Frosting ruins everything. Like here’s this nice piece of cake and then someone slathers all this crap on it and then fashions it into little roses and hearts and stars and princesses or whatever the fuck and then I have to scrape it all off and dump it into the trash or find a six year old to eat it for me. All this means I have to spend five minutes defrosting my goddamn cake instead of eating it. This is why I don’t like cake. I see cake and all I see is work. No one should work for dessert. The whole point of dessert is that it arrives to you, ready to be enjoyed, because you deserve it. You worked hard this week! You sent some emails and went the gym once! You ate a salad! You earned some motherfucking dessert! But then you get cake and suddenly it’s like someone took a shit on your dessert. Sorry to be graphic, wait no, I’m not sorry. I hate you, frosting. Go away.
The point is that I wrote an Amazon review and it smells like vanilla.
I put up yet another Amazon review. This time of a taco. Specifically, THIS taco.
OK FINE, it’s not a real taco, but you were TOTALLY fooled right? Right? No? Not just a little bit? My friend Larry gave it to me. There’s no need to be jealous. Mostly because it doesn’t come with a real taco. Unless you put one in there.
I know you want it. It’s only $8.88. I realize for $8.88 you can buy a REAL taco. Several real tacos, in fact. If you went to Taco Zone, the king shit of taco truck mountain, then you could get SEVEN tacos. OR you could get six tacos and a horchata. Get the horchata. Sometimes I force a friend (usually Micah) to get the horchata so I can drink, like, half of it. Then Micah eventually cuts me off, not because I’m drinking all his horch, but because if I drank one on my own, my stomach would explode from the dairy. You probably didn’t need to know that, but there you have it. I ‘overshared’. It’s what I do best. Fucking horchata. Why must I love the things that hurt me so?
But seriously though. An $8.88 taco pouch. You probably don’t need it but wish you did.
I cannot promise you that this will be my last update about toast. It is hard to shut up about something you love, sometimes I want to shout my love for toast from the rooftops, until my neighbors call the police. But here is my recent Amazon review of my new toaster.
WARNING: THE TOASTER IS SMALL AND DOES NOT CAUSE FIRES (YET).
I’m pretty sure you guys didn’t get this on your desk this morning.
I know what you are thinking. What are on the tongue tattoos? Probably dicks. Probably.
I know what I’m eating tonight.
Korn and spinazz tacos.
I wrote a review of my toaster oven on Amazon. You should probably read it and definitely buy it, if you are a fire enthusiast or prefer your toast to look like this:
I still have not found a good toaster oven though. It’s been really hard, you guys. Life is, like, so hard. Sniff.
The second issue of White Zinfandel is out now! The magazine combines food, culture, art, and fancy people doing fancy things and being fancy. I wrote a piece in there about people who take photos of their food. The piece includes VISUAL AIDS, and I don’t mean, like, getting AIDS in your eyeballs. I mean graphic organizers. I’d say the tone of the article would be best described as “enthusiastically enraged.” So, if you are a person who takes photo of their food (and I know some of you do because we’re fwendz on Facebook and I see your feed, don’t you dare hide from me, you coy little bastard), then you will either feel mildly embarrassed or enthusiastically enraged. Just know that I still love you with all my heart, of which there is very little left because my parents have more or less eaten it. As you know, Koreans will eat anything. They will ferment it first though.
New Yorkers: You can get the issue at the New Museum or Project No. 8.
Everyone else: Look here.
Today I honor the memory of an incredible genius.
His name is Arch West and he is the inventor of Doritos, easily the most important snack to be developed ever in the history of flavor. Where would I be without Doritos? Probably the same place, but I’d be much less happier.
So Arch West died at 97 and his daughter buried him–along with some DORITOS. Listen, if I fucking invented Doritos, I would definitely want to be buried with them. The afterlife probably has shitty snacks. The dead don’t understand fucking snacks so you have to take them with you. The ancient Chinese were buried with horses and the Vikings were buried with entire ships–you know, because they’ll need them for the afterlife. They’ll be riding their horses and ships wandering around but OH WAIT WHAT they are hungry I guess they will STARVE because they did not think to take Doritos with them. They will be sad, they will think, man I wish I had something salty and crunchy and loaded with awesome nacho cheese or cool ranch or ZOMG TACO flavor, and instead they will eat, I dunno, celery sticks. I hate celery. That is a bullshit snack right there. Even nacho cheese can’t help celery. A lost cause, just like the war on drugs.
How awesome would it be to have a dad who invented Doritos? Like people at school would be like oh what does your dad do, and people would be like oh my dad’s a lawyer, my dad’s a dentist, my dad works for the Long Island Railroad, OH YEAH? COOL, MY DAD INVENTED DORITOS. And then everyone would be like HOLY SHIT YOUR DAD INVENTED DORITOS and you’d be like IT’S PRETTY COOL, I GUESS, you know, trying to downplay how fucking BADASS your dad is. And you’d be the life of the fucking party because you’d have unlimited access to Doritos and including some secret flavors and for the record, jalapeño Doritos, totally delicious. Also, for the record, my dad is an asshole because he did not invent Doritos.
Check out White Zinfandel, which came out this week. I have a piece in there. Looks hot right? Right?
The concept of the journal is this: take a menu (in this case, it’s Food, a restaurant by Gordon Matta-Clark in 1971), assign dishes to a bunch of people, and see what they come up with. Then, have a fancy ass dinner somewhere fancy ass with a fancy ass chef and fancy ass people. Let me tell you, my ass is fucking fancy as shit. The item assigned to me was corn and flour tortillas. Yes, this was apparently on the menu. Just corn and flour tortillas. My friends Marco and Lizzie got “velvet chicken.” The fancy ass chef was Jonathan Ory from Momofuku Ko. He did not make velvet chicken. Or tortillas, in case you were wondering.
White Zinfandel is available at really really really hip and styley and trendo places, which, surprisingly are not in Brooklyn, but in Manhattan: New Museum, Creatures of Comfort, Project No. 8. Probably places online too, I’ll update it here when I figure that out! Woo hoot!
Oh hai, it got a little holla from Interview magazine.
I’D LIKE TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING. THIS IS A PICTURE OF THE WATER COOLER IN MY OFFICE.
I think it’s juice? Tea? I have NO idea. What makes that color even? It looks like the water cooler had its PERIOD all over the place. It’s disgusting. And whoever did it is certainly NOT going to clean it up. Especially since I just yelled at the entire floor for being fucking disgusting. So no one’s gonna own to that. Not after me going OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? FUCKING CLEAN YOUR SHIT UP.
This is like only marginally better than the Lady Who Pees All Over the Seat. The big difference, other than urine, is that the LWPAOtS doesn’t work in the same office. This MYSTERIOUS PERSON WHO PUT THE WATER COOLER ON THE RAG is someone I see every day. Dude. I’m going to scream.
Maybe it’s Haterade.