25 08 2008

Here are three simple facts that fuck up each and every day of my life:

  1. I am lactose intolerant
  2. Everything that tastes good has milk in it
  3. I have no self-control

For whatever reason, most black people are lactose intolerant. Lactose intolerance is a condition by which you can’t digest certain sugars found in dairy products, rendering your butthole a cannon of unrelenting stank within ten minutes of consuming any of the following delicious foods:

Milk, cheese, butter, ice cream, pizza, Guinness, white russians, cereal, cheesecake, pudding, chocolate, coffee creamer, sour cream (this curses everything from baked potatoes to fajitas), cream of wheat, creme brule, eclaires, custard donuts, and pussy.

Figure 1: Contains at least 40% lactose

Unfortunately, it’s hard to eat anything in an American diet that doesn’t have fucking milk in it, so black people all over the country have had to find a way to deal with the persistent threat of farting loudly and stinkily in public. This explains a lot of negro modes of dress and even physiology. Allow me to elaborate:

Unlike women, men generally enjoy farts. We also don’t like clenching our ass cheeks together* (the standard method of fart suppression) because racist jerks might think we’re preparing for a prison term. As such, we tend to just let the farts out. Unfortunately, unlike normal farts whose timing and force are under the control of the farter, milk farts are self-actualized. They come charging out of your ass when, where, and however hard they want. If you’re not going to clench your cheeks, then you have to find a way to keep the fart from getting to other people’s noses. This explains the popularity of baggy clothing among black men.

Figure 2: It does not, however, explain this shit.

Baggy pants create a neutral zone of air between the asshole and the air used by the general public that’s large enough to dissipate the power of the fart before it osmoses out of the pants. Since farts rise, large t-shirts draped over the buttocks provide a secondary buffer zone that all but eliminates the fart stank before it reaches the nose. A side effect of this is, of course, Stinky Britches.

As for the women, everyone knows that the trademark of the black woman is the big black booty. Where did this come from? It’s actually quite simple. Everyone, regardless of race, has had the experience of holding back a cataclysmic fart. It starts in your middle torso and hurts like a motherfucker, until it plows its way through your colon making for the sphincter (and making lots of awkward noises along the way). Once there, the fart literally lays siege to your asshole, hammering away at the opening like Grond breaking through the gates of Gondor.

Figure : This is exactly how it feels

Only the power of the woman’s cheek clench can repel the ass-ault. Since most black farts are milk farts and, therefore, require extreme effort to hold back, centuries of hardcore cheek clenching have caused natural selection to favor black women with big booties. Smaller bootied women are unable to clench their cheeks as hard, making it more likely for a milk fart (which is intolerably stinky) to escape mid-coitus and send potential mates running for the hills before insemination.

Some asshole at a university somewhere is going to read this blog and actually try to base a thesis on its theories. Jumping Jesus Christ…

* Unless you’re this guy


28 07 2008

It would seem that vegan organizations have recently come into an awful lot of money. Everywhere I go, I am noticing vegan ads – almost all of which feature images of dirty chickens for some damn reason – all over public transportation billboards from D.C. to Chicago.

The most recent of these fucking ads had a picture of a hen sitting in a cage with its wing over a semi-adorable chick, with a caption that read “This is what a wing is for.”

The obvious incorrectness of the caption sent me into a rage. Clearly, chicken wings are meant for one purpose and one purpose only (the point is further expounded by this song):

Figure 1: THIS is what wings are for.

I was dicking around on the internet and came across this definition of veganism:

“[T]he word “veganism” denotes a philosophy and way of living which seeks to exclude — as far as is possible and practical — all forms of exploitation of, and cruelty to, animals for food, clothing or any other purpose; and by extension, promotes the development and use of animal-free alternatives for the benefit of humans, animals and the environment. In dietary terms it denotes the practice of dispensing with all products derived wholly or partly from animals.”

Veganism – and its refusal to use the animals our Creator(s) put here for the purpose toward which they were created – is an affront to God, Allah, Jehovah, Buddha, Krishna, and Chuck Norris. There is evidence all around us that animals are indeed for eating:

1. All animals eat other animals. Even deer eat bugs and shit when they’re chowing down on grass and berries and whatever the fuck else they eat. A deer will also rape you and, if successful, eat you*.

2. All the animals that matter eat meat. Animals that matter include sharks, big cats, tyrannosaurs, killer whales, birds of prey, wolves, and bears. Nobody would watch the Discovery channel if it included programs about herbivorous animals that weren’t being eaten or about to be eaten by carnivores, and there’s a damn good reason for it.

3. Animals are delicious. If we weren’t supposed to eat them, then God would have made them taste like vagina. He also wouldn’t have invented hot sauce.

To not eat meat is to say that you’re better than all God’s creatures, humans don’t matter, and God doesn’t know how to satisfy the human palette. Basically, you’re saying you know more than the Almighty – and you know damn well he isn’t gonna stand for that shit. Stalin and any given vegan stand about an equal chance of going straight to hell.

I had a conversation with a vegan a couple of years ago. This person cited the fact that animals are ‘creatures of value’ and therefore have a set of basic rights. Though she was correct in this position, her position does not preclude me from eating animals for the following reason:

Figure 2: Animal entitlement (click to enlarge)

As proven in the work above, animals are only entitled to liberty. It doesn’t say anything about my ability to kill them, eat them, make furniture and clothing out of them, and enjoy stuff like this. It may rightfully preclude people from eating animals that are caged and confined, but I don’t have that problem. Almost all of the meat in my diet consists of field-hunted deer and free-roaming beef, so I’m not violating any principles of liberty when I go home tonight and cook my venison French rack.

Vegans will be used for fuel on SBPH Airlines.


Slave Food

25 06 2008

There are a shitload of things that black people do in spite of themselves. We supoort Jay-Z. We refuse to firebomb Viacom headquaters. We smoke menthol cigarettes and insist on frying and/or putting salt on damn near everything. We allow European standards of beauty to be crammed down the throats of our women. But perhaps no self-spiteful practice among black people is more bewildering than the fact that we cling desperately to Slave Food.

Figure 1: “Chittlins? Fuck. Nah, I don’t want no more.”

We all know what slave food is – it’s food made from that parts of the animal that make even native Chinese people say “dude, that’s fucking sick”.* It’s the shit our slave ancestors were forced to eat because all they’d be given after their ‘masters’ got done raping, eating, kissing on the mouth, and doing whatever else it is to animals that white people just love to do.

I can’t believe that today, despite all the social, cultural, and economic strides black people have made over the years, so many of us still insist on eating that grimey shit. I’m pretty sure that 50% of the reason MLK ever marched anywhere is so his children wouldn’t have to eat pig intestines ever again. Anyone caught eating this crap is willfully desecrating the memory of the following:

  • Martin Luther King and Malcolm X
  • Nat Turner
  • Each and every Union casualty from the Civil War
  • Jesus
  • Sugar Ray Robinson
  • Your mother

Let’s take a moment to examine some of the more common types of slave food, shall we?

Name: Chittlins
Description: Cleaned and boiled pig intestines
Stank Rating: 10/10

Figure 2: Sick…

The first argument you’ll get into with black people about this is the proper way to spell it. Some use ‘chittlings’, ‘chittluns’, ‘chittlins’, or for the conflicted and self-hating bougie negro – ‘chitterlings’. No matter how you spell it, there’s no denying what they actually are: swine shit tubes. Nothing is worse than the smell of these fucking things when they’re being cleaned and cooked. If you want to know what the inside of your own asshole smells like, just mozy yourself down to any country kitchen in Mississippi and inhale. One of the worst days of my life was when I came home exhausted from a powwow and was bludgeoned in the nose by the unimaginable stench of grandma’s big ass 10 gallon boiling pot of chittlins. The fact that anyone can get past the smell of these things to not only touch them, but TASTE THEM, is proof positive that the Force exists, and human beings can use it.

Name: Hog Maws
Description: Cleaned and boiled pig stomach
Stank Rating: 6/10

Figure 3: Sick…

Apparently eating a pig’s shit tube isn’t nasty enough in and of itself. To remedy this, we decided to also throw in the stomach because…fuck it, that’s why. Hog maws cooked alone actually doesn’t stink too much since there’s a relative absence of…you know…pig shit. The problem is that the popular thing to do is cook hog maws right alongside chittlins in the most oddly paradoxical culinary endeavor imaginable. By eating this stuff you’re basically digesting another digestive system. Logically speaking, this is insanely confusing – kinda like the ‘tree falling in the forest’ or ‘one hand clapping’ riddles. My fucking head already hurts just thinking about it.

Name: Pig Feet
Description: Take a wild guess
Stank Rating: 9/10

Figure 4: This is the only post I’ve written where I’ve struggled not to vomit

Feet and I do not get along in general. My cousin said it best: “feet are for the floor”. I cringe whenever I see people will bare feet on coffee tables, kitchen tables, sticking out a car window (I’m looking at you, white folks) or, God forbid, anywhere near my face. Feet are the nastiest part of the whole entire human body, including the asshole. So you can only imagine my thoughts about EATING the f-f-f-f-feet of the most vile and disgusting animal ever to walk the face of the planet. Pig feet can be boiled, fried, or even baked, each method producing a respectively larger and more permanent stench in whatever unfortunate venue you happen to be doing the cooking. There are also people who eat pickled pig feet. The thought of this is so fucking nasty I’m just going to move on.

Name: Chicken Feet
Description: ….
Stank Rating: 2/10

Figure 5: ….why?

While certainly the cleanest of slave food, it is unquestionably the most bizarre. I’ve never actually seen anyone eat chicken feet, but there’s a legend passed down to me from my brother indicating that, like my rude introduction to chittlins by my maternal grandmother, he was given a similarly abrupt introduction by our paternal grandmother to a big ass pot of upside-down boiling chicken feet. I can’t really imagine what eating chicken feet must be like. They can’t have much meat on them, there are claws in the way, and their ‘W’ shape would seem to make for difficult handling mechanics. Plus they’re feet, for Christ’s sake. The Amish must love chicken feet since they enjoy doing everything the unbelievably hard way for no particular fucking reason.

*After once watching a chinese dude eat an entire bowl of monkey brains, I become convinced that they will eat damn near anything

Farmers Markets

23 06 2008

I finally got sick of the old and rotten fruit/vegetable selections at the fucked up Safeway up the street from me and decided to go to Eastern Market to see why white people love that damn place so much. Here’s my summary of what I learned:

  • What’s good about farmers markets: Freshness, variety, low prices
  • What’s bad about farmers markets: Everything else

Figure 1: Jesus + Fruit Tits = Bad News

The single most infuriating thing about farmers’ markets are the white hipster yuppie twenty-something douchebags trying to sound intelligent by interrogating the vendors about their food. When these assholes, wearing the requisite hipster uniform*, saunter up to salt-of-the-earth farmers it’s actually quite entertaining to watch said farmer’s visibly restrain themselves from punching the hipsters in the face. The conversation goes something like this:

Biff:  [holding a tomato like an asshole] “So, where’s this grown?”
Farmer: “Uh…southern Maryland”

[Note: there’s a HUGE sign above the stand that reads “Farm Fresh Produce Direct from Southern Maryland”

Biff: “Ah I see. Is that really the best region for growing this stuff?”
Farmer: “Uh…I s’pose. They’re good n’ ripe n’ red ain’t they?”
Biff: “I dunno bud. Looks like these could’ve been trucked in from a grocery store [insert hipster chuckle]

[Note: this douche just called the farmer a liar. Farmers hate this. My grandma told me so.]

Biff: “So what grade of pesticides do you use on this stuff”
Farmer: [internal monologue] “I am going to sodomize you with that t’mater…”

These farmers, many of whom probably attend Klan rallies on the regular, hate hispters so much that they’re actually delighted to see my black ass next in line. This is why Neo-Nazi farmers are supporting Barack Obama in overwhelming numbers**.

Figure 2: One of these people wants to kill the other
The next irritating thing you encounter at the market are the goddamn asian vendors eyeballing you the whole entire time. Since these places aren’t usually a hotbed of negroid activity, fucking Pai Mei is pretty sure that I’m there either to steal something or drag his daughter back to my mud hut. This is completely fucked up since only half of his assumptions are correct. Asshole.

Figure 3: Average asian dude welcoming white folks to Eastern Market

As you’re dodging the squinty gaze of the asian vendor, you notice something else – produce samples. What the farmers like to do is cut up their plums and peaches and shit and put them on a plate for everyone to try. This plate sits out in the fucking sun for HOURS while insects and people who haven’t washed their hands in weeks pick at it until it looks like some dead guy’s stomach contents on a medical examiner’s table. I’m not sure what’s funnier – the fact that white people so willingly partake of this perverted feast of the dead, or the looks on the faces of little old black ladies watching them do it. What I do know is that 95% of white people that attend farmers’ markets wind up with Hepatitis.

All of this, of course, pales in comparison to the still-awful trip to the black grocery store – the place where hope goes to die. Last time I was there some toddler dropped a box of Lucky Charms on the floor. Her mother responded by calling her a ‘dumb nigga’ and smacking the child on the leg hard enough to kill a dog. Feeding idiots to lions is the one Roman practice modern society really should have adopted.

* Leather sandals, ripped up cargo shorts, stupid t-shirt with optional ironic statement, ragged faded baseball cap with sunglasses on top and, of course, lots and lots and lots of body hair.

** This is probably not true

McDonald’s Breakfast

9 06 2008

Getting breakfast at McDonald’s is a lot like going to Red Lobster when you’re really really hungry: it seems like a great idea until the moment you start eating.

McDonald’s breakfast is undeniably tasty. They’ve introduced some fairly controversial items in recent years (the McGriddle, breakfast burrito, and southern-style chicken biscuit being the most contemporary), but overall there are few things more wonderful than the idea of a savory sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit washed down with a pair of hash browns and an ice coffee (see the coming Aside).

Figure 1: Oxymoron

Aside: Fuck Starbucks

You cannot order anything at Starbucks without sounding like a complete and utterly pompous asshole. There is no way to say “Double-tall skim mocha macchiato” and still be a populist. I went with my boss to a Starbucks a few months ago for a status meeting. After realizing how stuck up we sounded after ordering our drinks, we skipped the meeting and instead spent the next hour on the phone apologizing to our fathers.

McDonald’s ice coffee is awesome for two reasons: 1.) it’s just as tasty as ice coffee you can get at Starbucks, and 2.) it’s 10,000 times cheaper. It’s so cheap, you can cost-effectively bathe in it. Starbucks, whose popularity has been waning anyway since the circa-2002 fallout of the popping of the go-go 90s yuppie douchebag bubble*, now has what I hope will be the final nail in its coffin that’ll send it spiraling into the purgatoric realm of functioning unprofitability that’d make even say “you guys are FUCKED.”

End Aside

You realize that ordering McDonald’s breakfast was a bad idea right around the moment you pull the sandwich out of the bag. The wrapping on the sandwich is greasier than a 14 year old’s face. When you remove the wrapping, you realize that the grease and the paper actually weigh more than the sandwich. In spite of this, the sandwich still looks incredibly tasty and you can’t wait to eat it…but you set it aside for a moment to warm up with some hash browns.

Figure 2: Quite possibly the most delicious thing on the planet

If you have a penis, you carry a bottle of hot sauce with you at all times and you douse the hash browns with it. You wolf down the fried, spicy, greasy, artery-clogging, potatoey goodness of three or four hashbrowns, which will render you prepared for the main McBuscuity event staring you down from its oily cage.

Aside from enjoying the awesome tastiness, your main concern while eating a McBiscuit sammich is making sure that the biscuit doesn’t completely fall apart as you eat it. The flakiness of a McDonald’s biscuit is part of what makes it delicious – but you don’t want to be one of those people picking at little leftover biscuit chunks at the end of the meal. This would be an indication of bad management skills and, if your boss catches you doing it, he or she will probably fire you. You perform this two-step dance of enjoying the biscuit’s taste and managing the biscuit’s constitution for roughly 2 minutes, and then you spend the next 10 hours questioning your judgment.

McDonald’s breakfast leaves your stomach insanely full. It’s not the good kind of full that you feel after Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner. Rather, it’s more like the kind of full I’d imagine contestants have after being on Fear Factor – that is, you feel like you are literally full of shit. You start to realize that the saying “it’s the journey, not the destination” applies especially well to McDonald’s breakfast: the journey was one of unmitigated succulence…but the destination is you feeling like, and possibly even resembling, this guy:

Figure 3: The journey of 1000 miles begins with the first step, which you are now too fat to take.

The most interesting (and terrifying) thing about McDonald’s breakfast is the fact that this relatively tiny meal will leave you full for an extraordinary amout of time. I treated myself to McDonald’s breakfast last Thursday. I finished eating around 9:45 that morning and wasn’t hungry again until 7pm that night. I’m pretty sure I could digest a motorcycle battery in about the same amount of time.

Anything that sits in your stomach that long does so because it’s not digesting, and things that don’t digest aren’t food. This explains why McDonald’s restaurants, despite often being filthy, are never cited for health code violations: it’s because they aren’t technically serving food. They’re just giving you shit that tastes good, costs money, makes your stomach hurt, and leaves you wondering why the hell you wanted it in the first place.

McDonald’s breakfast is, essentially, a vagina.

* The late 90’s, from what I remember, was an era of conspicuous consumption that hadn’t been seen in more than a decade. This is when shit like giant SUVs and Starbucks became popular – because it was hip to order a $7 cup of morning coffee and burn nine gallons of gas during your morning commute. Nowadays, the opposite is true: it’s now hip to act, dress, and behave like you’re poor even if you have a six-figure salary and you think a carburetor is a rival to the South Beach Diet. This type of feigned economic status is not to be confused with CUFFS, which is didactic and motivated by spite – unlike hipsterism which is vain and motivated by bullshit.


23 05 2008

There are times when catching the itis can be a good thing. It’s best to get it during the holidays, Christmas and Thanksgiving in particular, when you’ve just eaten a shitload of turkey and passing out will keep you from seeing Uncle Fred flash your aunt to prove that he’s still ‘youthful and exuberant’.

Figure 1: Everybody has this uncle

The itis-induced sleep is also the best and most satisfying sleep you’ll ever get, notwithstanding the inevitable nightmares.

The rest of the time, getting the itis is a pain in the ass because you always get it at work. Almost all of us have the same daily routine: you eat a shitty low-calorie breakfast, the energy of which is completely burned off by the time you get to work. Now you’re fucking starving and will continue to starve for the next four hours. Maybe you think you’re smart and you brought a piece of fruit or some shit to stave off the hunger. You eat your banana or peach about 2 hours into the day, only to realize the damn thing just made you even hungrier.*

Lunch time rolls around 2 hours later. If you brought your own lunch, the effects of the itis will probably be limited. There’s something about homemade lunches (probably the fact that they’re smaller and aren’t filled with the semen of disaffected restaurant employees) that makes them pack less of an itis punch than the alternative: going out to get lunch.

There are two ways to go out and get lunch – you can go by yourself, or you can go with other people. If you go with other people, you can pretty much count on a full-scale itis assault because, for whatever reason, going out in groups makes you eat more food. This is likely because when you go out in groups you tend to go to nicer restaurants that serve bigger portions. If you go out by yourself, you’re prone to just go to a little deli somewhere and you’ll be relatively safe (the term ‘relatively’ is important here) as long as you don’t order the turkey sammich.

No matter what you do – dine in, dine out alone, or dine out with others, the itis is going to get you in one way or another.

Figure 2: Destiny

The form the itis takes will depend on which of the three options you picked:

1.) Dine In – if you dine in, then you open your sack lunch and scarf it down while screwing around on the computer. You may play excessively addicting games like this one or this one, or spend an inordiate amount of time on or youtube, or maybe CNN. As you eat and fuck around, you slowly lose sight of the fact that you’re at work – and you also are unaware that your desire to do anymore work for the rest of the day is being completely shattered.

Finishing your dine-in lunch is the saddest part of your day, because you realize two things: 1.) you have to stop screwing around, and 2.) you are getting sleeeeeeepy. For about the next hour, you will stare blankly at your computer screen without a single thought in your head. The only thing in your mind right now is a thin background thread telling you “do not fall asleep and bash your skull on the keyboard” and another one saying “I wish I had another sammich.”

Lucky for you, you smallness of your lunch means that a quick run up and down the stairs is probably enough to jolt you back into productivity and keep you out of trouble for another day.

2.) Dine Out Alone – this option is about as safe as the dine in option in terms of minimizing the itis. You’re not at your computer fucking around on non-business related websites, so you never get the illusion that you’re at home (which is a HUGE catalyst for bringing on the itis). Offsetting this, however, is the fact that you’re going to eat a much bigger meal with way more calories that come in the form of butter, oil, and other itis-inducing shit cooked into your meal that you don’t really even see.

Figure 3: Say goodnight, fucker.

Unlike the in-diners, this form of itis takes a little while to hit you. Chances are that you walked to your restaurant of choice, so after you eat you walk back and this gives you a little boost of energy when you get back to your desk. You sit down and start to work for awhile, but in about 20 minutes you start to notice your eyelids getting heavy. If you’re reading something, you realize that you’ve been reading the same sentence over and over again for the last 5 minutes and you have no idea what the fuck it’s about. If you’re looking at your computer, you begin hallucinating and thinking that your desktop wallpaper is a real place.

You find yourself daydreaming before long, which is almost certainly the best way to get in trouble at work. Your best option at this point is to find the cleanest bathroom in the office and take a ten minute nap, because no amount of walking or running around is going to snap you back into shape.

3.) Dine Out With Others – you’re fucked. You and your 10 officemates decide that going to P.F. Chang’s is the best idea anybody’s ever had. You order everything: water, soda, appetizers, and an entree that’d blow up the insides of a bull buffalo. This itis starts to kick in before you’re even done with your meal, and when you actually get done – you know the show is over. You look as shitty as you feel.

Large groups tend to drive or cab it to the nicer restaurants. You fall asleep on the car ride back in the most embarrassing manner possible: head cocked all the way back, mouth wide open and, if you ordered the short ribs, there is a single line of drool making its way down your chin. You are awakened by uproarious laughter (directed at you) as your officemates pull into the parking lot and realize that you’re in the back seat looking like a fucking retard.

Figure 4: White girl with Itis

The walk to the office feels like the Bataan Death March. Your legs weigh 1000 lbs each and have no muscle in them. You make it to your desk and plop down in your chair, convinced that this is where you will die. Your eyes are rolling around in your head and your mouth is still open. If someone were to walk in on this scene out of context they’d think you were performing an exorcism on yourself. The thought that you’ll be in this state for the next four hours is making you suicidal. You WILL fall asleep at your desk and you WILL get in trouble if you don’t get the hell out of there.

The lone out-diners have the option of taking a quick nap in the bathroom, but you’re way beyond that point. If you fall asleep in the bathroom you will be there for hours and both your legs will be asleep from the hips down when you wake up. This’ll set you up for a public bathroom faceplant which is about the most disgusting thing that could possibly happen to anyone. Your only viable option is the car nap: you take your ass down to your car, park in the most remote corner of the lot, and fall genuinely the fuck asleep.

Try not to let the nap last more than an hour, or your ass is getting fired.

*This is kinda like “putting in the tip” instead of having sex. In the end, it leaves both parties angrier and wishing they’d never met

Red Lobster

22 05 2008

Most people probably remember Chris Rock’s skit where he proposed that Native Americans have bigger problems than Black people, and offered up this statement as proof:

“When’s the last time you ever saw TWO Indians? You ain’t never seen a bunch of Indians just chillin’ at Red Lobster”

Well, just imagine how hilarious I found it when, after doing a dance performance with a group from NMAI, 17 Indians actually piled into a Red Lobster for dinner afterwards.

Figure 1: A bunch of Indians (some more Indian than others, it would seem)

Going to Red Lobster always seems like a good idea until you actually get there. Then you see the masses of insultingly overweight people waiting in the lobby looking to compound their health problems and raise taxes on everybody. You also notice an equal or greater amount of fatness anchored at the tables in the restaurant. You see gigantic piles of fried food, butter, and other artery-clogging fatness-inducing swill…and you slowly begin to realize that all of these people are going to take at least 2 hours each to finish their meal.

There are three ways to entertain yourself during your excruciatingly long wait:

1.) Grab a beer or six at the bar and start getting fucked up

2.) Observe the large number of young couples at the restaurant. Try to remember that, when you were young and broke, Red Lobster was to you what Kinkead’s is to a congressman. In spite of your attempt to empathize, you choke on your beer a little bit when you hear some 18 year old sincerely tell her boyfriend “you such a baller, baby.”

3.) Mock the lobsters in the water tank in the lobby. Make strange 18th century-sounding declarations of criminal punishment like “for your crimes against oceanic aesthetics, you are hereby sentenced to boil until delicious.” For extra points, take one of the lobsters out of the tank and chase terrified children with it until you are arrested or punched in the face by an angry father.

Eventually, the hostess calls you and you sit down excited about the fact that you’re finally going to eat. Most of all, you’re excited about the delectable biscuits that you’re sure to receive within the next five minutes. You ignore your father’s comment about the tables being arranged in the shape of “a cock and balls” and take your seat.

Figure 2: Our table configuration. He coulda said it looked like an exclamation point…

The biscuits come out right on time, served to you by an 18 year old redneck girl named ‘Cindy’ who insists on calling you ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’. You respond to this by referring to her as ‘pop tart’ with your mouth full while eating your biscuits, but this does not seem to deter her familiar tone.

Figure 3: Pretty much the only reason anybody goes to Red Lobster

Since you’ve been waiting 45 minutes, you gobble down four of these biscuits and, after drinking two glasses of water, you realize that you’re pretty much full already. Not only are you full, but you feel like shit because your stomach is now filled with a year’s worth of butter and garlic. You’re at Red Lobster, though, and there is no time for weakness. You open up the menu and behold how delicious everything looks – especially the beloved Admiral’s Feast: a breaded, battered, Neptunian heart attack in waiting that could be considered the most humane way to slowly kill a person. The Admiral’s Feast consists of a big ass chunk of fried fish, fried clams, fried shrimp, and fried bay scallops with a side order of your choosing that’s supposed to delude you into thinking you’re eating healthy. There’s nothing more ridiculous than someone ordering the Admiral’s Feast with a side of vegetables, which is akin to asking for a candle and romantic musing while getting raped in prison.

If someone orders the Admiral’s Feast before you, then you have to order something else. You either go for the endless shrimp or the snow/king crab legs, which are exceedingly delicious when served with warm melted butter.

Figure 4: The awesomeness is rivaled only by that of pancakes

No matter what you order, you come to the understanding that you are going to be absolutely miserable for the next hour. The garlic biscuits and the hydrochloric acid in your stomach are having World War III in your insides to decide if your food is going to come out of your asshole in 3 hours or back out of your mouth in 3 minutes. Thankfully, God anticipated the creation of Red Lobster because it was he that made garlic and biscuits delicious, so he also made most stomachs strong enough to win the war – which is usually winding down by the time you receive your Admiral’s Feast or your crab legs.

As you eat (and you do so out of spite rather than hunger, because you are already full as a motherfucker), you watch with horror as some of the people at your table are somehow able to devour an entire Admiral’s Feast in 7 minutes. They are ordering dessert while you’re still plugging away at the fried clams. You know they’re delicious but, like a man having his 6th orgasm of the night, the pleasure isn’t really registering anymore.

If you’re lucky enough to finish your meal, you want to fucking die. You never want to see a Red Lobster, or food, or the people you’re with ever again for as long as you live. You push yourself back from the table, lean back by sliding your ass forward in the seat, hold your belly and loudly exhale “WHEEEEEEEEEW” like you just got done splitting wood for six hours. You look at the table and behold the disaster area that it has become. There are shells, napkins, half drank glasses of water, sauce, and other shit all over the fucking place. Despite the fact that you feel like shit and weigh at least a metric ton, this carnage gives you an oddly primal sense of satisfaction. That is…until the bill shows up.

Figure 5: Everybody acts like the bill is for this much.

Black people and Indians have at least one cultural trait in common: when the bill shows up, everyone looks around at everyone else like they have no idea what the fuck is going on. They look like a guy would if he just got head from his girlfriend and she sits up and demands $300. After lots of groaning, arguing over the tip, gross underpayment by some people, and an extra 30 minutes, you are finally ready to leave.

As you walk to the car, you realize that you just PAID someone to shorten your lifespan and make you feel like vomit. You are terrified that you will fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. You vow never to return to Red Lobster…even though you know damn well your black ass will be back in about 8 weeks.