Then take some of that rub, and mix it together with like, three cups of whatever butter or butter alternative you’re gonna use.

Look at you. Making an herbed butter, you saucy bitch.

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Step 6: Prep your pan.

You gotta pan big enough for this bird? I sure hope so. If you don’t, stop cooking, you’re a failure, and just tell your friends you prepared an ahi turkey a la salmonella for everyone when they arrive.

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If you do, congrats. Make sure it’s deep enough to hold a bed of veggies in a bath of juices and turkey sweat. This bird is gonna get hot.

Take all those vegetables you were dicing earlier and dice more, but bigger this time. Then sprinkle all those things on the bottom of the pan.

Then take your broth/stock/beer/apple juice/hot tub water and pour about an inch into the pan.

Look down at that shit.

Does it look good? Could you have done better?

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Because you’re not me. That’s why you’re learning how to cook a turkey on my blog.

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Because in some country, I’m probably a professional Chef.

Step 7: Preheat your oven.

Pay attention and watch your step kids. I’m about to drop knowledge.

You wanna cook a turkey at a slow heat.

So forget your moms lasagna recipe and ignore Nana’s patented meatloaf recipe, because this bird was meant to be cooked, not heat banged.

325.

Not 324. Not 326.

325.

If you try to change that temperature, I have already procured a team put together by myself and Neil Patrick Harris (or at least a homeless man who looks like him with a beard) who will break into your home and fuck up your turkey with a blow torch while you check on your newborns or finish up that episode of Sons of Anarchy you DVR’d this past week.

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Which was crazy right? I can’t believe Jax found out about Gemma.

Anyway.

Step 8: Prep your turkey.

This part is most difficult in my opinion. It’s a lot of handsy stuff, and frankly it will leave you feeling super uncomfortable if you do it right.

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First thing you need to do is avoid burning the wing tips. Because ew. Unless you’re one of those dicks that always asks for extra crispy with your wings. Yes that makes you a dick. And just so you know, all that means to a guy dropping your wings into a frylator is ‘forget about those wings for a while, this schmo doesn’t seem to care that his wings are going to be bones with hard crunchy fat on them by the time you’re done soaking them in grease for fifteen minutes.

Seriously. Just eat wings the way they’re supposed to be eaten.

Cooked.

Anyway, take those wing tips, and bend those bad boys up under your new found meaty friend. This will make his platform steady, and provide the illusion that he is laying on his back with his arms behind his head, ready for the beach and heat.

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Hell, throw some shades on the b. Just don’t blame me when you eat some melted plastic.

Now, apologize to your bird in advance. Your about to vandalize it’s insides like a twelve year old who just got away with purchasing his first can of spray paint.

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Now take both of the legs and pull em apart.

Yes. That’s right.

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The booty is now available.

There’s some sort of thing that blocks the booty. It’s like half meaty and half boney. I’m not really sure what it is to be honest with you because I don’t care and it’s in the way.

So rip that thingy off and just scrap it for now.

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Or mail it to Lady Gaga for her next meat dress at the Grammys.

There should be a bag of blood and guts inside your pal. Take that out. You don’t want to cook him with that in there.

You want him to feel empty inside.

Like when your ex told you that you were no longer sexually appealing.

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Or that time your parents told you that Santa doesn’t exist.

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Or that time you read on a blog that parents have to tell their kids that Santa doesn’t exist.

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Now, take all that stuff you diced and prepared earlier, and shove it up your birds bootay.

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This is like a veggie colonoscopy.

Carrots

celery, apples, raisins, watermelon

gushers, froot by the foot, sno-caps, a loaf of challah

I don’t care just shove it in. Pack it in tight.

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Congratulations. You can use this as a stuffing when your bird is done. You’re a fucking chef.

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How does that feel?

Now! You need to tie your birds legs back together so nothing leaks out while he is relaxing in his rural tanning salon.

Use twine, or something sturdy like an extension cord so it doesn’t break.

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Now find the opening to your rotund baby boys breasts. There should be a little bit of room to wiggle some fingers up under the skin layer like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs. Wiggle more and more until you can freely slide your hand around in the gap that is now between your bird and its skin.

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Do you feel good about yourself right now? Do you feel good with the lord?

You shouldn’t…

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If you did this right, you should feel like the lowlife scum that you truly are.

Now take a shovel from the garage and load it up with that gallon of herbed butter you prepared. Then shove that glob into the new layer of bird you just created with your bare hands you monster. Push it around with your hands until your bird looks normal again.

Full.  Lucious.

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Now take your spice rub and just all out slather that crap on top of your birds breasts. Just really rub it in. It’s crucial. It should look like you just dropped your turkey on the beach by the time your done.

If you need a visual, take your bird to a beach and drop it in the sand, then take it home to continue.

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Now you have properly violated the animal you legally purchased at a known establishment.

Step 9: Cook.

If you’ve made it this far, I commend you for having no soul.

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Take some tin foil and wrap it on top of your birds breasts. You don’t want it to get too tan while you’re slowly turning its skin to leather over the next six hours.

Rest your bird on its veggie towel you have created for it in the pan.

Now open the oven and slide it in.

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Step 10: Master Baste.

If you just read what I think you thought you did, your mind is in the gutter and you shouldn’t be cooking for people.

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If you just did what you think you thought you read, you need to wash your hands before you proceed. And probably seek help.

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Every half hour or so, stick that thing that looks like the ear cleaning sucker from when you were a little kid but bigger into your birds sweat which has piled up underneath him. Suck it up, and pour it back over top of him like you’re expecting it to soak back into its pores.

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Step 11: Wait six hours and realize your bird has finished cooking three hours before people are set to arrive.

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Step 12: Panic and yell at the person nearest by, dog, girlfriend, whatever. Blame it on them.

It’s really their fault anyway since all they did was whine and nag at you the whole time.

When You're Mom Keeps Nagging You To Wake Up

They’ll see. When you’re a big famous chef, they’ll be begging to be let back in from the cold.

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Step 13: Call your Dad and ask what to do.

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Don’t cry.

He already thinks your less of a man because you wrote a blog about wearing women’s leggings for a day.

Or because you quit football.

Or baseball.

Or any other sport that isn’t controlled by your hands and a gaming console.

Or because your eyebrow game is on point and you mentioned that to him.

Once.

Or because you had an allergy attack during The Fault in our Stars and you tried to tell everyone that it was probably the cats or the dust but you definitely weren’t crying but you could see how it would look like that.

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Just don’t cry.

Step 14: Don’t cry.

I’m serious.

Step 15: Cover that bitch in foil and cut the heat off. Wait till five minutes before everyone shows, turn the heat back on for ten minutes, pull out that piping hot bird and tell everyone how long you slaved, pretend you’re secure in your cooking abilities, and then make sure they drink heavily before dinner.

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Worst case scenario, they’re too drunk to notice it tastes like dry pillow stuffing and you still walk away from this experience saying:

“Fuck you Bobby Flay, I’ll throw down with you anytime!”

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Step 15: Victory Fist Pump.

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Self explanatory.

Happy Holidays Y’all!

Super full but wondering why all my friends have food poisoning,
Me.

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A Halloween Tale of HORROR: or how the food challenge went.

Dear Moms in their forties who think it’s their twenties,

Halloween is upon us, and we all know what that means!

Gorging our fat asses with candy while we binge watch ‘Once Upon a Time’ and telling ourselves that we’re gonna make it big someday, and life is gonna be worthwhile!

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But there is also the more forgotten gems that Halloween bring to the table, the often sought after horror stories to frighten us to the core.

So after you bring your children to complete strangers doorsteps in search of future sugar dependencies, return home and put them to sleep, and crack open that large bottle of Malbec you’ve been saving for all of today since you bought it last night, kick back and filter through your child’s pillowcase while you peruse the following tale of horror which I have written for you specially this holiday!

Also it rhymes!

The Tale of Insurmountable Intestinal Damage:

On a night much like this, not to far in the past,
a young man decided, to get off his ass

He’d been planning for days an event most unpleasant,
that allowed him to stand out, amongst all the peasants.

Scott Disick Quote (About big star, gif, lord disick, peasant, peasants)

‘I shall show them’, he said with his fist clenched above,
‘that I can achieve greatness when push comes to shove!’

But as days passed he pondered a thought ’twas most scary,
if he failed in his task, ‘twould not be legendary.

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His mind raced each night and his fears grew with time,
to let down all his peeps, a most horrible crime.

‘I need strength!’ this lad thought, as he woke to a new day,
‘So my friends will all know I’m as fierce as Beyoncé.’

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So he researched and read, as the time did grow near,
and he summoned a plan to which he would adhere.

He had done this before, but not quite as big,
a food challenge which he’d consume like a pig!

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‘I have watched Man v. Food and eaten before,
I’ll just walk in and beat it and walk out the door.’

For this challenge he figured could be done in a flash,
but a burger this big, it required some cash.
For the business must profit from the food that they lose,
whether in people’s bellies, or puked on their shoes.

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So he saved up enough for the burger to sit,
in his stomach obstructing a few days of shit.

And what did this contain, that made one a winner?
Well it might as well have been a Thanksgiving dinner.

And I don’t mean just one plate, or as much as you’re able,
We are talking the whole fucking Thanksgiving table.

Eating Contest

He had eaten one once, on vacation for fun,
a 30 ounce burger, including the bun.

He had beaten that burger, took it down in one sitting,
And was not a bit worried that he wouldn’t be shitting.

With his face on the wall and a milkshake that followed,
his win it was better than all that he’d swallowed.

But this one was bigger, this burger he’d try,
well he’d have to eat five pounds, and try not to cry.

One Direction

He readied his will and alerted the masses,
on an upcoming Friday they’d get off their asses.
They’d follow in glee just to watch him gain weight,
while he shoveled food sealing his fat-asses fate.

And where would he die should his heart stop its beat
Wagon Train Barbeque in ol’ Schenectady.

allison is jealous

He awoke to the day he’d be shoving his face,
and left his work early to prep for the race.

He posted his threats where the whole world could see,
On Instagram and all his friend’s Facebook feeds.

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He drank pots of coffee and a whole lot of water,
To stretch out his stomach for foods soaked in butter.
And two English muffins were all he’d consume,
But just hours before his impending food doom.

His girlfriend arrived after all day at work,
To drive him and watch him eat food like a jerk.

Alex McCord singing Les Miserables on Couples Therapy deserves a Tony.

One by one they arrived, his friends by his side,
To root and to cheer while he swallowed his pride

There was Matt and Melissa, Rachelle and Kurt too,
Hillary, Jon and Matt, a cool dude.

A girl from his high school with whom he’d not spoke,
sat by with her beau probably hoping he’d choke.

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The waitress arrived and their order she took,
though the challenge was prepping, they forwarned the cook.

A glimpse he had caught of the burger in back,
And he feared that he may have a real heart attack.

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Back to the table he sat with a thud,
Ready to become this mass eating chud.
The waitress came over arms growing quite wary,
He realized he just might be screwed, it was scary.

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He dove in ferocious and ready to eat,
and this burger though big was a most tasty treat.

That’s when it dawned on him starting this session,
That all he’d be earning here was a life lesson.

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A lesson that pulled pork and brisket would teach,
And Mac n cheese, cole slaw, eight ounces of each.
He’d plunder through bacon, two fried eggs and cheese,
Eight slices in all to bring him to his knees.
A one pound hamburger that’s really not bad,
But a bun that was huge, like the size of my dad!

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Deep fried jalapeños, onion straws just because
and he’d have to keep going, to prove what he was.
Two more pounds or so of fried onions and fries,
Enough to make normal men bleed from their eyes.
And all this concoction though balls hard to rhyme,
Must slide down his gullet in a half hours time.

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So he plowed through the proteins, and did it quite quick,
And that’s when he started to feel awfully sick.

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He rested and breathed while his time would diminish,
Melissa said out loud, ‘No way that he’ll finish.’

But he needed support not Melissa’s mean sass,
So he turned with his mouth full and said, ‘Kiss my ass!’

Ms-J-ANTM-Stare

The restaurant was hushed everybody in awe,
overwhelmed by all the consumption they saw.

And that’s when it happened, the mighty food wall,
when all of a sudden his will it did fall

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With nine minutes left, his strength it did waver,
but our subject he did everyone there a favor.

For the food it did rise, up his throat to the top,
And he surely would boot, if eating did not stop.

So the scariest part in this horrific tale,
is he threw in the towel, a huge epic fail.
But with 5.5 lbs he choked 4.3 down,
and the restaurant though sad, sort of gave him a crown.

Out of all those who lost, like one seventy-five
he’d finished the most, and he walked out alive.

On the ride home he farted, his left arm went numb,
and that’s when he realized his food quest was dumb.

So in no more food challenges would our hero partake,
and he washed down his heart attack, with a thick ass milk shake.

Happy Halloween y’all!

And in case you’re impatient and scrolled ahead, here is a video of me reading it in loungewear with a pipe:

Still breathing but the left side of my face is drooping for some reason,

Me.

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A Food Challenge: Or how not to be a little bitch.

Dear teen moms, chocoholics and anyone currently wearing Burt’s Bees,

 

I would like to preface this entry with just a little background information. In my late teens to early “comfortable in this four year relationship” twenties, I consumed food like it was going out of style. A bottle of red wine looked like a juice box to me. A large cheese pizza, unlike the one Kevin ordered for himself in Home Alone which he probz wrapped some up and put in the fridge for breakfast, slid down my gullet with the ease of an Ellios personal pizza.

And there may have been a time I embarrassed people I somehow convinced to eat at a buffet with me, by wiping a few trays out of stock.

Like once.

Okay maybe twice.

Anyway the point is I was a hangry teen boy and I ate my feelings and coped with life by pretending salty snacks and unlimited whatever’s for $9.99 weren’t going to hurt my body.

Which is why I weighed like 260 pounds.

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Ladies. Hello.

Yadda yadda yadda, throw a break up in the equation, some body issues and self loathing, and I was ready to get my posterior into shape. And also pants. That were smaller.

And so I did. But unfortunately, my ability to consume food like an asshole has been known to rear it’s ugly and overdone head.

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Please note the following film titles that were recently released were actually written about me:

‘Just because you can eat all the sushi doesn’t mean you have to’

‘The never-ending pasta bowl is not a food challenge’

‘That Guy: ordering 8 rounds of endless apps at Fridays’

And so, while you were all snuggled tight in your cubicles at work or dumping ice on your head this past month to raise awareness for ALS, I was doing something so unproductive with my time it may actually be the most senseless thing I’ve ever done.

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Last month I packed my bags with all of my size medium t shirts and 32′ waisted pants to visit the wonderful land of Tennessee.

Note those sizes kids, because in a week, everything will change.

Yes! A wonderful vacation with the all knowing and ever beautiful gf (mom, this means girlfriend) of mine at her mother and stepfather’s abode.

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We were welcomed to the state by all of the beauty that the ol’ smokey mountains and teeth missing natives had to offer, and settled down for a nine day stay at an a-frame cabin just outside of Alcoa.

A small summary of Tennessee (or the part I was in) for those that have never been, in terms of what you see from the car:

Trees.
Lots and lots of trees.
$20 tattoo store. Attached to a gas station.
Gas: $3.12. (New York, eat a dick)
Hardee’s.
Trees.
Chik-fil-a.
Sonic.
Walmart.
Hardee’s.
Guns!
Bigger guns!
More bigger guns!
Church related building.
Giant crucifix.
Giant-er crucifix.
Mountains.

(20 minutes later)

Mountains.

Now, I will say that I had a blast, and the hospitality was great. Nashville is a hoot and honestly I didn’t have to hear that fucking ‘I’m ready’ song on the radio once because if you don’t listen to country out there, you’re a foreigner or just visiting from some place like Maine or New Hampshire.

But one thing that is abundant in this state is food. And it’s good food.

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I’m talking beef jerky that tastes so flavorful, but is so spicy it could cause you to black out on the toilet but reach for another piece when you wake up.

I’m talking mexican restraunt after Mexican restraunt.

Salsa and chips until your balls fall off.

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Unless you don’t have balls.

Then just salsa and chips.

But like my last vacation that took me all the way to the land of crazy decisions on so many levels in Portland OR, I wanted to challenge myself.

Literally.

Luckily gluttons for punishment (literally in this case) like myself, there is a website called EatFeats where you can look up food challenges by state and city.

Well wouldn’t you know about thirty minutes outside of our vacationing town was a wonderful challenge I knew I had to do. So Maggie, me, her sister and her sisters boyfriend Angel (which we all learned translates loosely to ‘Little Bitch’ in English) ventured to settle at a table for optimal internal destruction.

The Chubby Burger challenge can be found at the Hot Rods 50’s Diner and this place was fantastic, wall to wall memorabilia and televisions playing show intros from long ago. Regardless the walls were also covered with a smattering of my fellow former competitors and their ‘accomplished’ times.

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Long story short I was about to attempt to eat a stupid amount of food (33 oz. Burger and 1 lb. of French Fries) and join them on the wall.

We placed our orders, and I asked our waiter, some guy that looked like he walked out of a Good Charlotte video and into this wonderful diner, what the record was and he muttered something about six minutes and someodd seconds.

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That was my goal. That was the glory I wanted to achieve.

And so after we ordered, this is the thought process that followed during the course of my epic food challenge:

Ok Alex we got this. Six minutes is nothing. All these people on the wall are inferior to you. Your gut can demolish their times.

Is this crazy? Should I do this? My friends are always amazed at how my stomach holds some things. That means I should.

Right?

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Or are they worried for me?

If they’re worried should I do this?

What if I die? That would be the worst kind of impression to make in front of the girlfriends family.

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‘Hi I’m Alex. I love your daughter. Wanna see me stroke out at a novelty diner over a novelty burger?’

The girlfriend seems proud. Her eyes are wide.

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Proud.

Maybe proud.

Maybe gauging my heart rate.

Oh good the waiter is making his way over. I’m actually pretty hungry now that I think about it.

Despite the fact this is my second lunch-ish today.

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Whatever he has our food it’s time to sack up.

What.

The.

Fuck.

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Who the fuck ordered a Mack truck?

Quick. Come up with a course of action! All your years of watching Man v. Food sitting on your ass have prepared you for this.

Why the fuck does he have a stopwatch? This is THAT legit?

We’re not gonna ballpark the time thing?

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Angel looks hungry as fuck.

I’m glad he’s doing the challenge too. I feel like someone else eating this much food makes me look slimmer somehow.

But what if he beats me? He’s already established his place in this family.

They like him…

You have to force dominance down everyone’s throats. Show everyone how much bigger your di…

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…appetite. Show them how much bigger your appetite is.

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Make sure they all know you’re gonna make this food your goal for the next few minutes and when you’re done you’re going to look like king of the fucking jungle.

Beyonce.

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You are fucking Beyonce.

Now who feels comfortable in their own skin? Huh?

You do Alex.

Ok, course of action. Don’t let them throw you off again. Cut the patties in half.

Good. Now eat the first four patty halves. Don’t bother chewing much. You’re a man.

You’re a pro at swallowing.

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Wait. No.

Don’t say that out loud.

Shit this burger tastes good.

Stop, you’re wasting time dwelling on flavor.

This burger is bland! Think cardboard! Just swallow faster.

That’s what she said.

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Heh.

Dammit.

Okay! The last patty!

Make the burger a burger now! Eat that shit whole and then you just have fries in the home stretch.

Shit you’re eating so fast. You’re the best. You’re the alpha male here!

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Angel hasn’t even made a dent in his burger! And he looks full!

Damn Alex, you are so fucking attractive right now. You should get a time check you might beat the record!

Time check! Where the fuck is that waiter! Shouldn’t he be watching closely to make sure I don’t like, shove the burger in my pants and fake the win or something?!?

Hey waiter! Bring your stopwatch daddy needs a time check!

Seven minutes.

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Damn.

Well thats okay! Now you might not barf, you can slow down!

Woo hoo! You finished the actual burger! You’re a king!

I wish I had a mirror so I could watch myself eat this burger.

If I had a mirror though I wouldn’t be able to see Angel across the table though.

Look at that little bitch across the table, taking little bitch bites.

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Wait, is his girlfriend making fun of him?

Did she just call him a little bitch out loud?

Fucking awesome Alex, you look so good right now! Ugh! Don’t stop compounding the problem with more cheese and grease!

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Let’s deal with these goddam French fries now!

Squirt ketchup and mustard all over them! Flavor changing tactics are officially your niche!

Do a fist pump to celebrate your milestone!

Left arm won’t move?

I wonder why my left arm is numb.

Am I supposed to feel light headed?

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Don’t get side tracked.

Maggie is so proud of you. She didn’t call you a little bitch once! Look at her holding back tears of joy for you.

Or vomit?

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Maybe she’s trying not to vomit?

Either way, no girl has ever looked at us like that before Alex.

Except Melissa that morning you ate the pound of bacon by yourself in the garage.

And the time you took your tinder date to the Capital Buffet.

And the time that you worked at the pizza shop and burnt the one pizza but only the center and the rest was fine and so you ate the whole thing because who the hell are they to say you can’t do anything with that pizza just throw it away hell no don’t throw it away you just eat it yourself and cover it in bleu cheese fuck the world you’re a pizza eating god.

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Ok so maybe a couple of times.

These French fries are cold what is this shit? Whatever just eat them with a fork.

Wait. This mustard tastes horrible on these.

Who the fuck dips French fries in mustard.

Alex.

You.

Dumbass.

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I’m either full or I have a large mass growing inside of me.

Maybe I’m pregnant?

Oh my god I can’t raise a child…I do food challenges for fun…what kind of parent would I be.

Maggie noticed somethings wrong. We can’t have this baby. I can’t be pregnant. Reassure her everything’s fine.

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It must be the food. It’s probably gas.

There’s still a whole plate of fries.

But I can feel the food level inside of me like halfway up my swallow hole.

We have to finish Alex.

You can’t go home defeated. And all eight of these people eating here are counting on you.

They came to see you win.

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Or get lunch.

But whatever you can do this. Drink some soda!

Shit that’s good soda.

The carbonation is giving me gas.

We definitely shouldn’t fart right now. Seriously who the hell knows what would happen with this much food inside of you.

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You can go to the bathroom when you’re done.

Ah crap I have a cramp.

Rock back and forth. Curl in the fetal position and pretend you’re somewhere relaxing and warm. Like bed. Or Hawaii.

Don’t cry, it’s going to pass.

Everyone is noticing. Your eyes are tearing up. Quick do something tough.

*flexes bicep*

Good. They get the point.

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Or their confused.

Either way no one sees the tears.

Six bites left baby you got this.

Why does very bite feel like forty five pounds?

Will they still count it as complete if I’m harboring the last four bites in my mouth because there’s no more space in my throat?

One bite left!!!!!

Left arm still numb. Use the right one! That’s it!

Damn it’s so heavy. Put it in your mouth.

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Swallow!

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Yes!

You did it!

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You are the fucking princess!

Someone find that guy from Good Charlotte! Tell him I beat his wimpy ass challenge!

Yeah that’s right! Stop that stopwatch.

Stand up for your victory!

Legs not working?

Fuck it, right handed fist pump!!

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Look at Angel!

He’s so done.

Pfft.

Ameteur.

Now we look really good.

We did so good.

Let’s order a milkshake now.

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Let’s further this issue with liquified dairy and pretend we’ll see zero complications come of this.

And that kids, is how I got myself on the wall of fame, became a doctor, won a t shirt, and lost sight of a size 32 waistline to this day.

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And I regret nothing.

Still breathing but not sure how,

Me.

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Leggings as a Thing: a Response to Fashion Week.

Dear Dolce and Gabbana,

It’s fashion week here in the Most Things are Garbage household.

This means three things.

Number one: the repercussions from Super Bowl are the devil. All that salsa laden food covered in various cheeses and seasonings probably influenced by salt has all settled in the mid section of my body, and it is holding my waistline hostage somewhere on the tipping point of a 31 spilling over into a 32.

But cheese. Dear god the cheese.

Number two: my cat and dog are not my biggest fans. Don’t get me wrong, dressing them up is great and fashion week is all about the looks, but my dog is super comfortable when he is naked and roaming free in life, and really who the hell isn’t?! It just makes it easier for him when he decides to embarrass me in front of all the dates I bring home from the Internet as he pleasures himself at their feet while we watch Amelie on the couch.

Number three: Research!

I believe it was Spider-Man who said “With great fashion comes great responsibility.”…

…or something like that.

I mean it’s 2014 now so I feel as though fashion is unbelievably lenient now-a-days, and that there is a lot more room to be flexible.

Personally, I’m usually an all dark everything-all black everything kinda guy usually. My standard wardrobe would make the interior of Drake’s Maserati blush.

As far as dress goes though, I am not on the up and up with the latest trends or the hot styles now. It is complicated and written a long while back, but if you really want to know the progression of my fashion technique, you can read this.

Basic gist: My mom picked out my outfits until I was 24 and I made those sex-bracelets out of soda cap things to wear, and then passed them off to my parents as me being creative and not at all slutty. Also, those bracelets didn’t work and I usually ended up breaking all of my own while I played with my action figures on a nightly basis. Then I made progress somewhere after an ex-gfs insistence that I dress human, I understood how important the world of fashion truly was. There’s only so many times someone can say, ‘Stop shopping at Delia’s’ before you finally start listening.

Blah blah blah, a few years later I’m basically Tyra Banks.

So I basically understood all things fashion except one:

When the fuck did it become socially acceptable to wear leggings as pants.

Mom! You didn’t prepare me for this!! I’ve seen some horrible things!

To me saying leggings are pants, is like saying cotton swabs make a good substitute for pepperoni as a topping on pizza. No, just stop it doesn’t make sense!

I had to get to the bottom of it, this fashion phenomenon that has been sweeping the world.

Well as I generally tend to do before I believe anything I’m told, I heavily considered setting out to conduct a very detailed experimentation. I weighed the pros and cons of actually wearing a pair of leggings as pants for 24 hours, and was quite hesitant but a friends Facebook post pretty much solidified the decision for me:

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Sold.

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Luckily for me, I gave up on shame several months ago. I mean really what does in matter in the long run, grand scheme of things in life, a male wearing leggings out as pants should be considered normal right?

Well staying true to the daily experiment, I began by purchasing a 10$ pair of jeggings at target in the women’s section. It was not awkward for I had my female companion in friendship in attendance with me. I grabbed a bag of gummy worms and a copy of Bridget Jones’ Diary for checkout so there would be no misconstrued notions about what I was doing.

“Ten dollars?!? Where did you find these?” exclaimed the female cashier.

Somewhere between shirts that look like dresses and accessories I have zero idea how to utilize.

One, two, skip a few and here we are at D-Day. I made sure to wear my leggings to bed so that I awoke physically wearing them for the start of my 24 hour period.

I fixed myself a pot of coffee and a hearty plate of bacon because, well these have an elastic waistband and who the hell am I trying to impress really?

I mean with the exception of that OkCupid date at Starbucks but was there any doubt that I wouldn’t kill that?

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And so, as their time wound down as house guests, Kurt and Rachelle in all their marital bliss, invited me to join them around the Capitol Region while they ran errands.

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I figured since I was basically going to be miserable wearing basically no pants all day, I may as well take in some pre-wedding bickering to really twist the whole knife of joy lodged in the torso that is my life.

Well we made our way through several locations to collect data, as will be evident below in the results. To begin, in the car I did the only thing any reasonable person would do when conducting an experiment of this caliber:

Post about it on Facebook.
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I apologize to no one. I have done everything right up to this point.

Next, I took a ‘from where I stand‘ photo to post to the Instagram at a later date after results were concluded.

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It was eerily reminiscent of the majority of shots I tend to see on the Instagram, so I knew I was doing something correct.

Suddenly, and without warning, my 00’s pop princess mix on Spotify was interrupted by the buzz and buffering of multiple notifications. Apparently, my post on the Facebook had caused a stirring in the loins of many females, and opinions began rolling in a la the form of comments:

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I am not saying no more pants is a bad thing. I’m also not saying the female who posted this has never taken her pants off in front of me.

(She hasn’t. I got friend zoned when I was like 9 for saying the word ‘vagina’ in front of her on the summer camp bus. Boys are gross.)

What I am saying, is that females rushing to the defense of their sacred skin-tites was not enough to convince me!

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Well you know women…20140210-155346.jpg

So of course there were many more opinions to be given:

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Obviously by this point I was welcoming any and all opinions because I knew in the long run half the research would be done for me. Part of the plan all along.

There were funny opinions:

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There were honest and sincere opinions:

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There was sassy-ness:

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There was classic disagreement amongst the female species:

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Obviously there would be no final group consensus as we all know that females can never just agree on something.

I knew that the fate of leggings as pants lay I’m the hands of me, and I had to get straight to business.

Below are my findings:

Daily itinerary by location:
Big Lots
The family Dollar
Michaels Craft Store
Starbucks (OkCupid first date)
Home

Variables:

Constant– me, my beauty, my ass, my sass, hair.

Changing– butt uncovered 50% of the time at each location, customer type in store.

Reasoning and rules:

1. The golden rule.

Leggings being worn as pants is applicable first and foremost ONLY if the booty is covered. It is scientifically proven, and therefore is the first regulation to this process. See scientific findings below:

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Booties are meant to be poppin, but not in leggings ladies. Covering your bottom makes all the difference out in public.

See:

Hot:

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Not:

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2. Present yourself well!!! 

Choose your outfit carefully. Whatever the fuck tunics are, they are apparently closely associated with the legging ensemble. I chose a tank top under an oversized sweater. It was sensible and not too ragged. It requires a certain chutzpah to pull it off in public, and while you may feel comfortable, the attitude makes all the difference between:

‘Look I’m lazy am I doing the shopping right oh god what is my life I miss my cats time to go home’

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And…

‘Look I’m basically Beyoncé you’re just frontin’, I AM Sasha Feirce and yuh jealous’

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3. Know what to expect.

There is a very good chance you are going to get some looks. Am I right or am I right ladies? You have to be aware of your surroundings, and science proves that with certain places come certain levels of judgment. In reality, we all know the real judgment free zone is not planet fitness, but Walmart.

Below are the findings from my day:
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If you notice, places you would expect to see leggings as pants (Big Lots, Family Dollar) are more judgmental than those places you are expected to be creative and different (Michaels, home). This is because your brain loses the ability to give a shit how you look when you go to locations you fully expect to see a lazy ensemble.

4. There is a direct correlation between pockets/zippers and comfort: 20140218-090744.jpg

Where sweatpants are basically the closest thing to allowing your bottom parts to feel more free than my refills at Starbucks, jeans can be binding and constrictive. Leggings comfort level becomes clear when put in these terms.

5. Say no to UGGS.

Look I’m not saying UGGS look stupid with leggings, I’m saying UGGS look stupid. You need to own this look, and frankly everyone looks foolish in UGGS.

Be a boss, sneakers for the win kiddos:

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Final verdict:

LEGGINGS ARE COMFY AS FUCKKKKKKK!!!

Here’s the bottom line though. If you love your body and you’re comfortable, who gives a shit what you’re wearing.

Odds are you’ll end up reclined in front of Netflix anyway.

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Honestly, with the amount of criticism put on body types and choice of dress nowadays, I personally vote for the whole if you like it, wear it at this point.

Science agrees:

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Just do you, learn to love the skin you’re in, and you’ll be fine.

And take lots of selfies…always…

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Bless this mess,
Alex.

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Remember pizza?

Dear Mom and Dad,

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Remember when I got that second job at a pizza joint to pay off that bookie because I mistakenly put four thousand dollars down on the New York Yankees to clinch a win at Super Bowl XLVII in my first attempts at betting on sport?


(Don’t worry, I’ll be smarter in the game this year…I really think the Bruins are going to tank against the Nuggets)

Well I needed you to know I’m a better person for having gained the experience there.

Fore score and many a pie ago, as you know I began what I will now refer to as an ascent into the luxurious world of pizza making. Take pause on your assumptions other readers, for this was no Dominos, no hut serving pan crust once frozen, no establishment run by some Papa. This was your very classy run of the mill pizza parlor complete with connected bar.

Oh the thrills!
20140115-102339.jpgOh the excitement!

It was a joyous event that fell into my lap because I had applied for a position of delivery man, and three months later sans automobile I was called upon to serve a higher purpose in life to tackle that pesky debt.

Pizza maker.

Now there are a few things I learned working at this unbelievable and incredible establishment, a service of explanation I would be deemed unjust for not explaining to the kind folk of the world, and you…the creators of the wonderful human that is me.

Let us begin and try to follow along, it has even a few months since I have made any dough here (zing, pun intended):

1. When you work in a pizza shop, I mean absolutely work-cook, clean, run, and ring, you develop relationships with everyone you work with as with what I assume are most jobs. You gain bonding experiences without which you would be out of the loop as to who got drunk and hooked up with whatever last night, who stormed off quietly by having a not so delicate conversation with the owner about their illegal activities, and who or what was occurring in the walk in cooler while you weren’t there.

Side note: I heard, but cannot confirm, that butt-cheeks will freeze to metal if held against it long enough.

2. Pizza shop owners are like unicorns. At their best, they ride high like the wind, slaying dough, and slathering the breaded goods of the world in a marinara cheese combo to produce a parm so majestic that it absolutely should have a sparkling horn attached to it.

On the contrasting side, they could have a gnarly cocaine habit and be a fall over drunk that likes to finger-blast the young delivery girls in an attempt to re-live what they refer to as their golden years.

(side note Mom, the current owners-as it transferred hands a bit after I started-are much cleaner and reputably honorable gentlemen, so that’s why I praise the food still. Also, finger blasting is a term I learned working here…I assume it’s when you make a gun out of your hand and yell things like ‘pew pew’ or ‘bang bang’ at people, but I’m not sure…so, sorry for the grey area)

Hark, it smells of oregano and shame in this here establishment!

3. Avoid the foods you know get dropped into a fryilator. I know, I know…give me your tired, your poor, your tenders and fries! We all like them because they’re yummy and frankly because the world is filled with people who like to dip shit in other shit. If you don’t you’re weird and my condolences to your poor palate.

I’ll make this short: in high volume food service, a fryilator should get cleaned once a week because the oil turns black and all the pieces that fall off burn and congeal on the bottom. It takes me thirty five to forty minutes to clean one and I am efficient. Most places have a cook that drains, wipes it down with an already used rag, and refills it. If I’m cleaning, fry whatever you like. If I’m not, odds are ew.

4. Delivery drivers can be dicks to the cooks. Fun fact, they make bank and anyone in the store, unless your manager has the last name Christ and the first name Jesus, doesn’t get to share in the wealth. They pray for your misfortune in financial givings and hope to god you walk out with two bucks a night so they have forty three deliveries.

It’s sad, but life in pizza land tends to often revolve around just the tip.

You can also up your chances for donations with a fun sign on the tip jar. Most people respond well when they’re crafty and clever. This one was my favorite attempt, regardless of success:

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5. Drunks are your best friends. I’m not talking about your social choices, remember we’re talking behind the counter here. But listen, even if Lindsay Lohans twin sister walks in stumbling to avoid the regurgitated bile her best friend has left all over the floor, in your interactions with them, they are both princesses and they look beautiful, because that’s what Princess Cuervo wants to hear, and that’s what makes Princess Cuervo throw tens in your tip jar because they have a 1 on them and you’re super accommodating.

Even if you know that hard work that you put into the pizza is for nothing because it’s going to see a corner in a back alley later when it comes back up, you’ve made those seven-or-eight-deep customers that much happier for the time being.

6. Free food earned for working is great, but feel free to remind yourself you are surrounded by carbs, more carbs, and carbs that probably have their own carbs. You bread, pizza, pasta and crouton yourself into oblivion and before you know it you look like Tony Soprano and you have developed and Italian accent that you slur out between ventilating breaths that cause your newly developed moobs to rise and fall rapidly. It’s just something to stay conscious of while we envy the bastards working at ‘Salad Creations’.

7. Also cheese.

8. Ovens are hot. Self explanatory, yet somehow unavoidable because you forget your hands aren’t oven mitts from time to time and it can be hot when you are sliding it in and out…

…the pizza I mean. C’mon now.

On the bright side, you get to join a unique club where you have the same tattoo as everyone else who has ever worked cook in a pizza shop. It a long branded slice looking scar on the bottom of your forearm.

It’s like being blood brothers with all the people you’ve never wanted to be!

9. It’s great to be a smoker! This sounds like poor advice, but the ratio of breaks between smokers and non-smokers is astounding. You would cringe at the number of times a person is left to fend for themselves while the entire staff steps outside for a cigarette break. Good thing too! I hear it curbs your appetite…not that it’s keeping your hands out of the crouton bin.

10. The key to good food at a quick rate is to not give a shit. If you spend thirteen minutes prepping a chef salad, delicately placing the meats and cheeses wherever you see them beautifully arranged based on that super useful art degree you got at that college place, someone is going to notice, and they’re going to call you out on it every single time, in an exceptionally sardonic tone.

Also, don’t get set in stone. Odds are everyone is going to do things differently, but because you work at a pizza shop, your boss may feel the need to validate his power over the minions by changing shit up whenever he feels you have it down to a science. You learn the proper folding techniques of deli meats for an antipasti salad? Think again Bobby Flay! Now were gonna dice it because the boss had a bad night and is too upset with his self worth to let you win this throw down.

bonus tip: If you mess up a pizza for a customer waiting in-shop, the people working behind the counter are going to get really angry, because it’s rare to make mistakes in a pizza shop. I’ve only done it twice because I’m fairly close to a perfect human being…

…but here’s how I handle it:

-you realize there is an issue and make a loud announcement full of expletives and mumbled incoherent words. Something like, “Goddamn every time stupid fuck fucker you marriage license gumball butt snatch quiddich guzzler!”


-The counter person will realize you have burnt the bottom of the pizza or gotten the cheese stuck to the stone rendering it unsalvagable.


-The counter person will say something to the affect of, “Fucking REALLY Alex?!?” to place all the blame directly on you in the eyes of the customer.

-You will die a little inside.


-You will realize you’re a badass wizard and stare the counter worker directly in the eyes while you wave your hands over the carcass of cheese and char and sarcastically say ‘I got this let me just turn back time quick!’

-Mutter an incantation.


-Give them the finger in a clever manner and say ‘fifteen minutes’

-remake aforementioned pizza

Problem solved.

So you see mom and dad, valuable life lessons. Don’t worry, I’m eating well and the pets still aren’t dead so I guess you can say I’m above par at the moment!

Love,
Your baby boy.

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