Getting to be that age: or all of my friends are getting married now.

Dear anyone who misses The O.C., people who justify buying $400 worth of goods in addition to your initial $5 purchase at target, and Ronda Rousey:

Wow. November.

The time these days does appear to be flying. And oh my god was fall not awesome?! What with the seventy degree days and all those wonderful football injuries that fucked you over on your fantasy leagues?

It could be worse! You could be me! I just spent the last four months going to weddings.

Let that sink in. August to November. Seven weddings.

And when I say I went to seven weddings what I mean is collectively, I was blessed to sit at, and take in seven individually different celebrations of love for people that I love, people that I know cordially, and people I also found myself asking, “who the fucks wedding am I at right now?” for.

And I don’t know maybe it’s me, or like maybe it’s the way my mind works but I totally saw myself married by now. I’m 27, but I feel 43, and the time that I have been alive, I think might be greater than the time I have left.

It sounds fucked up when I read it but these are the thoughts I had sitting around and watching people celebrate their confirmed dedication to each other for the rest of their lives.

THE REST OF YOUR LIVES.

Guys. Do you know what it’s like to sit and watch people get married seven times in four months?

It’s exaugsting.

It’s nauseating.

Not for the married couples. For me.

And no before you all get angry and say things like “Well fuck Alex that asshole should have stayed home he’s not even that great, why did we even waste money on him to sit at a table and eat our caterers food.” No stop that’s not what I mean.

And don’t kid yourself, even if you didn’t invite me I would have shown up, because I don’t understand boundaries.

I didn’t mean it like that though. I’m eternally grateful that you all invited me to be part of your special days. So I could sit. And watch. And think.

Wait.

No I don’t want to think.

Is this open bar? I’m not drinking?

Shit.

Fuck.

So I think my life dilemma right now is that you guys figured your shit out before me. And maybe I’m a little jealous? I mean I’m happy for you guys it’s truly great that you all are in love and this all went swimmingly but now I’m entering the holidays and all I can think about is, should I have gotten a diamond ring instead of that bowflex machine? Have I been taking the right steps in life while I sit idly by and watch all my friends and all of my significant others friends tie the knot? And all of the “I’m sorry you’re a distant cousin to who and you’re marrying that guy who I will likely never see again but he’s a Giants fan so kinda win win?” get hitched?

I’m still riding public transportation and I still get butt hurt when the McDonald’s drive through people get my order wrong! I’m not an adult I can’t function outside of my domicile where my three cats keep watch over my emotions and I can sob into calico fur pillows and pretend the smell of dog is like that of the honeysuckle and bliss I assume all you married couples constantly detect indefinitely five minutes after you say “I do”.

Marriage is terrifying! I got a smattering of ceremonies that ranged from “hey you down?” to forty five minutes of bible scripture and just shy of a Grey’s Anatomy season finale emotional roller coaster.

And you’re telling me this is all something I have to commit to doing someday?

And going with my better judgment and a survey of my co-workers I have abandoned my original plan to grade each individual wedding and lose friends, and just go with an overall questions, concerns and advice proposal to recap all that I learned about sitting in two churches, four banquet halls, a barn and a field of snow.

1. First and foremost how do you guys decide who sits where?

Like I understand the hierarchy of family first and then non immediate family but then you have to remember where you sat people you don’t like who didn’t get along with so and so last Christmas and oh god the in laws need to be near the parents but not far from aunt Margery who is off boozing away at the wine bar because you couldn’t find a spot for her at the family table so you put her with your roommate from college that had two kids one by a guy she met at a dirt bike convention and a second with your fourth cousin twice removed but now she’s single and loving it.

It’s just a headache. Why not put cards out and let people pick?

That seems like it would alleviate a lot of problems too especially since people don’t like dancing and that way they can just chow down in the corner and spend the rest of the night watching what their friends on Facebook are doing that they aren’t.

Also why did you seat me in the background? Do I smell? Were my chiseled features not good enough to make an appearance in the “natural” looking wedding photos?

2. I need a five minute sit down with your caterers!

Your weddings, although glamorous and glitzy gave me just cause to file grievances with the department of health. Do you understand what eating copious amounts of prime rib and dinosaur BBQ does to ones waistline?!

Like who the fuck do you think you are feeding me all this delicious food?

I was a 36 in July! A 36!

Now, I am waiting for thanksgiving to roll around and I have already surpassed my holiday weight gain limit and here I am over in the corner of my future in laws a-frame cabin in Tennessee pouring tears out of my eyes and into a bowl of stuffing and mashed potatoes that I know doesn’t need any more salt but fuck it what else are these tears good for?!

And you get to offer buffets to your guests?! Do you know who needs to eat a buffet?! No one that you expect to dance for four hours afterward! I’m honestly not sure how people didn’t barf after half of these gatherings. Like if Jason Derulo wasn’t enough to get the party going you had to offer me smoked brisket slathered in sweetened pork gravy love atop a pile of puréed cheddar potatoey goodness that has enough roasted garlic in it that nasfuratu would shit himself upon it being plated in front of him?

Dammit no. I want my abs back.

Ok I never had them but still! My restraints in life come from two things, knowing when to stop listening to Justin Bieber in front of women and knowing when you don’t NEED to buy that shirt because you have bills to pay this month, and frankly I’m kind of struggling with one of those.

Point is, can we all just pick something light and cheap like Tyson anytizers or like literally anything off the dollar menu of Taco Bell?

My food consumption is an issue. I’m lookin at you Mazzone Catering, with your after dinner and dancing sliders and fries. Knock that shit off. It’s too delicious to say no to.

3. Go home ceremony length you’re drunk.

There is one smidgeon of a question I had from all the weddings that I want to take note of, and it pertains to the actual ceremony. You know the part where you pledge your undying love to each other before you whip and nae nae your sweaty bodies all over the place like you know culture because the YouTube showed you how!

Is there like a time frame the wedding ceremony itself is supposed to go? Because I feel like as the months passed they just got progressively shorter, like some higher being was looking down and thinking, “God these people aren’t gonna make it, just let them get drunk and forget that they haven’t been sexually active in months. Let’s go pastor Bill, make the upper hand joke and get these two in front of hundreds of people clinking their champagne glasses for the rest of the night”.

And a side note. I know it’s cute to have an outdoor wedding. But snow. No. Just no. Have a backup. I’m still nursing a knee injury from a pop warner game back when I was fifteen and it doesn’t know how to hang below thirty eight degrees.

Time heals all wounds my ass.

4. Please for the sake of me choose your music carefully.

Band or DJ is the quintessential question at hand here and honestly unless you hit the big payload from the lotto or you work at Regeneron I wouldn’t bank on booking Bon iver to woo your guests into magical wedded bliss with his sensual voice.

Plus who wants people having sex at their wedding?

No listen, if your DJ has the Macarena, the chicken dance, the cha cha slide or the Cuban snuffle or whatever other jalopey might instruct you how to dance in their playlist, give them the boot! Anyone can see that a DJ who grabs a top twenty playlist off iTunes immediately resorts to the regular charades about ten songs in, they cue the twist! Make them soulja boy! Now quick! Everyone who’s married start dancing and I’ll just start counting and you’ll sit down when we have passed the number of years you have been married.

I don’t have the time. Obviously there are some old ass people here and your inability to count by fives is going to take at least a half hour away from time I could be hearing the weekends new hit single! Btw ‘unforgettable’ by Nat King Cole seems to be the go to song for the guess who has maintained putting up with each other longest game.

And if you go live band, is it appropriate to see if they can switch songs spontaneously and groove their way from back to black into backstreet boys? Like honestly I myself am holding out for Lou Bega to hit me back in regards to performing at my wedding. But if that falls through I can always ask this guy Paul I work with to croon everyone with his hits of the forties.

5. Are your wedding photos sacred?

I am genuinely sorry in advance for any and all mistrust and confusion that I may cause by inserting really awkward faces and messages into any and all of the memories you hoped to preserve on your special day. I fully intend to continue this trend into my own wedding photos if it’s any condolence.

I just have this awkward face and all of these glorious moments where your cameras just seem to focus on me. I can only look pretty so much!

Honestly, let me just say this. All of your special days were lovely and I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I didn’t get to celebrate with you guys. None of you got drunk before the ceremony. None of you needed that extra Xanax to get you down the aisle. And none of you vomited in a bathroom to the best of my knowledge.

You all get an A. You’re all Glen CoCo and you all go.

But if someone asks I’m officially wedding-ed out. I hope your love and happiness lasts forever like the profound impact that ‘wrecking ball’ had on me when it came out.

Until next year. Like October next year. When I have to actually be in a wedding for the first time. As the best man.

And try ever so hard to not fuck that up.

But in case I do, I at least have this blog to share about how it all goes down.

Sincerely,

A guy who is really sorry in advance Kurt and Rachelle’s wedding guests.

P.s. Most things are garbage.

 

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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.

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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!’

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…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!’

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

no animated GIF Idiot.

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.

frozen animated GIF Really, it’s like 15 degrees outside.

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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That’s not how it works : Part one.

Dear Benadryl, creators of LOST and twenty-somethings everywhere,

Let me start by informing you that I have officially lost control of the fucks I give at this point. They were here one minute, and now they are all gone. Which is great because it’s a wonderful charm factor with the new beau.

Anyway, I was riding home the other day when I acquired a flat tire, and while I waited for AAA to show up and inform me they don’t handle bicycle issues, I decided to scope out some social networking sites.

I hit what I consider to be my usual three:

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…and it dawned upon me, that the feeds were being overrun with uplifting, and inspirational quotes.

So obviously this all sits well with someone who titled their blog ‘Most Things are Garbage’.

And I’m sorry, maybe it’s just me, but am I the only twenty-something that reads all of these and finds them to be so contradictory to the way the world actually works?

Quotes about life, love and the fruits of our looms, being re-posted over and over and over by people the same age as me, who apparently have such an optimistic outlook on things that it almost seems like nothing ever goes wrong in their lives?

Like really though?

Well I rustled up just a few of them, and decided I would fix them, on account of they were obviously broken, so that realistic ones could get out there and these graphics can make more sense to me when I scroll down my newsfeeds.

So, with all that said and since I’m unbelievably cranky, here is the first part in what will probably become an ongoing time killer for me, entitled:

That’s not how it works : part one.

(P.S. SUNY Albany thanks for the Art degree, I’m clearly utilizing it to its maximum capability)

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Ah. Love.
Wild creatures you say?
And why the hell is it on a wrinkly bed?
No. Stop lying.


That’s not how it works.

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That’s real. That’s science.

More on love…

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This is it? Love?
I don’t love people that scream at me.
I certainly would put a fork through the hand of anyone that comes near my food.
Why the hell is she going to act weird around me?
Isn’t love already uncomfortable enough?

No. That’s not how it works.

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Guys. Kid yourself. But if your future beau posted the first one ever, the sad fact of the matter is your relationship is gonna be hella weird and it’s gonna go south fast. If a girl tackles you to tell you she likes you…run. Far. Because we’re better than that. We also graduated from middle school over a decade ago. A DECADE! How old do you feel!

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Thank you. Whoever made this.
Because as everyone suffering from anxiety, fear, or insecurities knows, we can just let things go.

What’s that? You owe hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loans?

You can’t find a job out of college?

You got fired for someone else’s negligence?

It’s cool guys. Let it go.

No. That’s not how it works.

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That’s how it works.

And don’t let it go. That’s littering.

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Ladies. Ladies. Ladies.
Even if this were the case…


…that’s not how it works.

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Period. And really…I think that’s all we need to know…

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Do you really though?
At least I can find solace in knowing it’s not just about my looks, since you can’t see my face…
What about days where I’m subpar?

What about when I royally fuck things up?

Like shutting your cats paw in the bathroom door?
Or like when my feet really smell?
Or when I try on your shorts just to show you how good they look on me, but not you?

Stahp! That’s not how it works.

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That’s how it works.

Because in the real life people have feelings. And those feelings can range from blissful vomit inducing love to requesting your partner sit on a running chainsaw.

Anyone that says otherwise is a liar.

And they’re probably super brave for posting nothing but positive things about their super awesome relationships.

(Right before they break down in tears)

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So, having someone special in your life can change the fact that Monday always follows Sunday and you have to wait five days before you can forget real life responsibilities on the weekend?

No.
No no no stop it.


That’s not how it works.

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But really, if you find someone that can manipulate time and shift the week around, hang the hell on to them, otherwise what you have found is someone that consumes so much of your time and brain, that the days of the week just mush and meld together to form one solid glob of days. It’s no wonder tomorrow isn’t just another day, you do the same thing over and over.

Be an adult.

Go to work.

No romance relieves you of your responsibilities.

Trust me.

I’m a doctor.

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I just want to know who wrote this. It sounds like it’s been ripped straight out of the diary from a person living through the zombie apocalypse. Does the world really feel so vacant early in the morning?

No. No it doesn’t.


That’s not how it works.

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Like do you not have a job? If you’re up at sunrise it’s probably late enough in the morning where people are likely on their way to work.

Do you not have pets?

Cats are all up in your shit in the mornings, and dogs…forget it, get your ass up or they’ll poop all over your house waiting for you to stop being fucking lazy.

And what the hell time do you go to bed that you can be up that early and experience any feeling other than wanting to jam a screwdriver into your temple?

You’re clearly not a grad student.

Definitely not a responsible adult…with a job…

You must be in middle school. There’s no other explination…

Or it’s Saturday.

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Is this real life?

Why does this graphic exist?

Does the world care when someone puts this online?

You want to laugh until you die?

What about other things? Exercise? Eating? Sex?

Staring contests?

(You’re gonna lose)

That’s not how it works.

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Priorities. That’s some real shit right there.
Orange is the new black returns June 6.
Don’t tell me that my marathons don’t count because I’m not running.

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Now you understand.
The plate is trust. The plate is love.
The plate has been broken.
Your apology is a weak and basically useless strain of glue.

No.

That’s not how it works.

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Honestly. You ruined what was probably a full set by breaking that plate.

I hope it was a bargain find at Big Lots.

This metaphor is dumb. You can’t apologize to a plate.

The fuck do you expect it to do? Sweep up it’s pieces and glue itself back together? And if someone really hurt you so badly as to compare the damage to a shattered plate, why the hell are you sticking around to explain to them some backward ass truth of how you no longer feel for them after what they did.

Be beyonce. Walk the fuck away.

Find better.

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Any day? Is it actually?

That’s. Not. How. It. Works.

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And vice versa.

Everyday is just a new day to come upon something else that bugs the everloving crap out of you.

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Your inner strength grants you the ability to soar above everyone else.

Be strong bb the world is a place where you will flourish on your own by yourself and that’s all you need.

False.

That’s not how it works.

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How’s first class treating you? This is more realistic.

No but for real if you’re just buying flights left and right that must be some bomb ass establishment your working at.

Did you luck out or what. And did you actually pay off that college debt or are you just paying on the interest while you continue to defer them?

Whatever you did, congrats on the flight. Say hi to anywhere that isn’t Albany for me.

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Wait for good things. They will almost always come to you if you have patience. Kick back. Relax. Let the universe work it’s magic.

And when you get got, and all the things are great, remember that you have it in you to exude respectful and not even remotely celebratory reactions and attitudinal qualities.

That’s.
Not.


How.
It.
Works.

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You all do it. Don’t deny it.

Whether you’re passive aggressively typing short answers with periods seemingly after every word, or putting up your dukes by simply choosing to not talk to a person any other way than through an emotionless, inflection-less void that is text messaging.

Are you really sorry you had to say this over text messaging?

Genuinely?

Unless someone karate chopped you in the throat and broke your windpipe or broke both your legs rendering you un-travelable, you delete every character of that text and make a phone call or a house visit.

No more games kids.

And if you value your life, leave out the fact that so and so said something to so and so about whoever doing whatever.

Finally:

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You’re excited.

You get it by now I’m sure…

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You’re gonna plan to do so much. But it’s gonna be hot. And you don’t really like sweating.

Netflix and a pizza?

Ok so maybe not THAT bad.

Anyways-spread these to the world.

But don’t blame me when your friends think you’re an asshole.

Somehow still enthusiastic,
-me.

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Be Underwhelming: Rules for Impressing Lovers on Vacation.

Dear Mom and Dad, Wegmans and whoever plans to travel soon,

I wanted to let you know that I heard your caution to take things slow during this new relationship. The advice you gave was clear and concise and any normal human being would heed your warnings.

But much like the time you told me not to try making s’mores in the toaster oven, and though I still maintain they would have tasted great regardless of the house burning down, I have chosen to ignore your decree.

And so in an attempt to woo my new lady of the night (no she’s not a hooker she just works until 6 so I usually only see her in the evenings), I asked her to go on a vacation.

I know what you’re going to say…and honestly, I feel like we have known each other for years! I really feel as though I know enough about her to invite her on a long car ride to meet family members I usually wait until the second Christmas to introduce.

I believe it was the wise Chris Brown who once spoke of amorous feelings when he said:

“I’m on some new shit, I’m chuckin them deuces up.”

Such wisdom. He most certainly does not GAF.

(Mom this means ‘give a fuck’)

And so we set out on a drive down the east coast to Virginia Beach for one unbelievably relaxing vacation. I figured I would just update you and let you know about all the rules I learned about vacationing with lovers and the plethora of events we got to experience together making our power couple status comparable to that of HOV and Bey.

Rule 1:

You’re going to want to get an early start on your vacation. In this case I made sure to accommodate our circumstances well. When I say circumstances I mean she drove the whole way. So as a surprise, and in order to ensure she wouldn’t have to hit rush hour traffic or be driving late into the evening, I set my alarm for 4:30 a.m. just to make sure she was wide awake and ready to cart our asses around.

Don’t worry, I used Miley Cyrus for an alarm ringtone so she would wake up really happy.

We stopped at McDonalds for breakfast, and I couldn’t decide which breakfast sandwich I wanted her to buy me more, bacon egg and cheese on a bagel or a biscuit, so I just ordered both with a coffee and I definitely should have gotten the biscuit only, the bagel was sub-par but whatever I didn’t buy it.

Well, whatever the mud they called coffee actually is, it ran through me quick and I had to stop at a rest area. Plus it gives your beau a half hour to stretch their legs while they cart your Ms. Daisy ass around.

Rule 2:

If you stop for bathroom breaks, take your sweet time. You’re gonna be on the road a while, and even if your partner doesn’t have to go, you don’t want to rush.

Also, in the event you clog the rest stop toilet, I know you are wondering and yes, definitely tell your boo as you exit the bathroom. They will be proud and they will congratulate you with things like:

“Those things are made to take down anything and everything…just…how?”

“You’re so pretty”

Rule 2a:

Fart.
Fart a lot.

Rule 3:

If you stop anywhere for an hour or two, and there is a mall nearby, and you’re a man, prepare to be there for three to four hours. I don’t plan these things well, and I like shopping, but somehow whenever my new boo takes me to the mall to grab

“a strapless bra”

it really means

“new flip flops, a maxi dress, wait maybe this maxi dress, or this maxi dress, can you pick one of these the navy with gray striped maxi dress or the navy with charcoal striped maxi dress, never mind I’ll get both, new hat just in case there’s sun, probably a soda, but no not that soda, I want the soda from that place, ew this one has zero carbonation, probably a haircut at this Sears salon would be cost affective and convenient because we’re here, don’t you need sweatpants oh well whatever I’ll just wear them, oh I work here so I get a discount we should walk the perimeter of the store eight times just in case I can use my store discount maybe, do you think it’s warm enough for flip flops maybe I should return them, oh and did you want to stop in the Chik-fil-a we originally came here to eat at?”

Rule 4:

As a passenger, it is your absolute duty to entertain the driver. They are going to get stressed, and you are going to hit traffic, and when you hit this traffic and they double down with exhaustion and anxiety and all they want to do is sleep and stop driving, that’s when you have to up your game and prove you are the best car co-pilot ever as well as a useful lover not just during the secks.

Tell them how good they’re doing. Things like:

“Honey, you’re overreacting you just need to learn how to merge properly.”

“That was the exit a half mile back you just chose not to get over so we’ll just find the re-route.”

“Your emotions are surprisingly tame for having your period, that in itself is something you should be proud of.”

And when THAT doesn’t work, pull out the big guns, and distract the other drivers trapped in the gridlocked hell by smushing your beautiful face against the passenger side window. Your driver will laugh through her tears and that four car fender bender you cause will be a distant memory in thirty to forty minutes.

Rule 4a:

Definitely take a lot of pictures of your girlfriend even if they don’t want you to, like in the rain or when they’re trying to “snuggle” or whatever.

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Rule 5:

No matter how good of a person you are, don’t fuck with the universe by saying things like “we made it safe and sound” a block from your destination…

…because the universe will summon animals, like Bambi…

…and your driver/girlfriend will barrel into Bambi’s skull at a high rate of speed…

…and she will have another panic attack because this is the first deer she has ever hit EVER and she will of course, have just been talking about how nothing has ever gone wrong with her car since she’s owned it just before this occurs.

Definitely keep your thoughts on safe arrival to yourself.

And whatever you do, don’t refer to your lover as Bambi murderer or Venison creator for the rest of the trip.

Rule 6:

Take some time for you. Get a pedicure. They are fantastic.

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The chairs assault your back like you owe it money, and they do all kinds of things to your feet that you never knew you could do. Like shave them, lotion them, and give your legs a massage that could make a paraplegic moan with joy.

Rule 6a:

Don’t make paraplegic jokes. Ever.

Rule 7:

Visit all the novelty gas stations/grocery stores/fast food joints you don’t get to in your shitty overbearing town of Albany, like Wegmans, WAWA, Wegmans, Sonic, Wegmans, White Castle, Chil-Fil-A, Wegmans, IKEA, and Wegmans.

Seriously, Albany, fucking Wegmans. Stop being so lame and just sell booze at the grocery stores this is ridiculous.

Rule 7a:

Something to keep in mind when traveling is that your bowels are on a fairly strict regimine. Disruption in the form of temperature change, altitude change, or even the stress of having to criticize someone else’s driving for a week can block you up for some time and that can get uncomfortable.

Definitely DO NOT get food at the above locations and pile it on top of the compounded issue.

UNLESS! You have never tried them before…

In which case, in order get the spicy chicken club sandwich with waffle fries, IKEAS Swedish Meatballs and a salmon dill wrap, McDonalds at least twice, a buffalo chorizo based egg dish for breakfast at a kick ass diner, any and all breakfast sandwiches at WAWA, seafood at the Virginia Beach shore in grilled and fried format, a gigantic bagel sandwich at a cute sandwich shop, a giant bagel schmeared with cream cheese also because YOLO, and a creamy chicken and spinach Alfredo.

But be warned, piling this internal organ layer of food together leads to the next rule.

Rule 8:

When you stop up your hotel rooms toilet, you absolutely positively need to notify your lover first. It doesn’t matter how invested in the current episode of ‘Flip it to Win it’ they are, you shut it off, look down at the ground shamefully, and then inform them that you’re going to have to be a little late to the free beverage and cheese hour at the hotel lounge because there is an inch of toilet water on the floor in the bathroom.

Then call maintenance. Priorities.

Then when maintenance arrives, say something to the effect of:

“I have no idea how that happened”

or

“Does this happen often?”

Then, because your insides didn’t suffer enough the last five days, go eat enough cheese and creamy pastas to block up someone with IBS comparable to that of Pompeii’s eruption.

Rule 9:

Because you got a great deal on Priceline from that guy from Star Trek, you are located on the 8th floor, in a private bode where silence is encouraged and loud noises are frowned upon.

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Take this opportunity to prove to the world that even though you’re not super well endowed (thanks a lot mom and dad), you can still get the job done.

I’m not saying to have the sex loud and rambunctiously while you’re on vacation, but I am saying you should at least spend some time slamming your palm against the neighbors wall while you make noises similar to the ones you’re going to hear when you visit the zoo the next day.

You’ll feel better. I promise.

And you definitely won’t cry by yourself eating leftover room service from the night before because your girlfriend “needed to hit the steam room for some alone time”.

Rule 10:

When you visit the museums your bae wanted to see, definitely opt for the audio tour. Even though they will complain afterwards about how much of a pain it was, it earns you an hour of silence while you pretend you’re listening to your tour but really are enjoying not hearing about how “tired” someone is from all the driving she has done.

Rule 11:

Other states don’t have the concept of always being hungry grasped, so you need to be aware, places like Richmond and Virginia Beach, close down their restaurants at 2 p.m. right at peak “grab a samwich somewhere to tide us over” time and then they don’t re-open until 5 when it’s dinner time.

You should definitely look like a man in front of your new girlfriend and freak out because you’re hangry and there is no where to get a god damn peice of food that isn’t from a seven eleven and you should definitely blow it out of proportion and pout because girls love that shit and when they tell you to stop being dramatic you should definitely blow that shit out of proportion and say things about how you should just break up then because obviously she doesn’t value your relationship when you can’t get a fucking sandwich after walking around all goddamn day and only eating a handful of goldfish.

(I used to have a temper problem and I’ve really been working on it at the request of my mother, and I think we can all agree looking back on rule 11 that we learned a really valuable perspective on how well we’re doing because we haven’t had an outburst like that in a while, and we are super fortunate to have a girlfriend who will at least wait until we get back home to break up with us so that we don’t lose control in a foreign state)

Rule 12:

If you do get pouty, definitely make sure when getting off your exit to go back to your relatives, that you exact revenge on the driver for calling you a princess and telling you to calm down by telling them you know where you’re going, and then saying left here, right there, for fifteen minutes before you end up in a church parking lot and then admit you have no idea where you were going and then when your girlfriend gets upset you have the upper hand and can say things like:

“Now who’s being the drama queen?”

You win.

FINALLY, Rule 13:

Make sure you tweet everything that happens. Broads love twitter. Document the trip, you’ll be better off:

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Still taken but unsure why,

Me.

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