Friday, July 30, 2010

Friday Entry

December 1
Went to the grocery store today. Now that everything-is-pumpkin-flavored season is over, I'm not sure I can face the impending months of clove-less coffee. Guess it's as good a time as any to finally go through with this suicide thing. At least my death'll get lost among all the other holiday-driven suicides and DUIs and no one will make a fuss. Having your funeral around Christmas must be like having your birthday in December, huh?

December 5
Wrote the first draft of my suicide note today. It's lacking something, I think. A pithy closing line? Transitions could use some polishing. Maybe I should just write something like, "Brevity is the soul of wit," disguise my laziness as whimsical impertinence. God, writing this suicide note is making me so depressed I could just kill myself. Ha ha ha! Maybe the New Yorker was doing me a fucking favor by being "regretfully unable to find use for [my] articles."

December 9
This is taking as much planning as the goddam holiday card mailing. There's no backing out now though; I haven't bought a single present. At least one thing I can look forward to is my last meal. Oo, you know what'd be great? I lobster stuffed with filet mignon sitting on a bed of saffron risotto with little sparklers where his antennae should be. Also there should be a tiny champagne glass poised in his claw. Damn, The Castle knows how to make a guy feel like a king, even when he's feeling suicidal.

December 11
Looks like Castle's booked up through New Year's. Probably for the best, since I'd rather not be found in a pool of my own feces. New plan: Fast for a few days to empty my bowels, and weather the whole postmortem colon-relaxation-shit-yourself thing with dignity. Speaking of vacating your bowels, I should erase my browser's history. Putting it on the list.

December 14
Just found a syntactical error while proofreading my note. THAT would've been embarrassing. My legacy, rent by a split infinitive. They might as well put a dangling modifier in my epitaph or spell my name wrong in the obits.

December 15
Can't make up my mind between injecting myself with air or heroin. But then I got distracted by that Google thing where you type the first part and it suggests the rest of the sentence, you know? "How to kill" came up with "stink bugs" as the first option. How hilarious is that?!
[lapse in writing]
Martha's nephew just told me that trick was "played." Smartass. He can't even regulate his own glucose levels. What he doesn't know is that insulin can be a very effective and painless way to die....Problem solved. Looks like the blood'll be on your hands, little Lucas.

[PS In all seriousness, click here for a similar article that's actually funny, sympathetic, and well-written; any complaints should be alleviated.]

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

My Wednesday article

Don't thank me. Thank J. Shex!

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Tuesday List - Reasons To Have A Baby

  • People won't stare anymore when you buy baby food at the grocery store
  • Finally have a use for the diapers you won on Price Is Right
  • Assembling personal army
  • You're 16 and an idiot
  • Put two in a box and watch them fight
  • Baby won't know any better when you convince him that The New Class was better than the original Saved By The Bell
  • Like cleaning up poop, but only other people's

Monday, July 26, 2010

I'm Burgin... Are You?

Yo, normally you can call me J. Schechner, but today, it's all different. This Monday, you can call me The Burgermeister (Mr. Burgermeister if you're nasty), because this shit here is all about THE BURGAMINS.

That's right, an entire essay devoted to my favorite subject and pastime - BURGIN' OUT! Burgin' is the feeling you get deep down in your gut when you know that no sissy salads or stupid sandwiches are gonna quench that hunger fire you've got burning. No, what you need is some flame-broiled beef, slammed between two buns.

But everyone eats their burger a different way. I'm going to share some of my favorite "Burg Moves" with you today. Next time you're sitting down to a big-ass burger on a regular-sized bun, give them a shot!

The Grip-N-Flip

This one's easy, a little something to ease you into the world of trick burger eating. Take your hands and grasp the burger firmly with both of them. As you move the burger towards your mouth, rotate your wrists so that when you take that first bite of juicy meat, the burger is upside down. Perfect for impressing a date or just letting everyone else in the burger shop know that you're not some regular geek off the street.

The Burger Drop

A little more difficult, but still well within the ability of a novice. This move is for when you've got just a little bit of burger left and want to make that last bite special. Take that burg in one hand, lift it up in the air over your gaping mouth, and drop it. Make sure you catch it in your mouth - you don't want to be picking burg up off the floor! Once you're comfortable with this, try it with bigger and bigger pieces. Once you can catch the whole burger in your mouth, you're ready to go pro (if you haven't already!).

Two Burgs, One Cup

I don't do this one in company, but it's good for those late night burger binges. Grab two burgers from the fridge (you want them to be cold for this one, which makes it perfect for a hot summer's day) and slam them into a blender. Add a little ketchup, mayonnaise, and mustard. THEN BLEND THAT SHIT. You'll end up with a nice burger smoothie. If you like it chunky, blend it for half as much time as you regularly would.

The Pledge of Burgligence

Perfect for the July 4th Burgermania. Grab the burger in your right hand, and hold it over your heart. Let those meat juices drip down your shirt. That's what our forefathers fought and died for. The right for every man, woman, and child to have a burger is  there in the constitution, in black and white.

Open Palm Burg Slam

It's happened to me before. There's two Burger Pros in one diner, and not enough room for both of them. How do you establish dominance in this situation? You open palm burg slam. Extend your hand, fingers spread wide, and place your palm directly over the burger. Grasp it, careful not to squeeze too hard, and stare down your opponent. Unexpectedly, you slam the burger into your mouth, chewing and eating it quickly. Your opponent looks down at his own untouched burger in shame. Shouldn't have eaten your fries first, son!

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Burger
It requires a little setup and two people, but the reactions you'll get make it well worth it. First, find a length of fishing wire. Tie it around your burger and loop the wire through a pulley. Have your friend stand by, ready to yank on the wire when you give the signal. Once this is done, gather a crowd. Begin weaving a tale set in feudal China, a tale of ancient burger arts and love. During the climax, signal your friend. As the burger flies up of its own accord (at least, that's what your audience will see), you leap towards it, taking a bite as your paths cross. Repeat until you're fully burged.

Drive By Burgin' (PROS ONLY)

I'm just sharing this one so you can see what kind of burgin' you can get up to when you're pro like me. Have your friends mount the Burg Bike (pictured right) and hit the drive-through of your local burger shop. You, meanwhile, are walking a crowded main street. At some point, your friend pulls up and reaches down into the greasy paper sack. People on the street get nervous. Does he have a gun? What's going on? Why'd that man stop so suddenly? Without warning, he pulls a burger out of the sack and shouts, "This one's from Ronald, you son of a bitch!" He throws the burger right at your head, with pinpoint accuracy. You stop, twist, and grab the burger in one smooth motion. You
take a bite and fall to the ground, screaming in pure delight. You just got burg'd.

Friday, July 23, 2010

It's like that "Fiddler on the Roof" song about being rich

The other day my roommate was watching a documentary about lottery winners, and it got me to thinking. Unlike the other losers who blew their loads early, spending a fortune on Nascars and Jimmy Buffet lap dances, I would do awesome stuff! So, I've written an entreaty of why I should receive, though don't actually deserve, hundreds of thousands of millions of dollars.
**The alternative title for this post was "Sometimes you lose it because it's Friday and you're stuck at work."

A person is only as good as the home she lives in. Mine would be a lodge right out of Cabin Life Magazine, which is an actual thing that my mom reads. Cosmopolitan that I am, I would plant that sucker in the Ramble by Bethesda Fountain. As I sat in a sequined rocking chair on the wraparound porch, I would sip my Grey Goose (told you it was fancy) martini and ruminate the diamond ice cubes. Oh dear, not Lennon's birthday again. With a jaunty clap of my hands, Zombie John Belushi would begin his lumbering descent toward Strawberry Fields and disperse the gathering hippies with a smash and clatter of acoustic guitars. Batting my peacock feather eyelashes with fatigue, I would retire to the inner domicile.

Chalmers, stout and stern with a duke's bearing, would release the lever to the drawbridge made of baby femurs. Skirting the moat of quicksilver, I would scoop up my butler, groundskeeper, and maid with a lavish curtsy. "Where would she acquire such diminutive employees?" you ask. Never being one for Oompa Loompas, all my servants would be pugs! Little Beatrice in her finest impression of a French maid, bulbous eyes shining at the promise of more table scraps, danced beneath the mahogany chairs. Creme brulee and wild boar for dinner? Chef had outdone herself. Still, I must remember to remind her to smoke the meat chandelier for Thursday's gala....

A quick stop at the champagne fountain would provide opportunity to comment, "I used to drink Cristal, them fuckers racist." High fiving Jay-Z, I'd make my way across the sea shell gravel to the waiting tub. Yes, it will be as painful as in Cape Cod, but at least twice as lustrous. As I'd slide off my zebra skin bathrobe and into my emerald-lined jacuzzi the shape of Bill Murray's face, I would have to commend myself on hiring Bowie as a consultant.

Also I'd be a mermaid. FIN

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Thursday Mini: "Thoughts," a socially acceptable Twitter

In lieu of a video, here are a few things that I've thought about today:

- Why are dogs so much cuter when they're handicapped? Does anyone else cry harder at when Sassy falls in the water in Homeward Bound than during Saving Private Ryan?

- Try as he might, Fredo the street musician would never get better at playing the steel drum. Maybe "Stairway to Heaven" was a bit ambitious after all.

- Note to coworker: Your soup is telling you that it's too hot to eat, not that you should slurp it really loudly instead.

- What's the word for those anecdotes that aren't true, but people tell them like they are? Like the one time where Winston Churchill said something rude to every woman he ever came in contact with. Except he's a turd, so he probably would've phrased it "with whom he came into contact."

- Dear Sir who called in to make a reservation: If you can't understand the concept of "Monday" and think we are located at "60th Avenue," I don't know what the odds are of you enjoying the show. You're welcome.

- This link:

- I don't think my boss has ever done anything in front of me that would prove she can read.

- "He said 'margs' instead of 'margheritas'? He's so far in the closet he's in fucking Narnia." -Scoots

- We sure talk about Homeward Bound a lot on this blog.


Wednesday, July 21, 2010

The moments when I finally understood various classics of literature and film

There are many works of art we're exposed to too young to fully grasp their deeper meaning and significance. Here I've recorded a few of those glorious moments when the transcendence of a great work was revealed to me.

The Wizard of Oz, age 7
This film is generally shown to children at least once a year from the age of twelve months until they start choosing which VHS to put in the tape player themselves. As a child of one year, I didn't understand the subtleties of the plot of The Wizard of Oz until I had an epiphany at the age of seven. "Wait. Wait a minute. That Scarecrow, he says he didn't have a brain. He even sang a song about it, and is going on this quest with this girl who's clearly a lot of trouble all the way to the Wizard to get one, but he has all of these great ideas about how to get Dorothy out of the castle! Come to think of it, that Tin Man without a heart tears up an awful lot, and...wait. Wait just a minute. I think...I think that all of these characters actually already have the very thing they're looking for!"

Pride and Prejudice, age 11
"Hey, before he was being proud and prejudiced, and now she's being proud and prejudiced!"

It was a beautiful moment. That's when my mom knew, I was definitely taking that literature subject test when the SATs rolled around seven years later.

Catcher in the Rye, age 16
This moment of clarity came on my second reading. During my previous reading of the book at age 12 Holden made no sense and I just wasn't really clear on what he was so upset about. I also didn't understand that a prep school was a high school, and I couldn't understand how a teenager who was failing so badly ended up going to college early.

Then at 16, boom, I knew exactly what this Holden kid was talking about. Oh my God, this Salinger guy just got it. There was no real linear dialogue that can capture the mental processes that lead me to identify with Holden Caulfield so heavily that I thought that maybe I was in love with a fictional character. I don't remember if kids were saying "OMG" at the time -- if they were, then there were probably a lot of those going through my mind. And I was probably going through a mental packing list of what Holden and I could bring into the cabin we were going to live in together in the remote wilderness.

Philadelphia Story, age 20
"Oh. I understand the conflict now. Katharine Hepburn's character is a strong-willed woman with a healthy self-respect who has high expectations for the men in her life, and everyone around her is a misogynist pig." Truthfully, this moral is fitting for nearly any movie made before 1965 or so and another couple movies every year, from that year to the present day.

This was a particularly common moral for me to draw from pieces of art at the time. College! I can tell graduation was a while ago, because I had to look up how to spell "misogynist."

But I digress. It was sad for me to realize that I shouldn't like this movie, so I've arbitrarily decided that the adorable drunken scene between Tracy, Mike, and C. K. Dexter Haven is a short departure from the crappy overall moral that Tracy is really too rigid in expecting her still-married father not to hang out with women her age and her husband not to drink himself into a stupor every night. It's still worth seeing.

And if you haven't read or seen any of these works, I recommend that you netflix them. Or go to a library, if those still exist, so you can have these wonderful experiences, too.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Tuesday Lists: Downsides to Fame

- Church of Scientology will not stop calling
- Your maid will be dreadfully inconsistent. Good help is so hard to find these days.
- You buy every tabloid magazine to see if your beach bod is fab or flab.
- Need to keep making more elaborate excuses not to hang with Diddy
- The damn lemur keeps shitting in the shark tank
- Mo' money does, in fact, lead to mo' problems

Upside: You live out eternity as a beautiful mural

Monday, July 19, 2010

An Open Letter From A Cat Who Shits Everywhere

Hi there, I'm a cat who shits everywhere.

I want to get a few things straight first. I'm not too lazy to use the litter box - I love the litter box. I just have a condition known as Uncontrollable Cat Diarrhea that causes me to, well, shit everywhere.

In fact, I don't even shit everywhere. I have figured out a few places to just squat and let loose that I really love - on the floor near the bed, under the desk, right in front of the door, on a rug. Don't ask me why I go there when the litter box is no more than five feet away from many of these locations; there's a reason uncontrollable is right in the name!

Is it too late to ask that you refer to me as "a cat who shits in a few very inconvenient locations that are really hard to clean"? It is?

Oh, poop.

It's not like I don't feel bad about this. As I awkwardly walk forward, hot liquid cat shit gushing out of my butt, I feel terrible. That's why whenever I'm done, I take a moment to clean myself and then hop right up on the bed next to you. And you've probably noticed that when I start getting down to my business, I fart really loudly. That's my equivalent of the air raid siren, something to let you know that you need to take cover immediately.

That's also the reason that my fart smells so awful - in case you can't hear it, you'll smell it. No need to thank me. I'm just trying to help.

Now, you may be thinking, "Well, what if I just feed him less, or easy-to-digest food?" Well, I'll eat it. In fact, I'll eat anything: plastic bags, paper towels, Doritos, the other cat's food. And when that's done, you'll watch carefully for half an hour and think "okay, we're safe". Until I vomit. And unlike my Uncontrollable Cat Diarrhea, I have no set locations to vomit. I may even jump up and vomit right next to the pillow on your bed. I'm not trying to be rude when I do that. I just want to make sure you're aware that I just threw up.

Yes, you're welcome.

But I also want to let you know that firing blasts of crap out of my rectum isn't all I'm about. I also like having my belly rubbed, meowing loudly whenever anyone walks by the door, biting your toes when it's 6:30 in the morning and it's time to eat, and always looking like a surprised idiot because of my big eyes.

So, what do you say? Can we look past all the awkward minutes you spend cleaning up cat diarrhea and just be friends? I really want you to like me, because I do like you and

oh crap gotta go it's time again

Friday, July 16, 2010

The five magazines you'll meet in college

Magazines, like their subscribers, tend to possess certain character traits. While I can't speak to the college experience at other schools, I'm pretty sure these are the five magazines I met, tolerated, actively avoided, antagonized, or partied with at NYU.

GQ is a stone cold closet case, and reads like your poor uncle's "roommate" at a reunion. At NYU, GQ would be a Gay by May. You're confused when he shows up to the first floor meeting in an Alexander McQueen vest and vintage Oxfords, animatedly referring to "the fuckable Emma Stone." That mystery will reach a fever pitch when his high school girlfriend, a meaty journalism major, comes to visit in October. For the next few months you'll remain cripplingly unsure of your gaydar, until one night a preponderance of Bacardi Ice will provoke him to caress the nearest theater queer. He'll try to blame it on the alcohol and Gaga remix, but you'll know. We'll aaall know.

That bulldog is such a Samantha, girlfriend.

Like its readers, VICE is simultaneously whipsmart funny and exasperatingly douchey. The prototypical "Gallatin Kid," it will condescend to you even while picking carpet fibers out of its handlebar moustache. Going days without a shower to achieve the perfect heroin chic, VICE bangs any LA chick with wing tattoos on her shoulder blades. Yeah, you're a witty fuck and you're "personal friends" (?) with the creators of CobraSnake, but without your parents' money you're two semesters away from a job at Think Coffee.

The New Yorker
Reading articles in The New Yorker is one thing; buying a subscription to it is quite another. Despite coming from a wealthy background, The New Yorker is painfully sincere and apologetic of its whiteness. Doubtless, it has a flickr account where it confers meaning on otherwise banal or arrogant subject matter, completing a final project of portraits of homeless people. After graduation, it will retire to Lenox Hill and become a set decorator for Pottery Barn catalogs.

The Economist
The Economist came to NYU in search of knowledge, and of itself. From the first time it heard the tender strains of Neutral Milk Hotel, it became aware of the human capacity for evil, tempered only by heroism through social action. As a poli sci major, The Economist infuses history lectures with quotes by Foucault and Chomsky, and will win the heart and vagina of every girl on Campus Democrats. Lover, humanitarian, and intellectual, professor recommendations will secure The Economist a managing position at a non-profit. It will die with unpaid student loans.

Vogue is a finicky Arab princess getting its business degree in Stern. Whether her father made money in medicine or oil, you'll be sure to hear all about it in recitation. It didn't hurt to have a trophy wife for a mom, who imparted at least part of her looks and most of her psychological disorder onto her daughter. Subsisting on a diet of baked falafel, arugula, and sake bombs, Vogue is equal parts party girl and snarky bitch. She will get what she wants, because she always has--and she'll do it in Christian Louboutin pumps.

Still, gotta love that alma mater.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Thursday Mini - Gaga for Gaga! (I promise to never do that again)

Today's Thursday mini is a simple affair, meant to remind us that despite all the frippery and finery draped on the Haus of Gaga's star, she does normal things like hold babies, drink coffee, and play Big Buck Hunter. Just like us regular folk!

She just generally isn't wearing pants when she does so. Just like me!

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

You didn't know you were pregnant? Well, you're an idiot.

I don't watch all that much TV. So it wasn't until pretty recently that I heard about the reality TV show "I Didn't Know I was Pregnant." I've only seen this one webisode, so I can't fairly judge this show and the women on it, but I think it's my duty as a person who posts on a blog to judge it anyway. So I'll go ahead and make a call right now: these people are idiots.

I mean, what happened to you? Did you forget you've never had a hysterectomy? Did you forget you're female? Were you just unaware that pregnancy is caused by sperm getting up in your peesh?

I guess that's mean. And again, it's not fair for me to really judge these people. Because I haven't watched this show and because I've never been pregnant without knowing it. Or at all, much. So yeah, sure, maybe you could crave bacon ice cream and vomit every morning and feel something kicking inside you every once in a while and never really give it a second thought. But that seems a little bizarre.

Maybe I just can't understand where they're coming from. Personally, I start to freak out if my period is 12 hours late. I start to sweat bullets at one day late. And I buy a half-dozen boxes of pregnancy tests at two days and test myself every time I have to go to the bathroom until Mother Nature lets me know that the ol' uterine lining hasn't become a nuturing and optimal environment for an implanting blastocyst. So I can't fathom going a whole nine months without ever wondering what's keeping Aunt Flo. I suppose a lot of these women have an irregular period. I can't say I understand this either. If I was that irregular I'd keep my medicine cabinet stocked full of pregnancy tests the same way a diabetic would keep a steady supply of blood sugar tests around.

So I'll give a few of these women the benefit of the doubt. Maybe some of them have some kind of medical condition that caused a lot of stomach pain so they didn't notice. Or maybe they have overly-hormonal urine that stymies pregnancy tests. Or maybe they're just really really busy.

Or, more likely, they stupid.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Tuesday List: Unnecessary Sequels

Monday, July 12, 2010

A Really Funny Article

Hello again, my little InsuFarelets. It's been about two weeks since we've had our little Monday morning chats, and the fault is all mine. See, personal issues have prevented me from delivering you all the piping fresh comedy you've come to expect at the workweek's beginning. But I've handled all that business, so let's get back to it.

Today I'd like to talk about something really funny.

Hold on, I'll think of something.


Oh, here we go! Has this ever happened to you: you wake up in the morning and go to the bathroom to take a shower, but there's some sort of soap or something on the floor and you're sliding around and not really certain what to do, because it's actually not your house, and then all of a sudden here comes a girl in her underwear carrying a mop and she's going to clean it up and it's awkward because you don't know who she is, and it's actually just kind of worrying because you're subletting a room in the house for two weeks and this is a pretty awkward way to first meet her, assuming she isn't the underwear-clad maid? Pretty funny, right?


Okay, what about this one: You're going to see an apartment with your future roommates because your lease ended and you've been pretty homeless for a while, and you get to the apartment and it's really nice, and all three of you are like "cool, let's do this thing" and dividing up bedrooms and figuring out rent and then you think to ask if pets are allowed and the landlord's agent says "none at all" and then you have to leave and you feel like a dick because it's your cat that fucked it up? That's a spicy comedy meatball, am I right?

Christ, you people are hard to please.

Okay, last shot. Uh... Have you ever seen a white person dance? Not like a waltz or some ballet or some stupid shit, but I mean, trying to move it at a club? I mean, come on! Dude looks like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz. DJ gets on the mic, asking if anyone has an oil can... "Yeah, uh, we got some rusted white boy in the middle of the floor. Could his owner or operator come and perform some maintenance?" Call him OxyClean cuz he so oxidized. Somebody tries to move him, DJ gets back on the mic, tells him that you need to be in the union to deal with that machine.

Thanks everyone, and I'll see you in a week!

Friday, July 9, 2010

And they ask why periodicals are dying

Splayed across the cover of this week's New York Magazine is the headline, "Why Parents Hate Parenting." It's no secret that kids are miserable, and the idea of spawning one nightmarish. Yet in an unfortunate paradox, pedophobia seems to carry as much stigma as pedophilia. Since the author of the article concludes with cheap platitudes for parents, I've written this as a response.

No contest.

European children
French kids speak that language fluently, something I haven't managed in six years of study. The same goes for British children, who will remind you in their precocious, chirpy accent, "Kids are baby goats!" Hey, instead of correcting my word choice maybe you should thank Pink Floyd for giving your sorry lives any purpose, you sooty urchins.

Skinny children
Their metabolism is so high that they can consume a box of Totinos and two Lunchables daily, while supporting a Pixie Stick habit, without gaining a pound. These monsters measure fruit snacks by the foot, and wear their Kool-Aid moustaches with reckless abandon. I hope your heart valves collapse and gum up like a Push-Pop, you shrill hummingbirds.

Fat, Asian babies
Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't know Ralph Lauren sold clothes in that size. I thought you were a miniature businessman from Tokyo, considering how many pictures your parents are taking of you. Also, what the fuck right do you have to be at the MoMA? Shouldn't you be practicing the xylophone instead of blocking my view of the Chuck Close exhibit?

Black kids
Listen, it's not their fault that they're infinitely cuter than white kids. But how are they so much more confident than I am? I'm twenty-three years old and a black toddler could easily intimidate me out of a seat on the subway. One time at the Bronx Zoo, this kid had so much swagger he talked his mom into getting him a temp tattoo. I couldn't even wear Chapstick until I was nine! There was gin in his juice no DOUBT.

So I'm sorry, parents of the world, and those aspiring to one day join their ranks. A noble calling it may be, but not one in which I'm interested.

Thursday Mini: A day late, an editor short

Holy shit, this terrible PhotoShop of Britney Spears is too good to let slide. More importantly, it somehow made it to the cover of Cosmo. Between this glaring gaffe and the feature with Pauly D and The Situation, it looks like I'll be getting a collector's item come August, folks.

Also, "Sex on Your Period (It's So Worth It!)" is now in competition for My All-Time Favorite Headlines, which include "Am I Normal Down There?", "Virgins in Cosmo," and "Kid Clitoris and the Haunting at Hickory Ranch."

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Drinking games for kid's movies

Who doesn't love taking a trip down memory lane and popping in a VHS of something you watched 150 times when you were a child? Here are some drinking games to play when you're feeling nostalgic for your childhood, but not necessarily nostalgic for the not-drinking aspect.

Homeward Bound Drinking Game
Getting through this movie without crying is already a challenge. Alcohol might be the catalyst you don't want.

  • Drink when Sassy is just so sassy!
  • Drink whenever some kind of feline gets catapulted by the dogs. I believe this happens more than once.
  • Drink every time the music almost makes you cry
  • Finish your drink when Shadow comes over that hill at the end and is like "Peeeter."

Robin Hood Drinking Game

  • Drink every time a pachyderm runs into something really hard
  • Drink continuously during the love song between Robin and Marian with the fireflies to make it bearable
  • OR If that's too much, just drink every time you're like "Shit, this scene is still happening?"
  • Everyone must cheers and take a drink whenever loveable rogue-ish-ness or comraderie is detected
  • Drink whenever you think, "A fox wouldn't be able to climb that."

Mary Poppins Drinking Game
Tip: Maybe be drinking absinthe. Although I heard that absinthe might not do anything alcohol doesn't, so maybe drop acid and then do the following.

  • Drink whenever you wish this movie had fewer kids with no personality and more Dick Van Dyke dancing around
  • Drink when the horses just jump right off the merry-go-round because holy fuck that just happened and how fucking cool is that?
  • I can't think of any more rules, so periodically try to spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, drink if you fail.

Fantasia Drinking Game

  • Drink at racism. You can be as sensitive here as you wanna be. Did that abstract animation look racist to you? Sure, why not?
  • Drink continuously through through the Chinese Dance if you didn't realize that those mushrooms were supposed to be little Chinese men. Because I wasn't the only one, right?
  • Drink every time the evolution storyline in the Rite of Spring seems scientifically inaccurate, despite the narrator's claims.
  • Drink whenever you're like "I don't give a shit about this orchestra. Where are the centaurs?"
  • Finish your drink when you see the centaur that prompted you to yell "I'm that one!" at your sister.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Cheese snack hierarchy

For the junk food rookie, the snack aisle can be hard to navigate. Smart alecky cheetahs and Twinkie cowboys seduce you from the racks, when all you came in for was an Arizona. Well good luck, because you're at a deli in Crown Heights, and I dare you to explain in Lebanese why they should carry Arnold Palmers. Yet with the amount of time I've put into between-meal eating, I feel uniquely qualified to share my guide to the Cheese Snack Heirarchy. [Anyone who's seen my seventh grade photo knows that I'm qualified to make this judgment.] With my help, maybe next time you won't be taken in so easily by that cheeky Debby bitch.

Most of this is suggestions.

Bottom of the totem pole: Cheese-flavored chips
Sour cream and cheddar potato chips? Listen, Frito-Lay, everyone knows that onion is the only thing that should be paired with sour cream. Unless you're my aunt, in which case you serve it with fruited gelatin as some kind of side dish on holidays. Merry Christmas.

Lunch box letdowns: Combos, pizza-flavored and otherwise
I never traded lunch items like they do in commercials, but something tells me these are like the North Korean won in the open cafeteria market. From the crumbly texture to the disconcerting color, Nick Kroll explained it best when he compared them to "a cat's butthole." Feel free to lump Andy Capp's abortion of a french fry into this category.

The great debate, resolved: Cheez-Its are infinitely superior to Cheese Nips.

Remember that time your dad bought Kraft Brand Cheese Nips at the store, and you were so fat that you threw a tantrum? Because it was seventh grade, and the only respite from your hellish existence was that crunchy, sodium-laden after school snack? Thank God for mom, who bought the groceries once in a while and knew to buy the ones that had the same salinity as your own tears.

Classic at any age: Doritos
Whether it's the inexplicably blue Cooler Ranch or Nacho Cheesier, Doritos have had as many incarnations as a Brahman priest. While there are notable exceptions to its delicious repertoire (lookin' at you, Sweet Chili), a true Doritos devotee knows that these, too, shall pass. Maybe with time we'll even forgive you for that misguided Missy Elliott campaign.

Top of the food chain: Cheetos
Finally, the apex of cheesy, salty snacking: Cheetos. Don't waste my time asking about their puffed variety, because fuck that static. Chester Cheetah did not build his fortune on generic corn puffs. What America wants are his dense, buttery bags of compacted orange chemicals. While the shtick may be stale, the product never will be. Snack strong, my friends. Snack strong.

That should be enough to repel prospective employers! Coming next week: A sober and thorough analysis of potato chippery.