You just made my list!

Well, I guess it’s time to write about these crimes against humanity because there is a song sweeping the nation all about them. Who am I kidding? I’m using the fact that there is this stupid song as an excuse to put very little effort into this. LEAVE ME ALONE, I’M BUSY!

The truth is that I really do hate these fast food combo restaurants. How can I possibly decide between Taco Bell diarrhea or E. Coli from the Pizza Hut salad bar? I won’t choose so don’t ask!

Now, let’s talk about this Pizza Hut and Taco Bell song by Das Racist. I know nothing about this duo, but they scream New York ironic hipster to me. You know what really makes me mad about this song? I fucking LIKE it! I deserve to have my ears removed for tolerating this shit.

Sorry this post sucked. I hate myself.

Hey cherries, suck my dick! You think you are so awesome just because you taste good in candy form, but guess what jerk, you suck as a fruit. Are you even a fruit? Are you a berry? Is a berry a fruit? See the problems you create?

You sit there so shiny and smug in your bin like you are the Beatles of the produce department, when clearly you are the Coldplay of the the supermarket. The first few seconds of a Coldplay song you think “Hey, is this that Radiohead song I like?” No, no it isn’t, and soon you realize it’s just Coldplay taking another shit in your ears. It’s the same sensation when you bite into a cherry. It looks like a perfect little bite-sized yummy red treat but you forgot about that stupid pit didn’t you? I don’t need to fuck around with no seeds when I’m getting my fruit on. My grandma used to buy grapes with seeds in them and every time I would visit I’d pop some of those suckers in my mouth, only to almost choke to death on those stupid seeds. Come on grandma, get your head in the game!

Cherries don’t even TASTE good.

In summation, cherries are Coldplay, Coldplay sucks, cherries suck and my grandma tried to ruin my childhood by purchasing seeded grapes. Now do you understand how I got this way?

P.S. Oranges are the Beatles of fruit. Pluots are the Pink Floyd of fruit and grapes are the Pixies. Bananas are the Talking Heads and Apples are the Rolling Stones. Grapefruits are Fall Out Boy!

Hey Donald, if your hot dogs are so fucking famous why I have I never heard of them? How exactly are these hole-in-the-wall joints measuring fame? Are we talking Brad Pitt famous or Pauly Shore famous?

I especially like it when you drive by a shitty restaurant that boasts something like “try our world famous chili.” I imagine a family sitting around the dinner table in Egypt talking about how one day they would like to travel half way around the globe to America so they can see the Statue of Liberty, the Grand Canyon, the Hollywood sign and finally have a bowl of that God damn chili from “Dave’s Gyros and Burger Palace #2” they grew up hearing about. You can barely open an Egyptian newspaper or turn on “Good Morning Cairo” without hearing at least one story about Dave’s world-famous chili.

We get it, you’re awesome, you can eat a giant cheeseburger in front of a crowd of none. You have certainly earned the right to have your Polaroid up on the wall of sadness, next to the rest of the fat underachievers. What’s wrong, mommy and daddy didn’t buy you that BMX bike you always wanted? Were you stuck riding that girlie, yellow Schwinn Stingray to school while the rest of your friends had kickass, diamond frame dirt bikes? Did you try to camouflage your gay bike to look more BMX with a new seat, pads and a racing number? Did you NEVER get that BMX bike even though your parents could have totally afforded it because your dad was an international banker and your mom worked part-time in a gourmet cooking store and you lived in a nice middle-class home in a nice community? Are you now almost 40 years old but you toy with the idea of buying a diamond frame BMX bike just so you can ride it to your dad’s condo in Miami where you will pedal in circles on the sidewalk screaming “How you like me now old man? Look at your little BMXer now Daddy!”

Oh wait, that’s me.

Oh holy Lord, do I love me some pluots!

If you were like me a couple weeks ago, you are now scratching your head and saying in a very dumb voice “what’s a pluot?” You stupid fucking idiot, it’s only the best God damned fruit on this hell hole we call planet Earth. A pluot is a genetically engineered hybrid of a plum and an apricot. I already loved the fuck out of plums but I honestly have no idea what a stupid apricot tastes like, and I don’t give a shit because listen up dummy, when a plum and an apricot love each other very much the result is a beautiful pluot! A pluot could be made from Guy Fieri’s ball sweat and I would still make sweet love to them every night.

Oh… oh… OH… let me tell you about a man who should be worshiped and feared. A man who looks at God’s fruit and says “Are you fucking kidding me? Is that the best you got?” This beautiful son-of-a-bitch is Floyd Zaiger, the genius who first forced a plum and an apricot to have dirty sex (that’s how it’s done, right?). Compared to Floyd, you and I are insignificant, worthless failures. Yeah, that’s right, when was the last time YOU invented the best tasting fruit in the FUCKING UNIVERSE? You and I sit around all day eating Pringles and watching people fall off their skateboards on YouTube, while this magnificent creature designs a piece of fruit so delicious it would make Jesus cry. There should be a never-ending line of people on their knees waiting to blow this man.

Floyd Zaiger is GOD!

This photo is more beautiful than any piece of crap Ansel Adams ever photographed. I took this photo at a “Waffle House” and I’m planning on having it tattooed on the inside of my eyelids so I can dream about it every night. I LOVE Waffle House. These people are my heroes. Sadly, the amazing Waffle House chain does not reach as far north as Chicago, but you can bet your fat ass that any time I’m on some awesome road trip, being cool and kickass, I will search one of these fuckers out and eat the living shit out of some waffles. Luckily, there are many great greasy spoon diners in Chicago. Unluckily, there are also a ton of trendy bullshit breakfast spots too.

Every once in a while I’m forced to go to one of these horror shows, but never again, I’m putting my foot down. Here’s what you can count on at the trendy places…

1) A long wait. All you want is to nurse that hangover with a plate of fat with a side of fat and a tall glass of fat, but instead you get the pleasure of waiting for an hour and a half surrounded by guys in khaki shorts and dress sandals.

2) A cramped table. After feeling like you might die on the sidewalk, you finally get a table. Yay? Sadly this table is so close to your neighbor’s table, you can feel khaki shorts rubbing against your leg the entire breakfast and are forced to eavesdrop on a conversation about the Counting Crows.

3) Fussy food. These places try to reinvent what short-order cooks already perfected decades ago and fail miserably.

4) A huge bill for your boring, fussy food. Let me just quickly run to the bank an apply for a small business loan so that I might pay for these eggs.

5) GET OUT! Yeah, your waitress (she’s really a performance artist) has no interest in calling you “honey” and letting you take your sweet time.

Nothing beats A good, fatty, greasy, classic diner breakfast. It tastes better, it’s cheaper and your waitress will either be awesome because she is so nice, or awesome because she is so rude. So take your fancy, expensive, bullshit breakfast and place it in the darkest of dark places.

When did every kid become allergic to everything? When I was a kid growing up in the 70’s, I don’t remember ever being asked if I was allergic to nuts, or anything else, before being handed a cookie by a friend’s mom. In fact, that cookie was probably presented to me with a big cloud of cigarette smoke blown in my face. “Here are some cookies kids, now go outside and play with some fire or something, mommy needs a nap.”

I never even HEARD of a nut allergy until the 90s! All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I’m being told a tiny whiff of peanut air can literally kill some kids. Not just some kids, it seems like every kid has some sort of food allergy now. I don’t want to live in a world where children have to fear a delicious PB&J samich. My biggest fear as a child was that disco might one day ruin the band Kiss… WHICH IT DID! Later, in Jr. High, my biggest fear was my penis becoming erect in class… WHICH IT DID!

This is not a rant against the kids who happen to have nut allergies, rather it’s about how fucked up and complicated it is to be a kid now. For the most part, I think parents today make life for their kids way too complicated, but then there’s weird shit like nut allergies and autism that seem to be all the rage now. Man, I feel so lucky to have grown up in a time where my biggest concern was memorizing the pattern to every Pac-Man screen… WHICH I DID!

I once ordered an edamame appetizer at one of these pretentious restaurants and when the waitress brought six individual soybeans to our table a single tear fell from my eye, because I realized I just paid $13 for six soybeans. The next time I went to this restaurant I noticed the menu now included “One soybean seasoned with a single tear.” Clearly they had stolen this idea from me.

Take your tiny, pretentious dollhouse-sized food and shove it up your oh-so-hip ass. Do you realize some of these places actually sell scented air. AIR! My grandfather did not storm the beach at Normandy so some turd in a $300 T-shirt could eat one grain of sea salt with a side of almond-scented air. And don’t even get me started on molecular gastronomy. Don’t!

I’m not happy after a meal unless I feel like I might die. I want to feel HEAR my stomach struggling to sort through all the meat and fat I just crammed down my greasy mouth. A meal really isn’t worth eating unless you need to shower immediately afterward.

This is what food should look like…