The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

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30 Seconds of Serious

Heya folks,

Sometime next week I will be posting a new youtube video that is in response to Fred Armisen’s “Be Serious for 30 Seconds.” Check it out.

 

The bro and I had a blast making the video, although the content is very weird (just ignore that we’re brothers) … anywho, we cracked each other up a ton because it’s hard to be serious. Well, it was hard for me. I made us re-do it about 80% of the time due to smirking/giggling/outright laughing/confusion/any reason at all really.

Travel Writing – McDonald’s

McDonald’s, with its internationally known Golden Arches beckoning, is the destination of choice this week. Why? Because there’s one roughly 0.2 miles from my apartment.

Walking toward the McDonald’s, I wonder just how many people can say the exact same thing. I look to the driver at the drive-thru window, and he gives a little wave. I’m free to cross to walk inside.

The exterior is pleasant. That’s it, pleasant. It’s familiar, like a drug habit, or a guilty pleasure.

Inside – I’m at once greeted by a sense of irony. Or maybe it’s just right. A young, athletic looking woman, sporting a surprisingly clean looking McDonald’s uniform is handing a bag of food to a very obese man. Here, this looks like it’s more your style than mine, she seems to be saying.

It’s around 2:30 pm, so there is no line. There are a few people eating in the restaurant. Some teenagers who are happily wasting a summer day. A few mechanics on a late lunch break, or maybe they’re charging you labor while they deliberate over some fries.

While I’m noticing the people, another person comes in the restaurant. I decide to hurry up to the counter.

Given the clerk’s demeanor, one can only imagine the horrors that must be a part of his life. His sombre, angry, bored, and holier-than-thou countenance leave me to wonder what odd mix of things must be happening behind the counter. He takes my order with the amount of respect one normally reserves for cockroaches. He responds to my sincere thank you with an annoyed, “next,” and all I can do is hope that one day his life will be better.

The menu, while serving its obvious purpose, goes beyond that. It is a teacher of life. Depicted on the board are the names of the various food items, their prices, and next to some of them – a picture. It is with these pictures that I find a valuable life lesson. The lesson is disappointment. The stark truth of reality.

On the menu, an ideal is presented. This is a quarter pounder with cheese. It has been crafted with care, using only the freshest of all of its ingredients. Smiling, happy people made this burger. Who else could’ve made such a marvelous looking thing?

Looking at the tray directly below me – reality is instead seen. A small box with a sticker that says “-pickles,” contains a burger that is missing onions, but has pickles. The buns look like they were beaten flat to save space, the burger somehow looks homesick (I didn’t know this was possible), the lettuce leftover from a high school food fight, the pickles … indescribable. The mustard and ketchup look good, though.

Is that the true purpose of McDonald’s? To teach kids from a young age that lies will greet you at every turn, and that you should accept them early? Surely, some children must complain when they see what they get compared to what is advertised. Here, McDonald’s works its magic – breaking you down to accept reality, while you stare at the tray, with it’s paper placemat, containing pictures of beautiful things that you don’t have.

The food, I’ve eaten here before, is McDonald’s food. If I traveled five hundred years into the future, and everything seemed strange and foreign and frightening – the Golden Arches would be a God send. Humans may have evolved gills, or learned to speak telepathically, or we’re no longer born with an appendix (not that I could tell by looking at someone, but I’d get a vague notion) – but McDonald’s would still be the same. Promising quality, delivering in quantity.

For more information, please visit http://www.mcdonalds.com.

Food: 2/5 stars
Service: 1/5 stars
Fun I had doing this: 4/5 stars
Amount of caffeine in me because I’ve been getting re-fills as I’ve been writing this: 5/5 stars

Two Shades of Vague, Part IV

Two Shades of Vague

IV

We end up doing it a bunch, and every time it feels super duper. He does this weird controlling thing during sex where we’ll be doing something, and then he’ll say “red light,” and we stop, and then he’ll say “green light” and it kicks off again. I guess you could say he’s two shades of Vague. In fact, I might be tempted to make reference to that many, many times. On to a more pressing topic though, some weird descriptions of just how fantasmo the sexxins can be with him.

It’s like someone stuck a pleasure-grenade in my treasure chest, and exploded it using rainbows made out of love.

Imagine an earthquake, wrapped in a tornado, wrapped in a pancake, wrapped in an orgasm. And that’s what happened. You know. In my va-jay-jay.

Take three cups sugar, one teaspoon cinnamon, some boy body parts, and one hefty helping of oh baby oh baby, and mix. THAT’S WHAT’S UP.

While the sex is good, some things concern me. I am inexperienced with relationships, but certain behaviors of his I find off-putting. When a boy buys you a flower, it’s cute, I know that. So when the boy buys you a car that’s just like him buying you one million flowers. My inner goddess does the math and gives me a thumbs up. Although part of me thinks maybe that’s a bit much, my libido says “FEEEED ME.”

I ignore the warnings, and instead take a stroll to bone-town, and it’s awesometacular.

I want to call my best friend Susanna to talk about Shimper, but I’m afraid he’ll be angry at me – and he doesn’t want me talking about us to anyone. This worries me, but whoops, I just had an orgasm, and I’m suddenly less worried about this shockingly frightening red flag. I decide a relationship with cornerstones of fear and sex is ok, as long as I work on lessening the fear. In its place we can just have more sex. My inner goddess looks disapprovingly over her glasses, and I give in and decide to examine the pros and cons of Shimper and I:

Pro:
He’s rich (I don’t care about that … but yeah I do)
He’s grade A meat
He’s good at taking me to my happy place

Con:
He’s quick to anger
Being in control, big time control, is how he gets his jollies
I still have no idea what exactly he does and how he’s so rich
We haven’t had an actual conversation yet
He likes to keep people out
He seems emotionally stunted
He likes the idea of punishing me, by causing me physical pain, and he’s going to get off on that

I am interrupted while making this list with, you guessed it, some bouncy bouncy.

Exhausted by the massive amounts of sex, I go to sleep. I sleep for four days. (How could I not after all that? I mean sheesh.) When I wake up Shimper is finishing a surgery where he’s putting a tracking device under my skin.

“Shimper …” I say, hesitant to criticize him. Ya know, because of the potential for beatings.
“Miss Gasm, you’re awake … and I’m awake …,” he gestures romantically to his family jewels.
“I … I don’t know if this can work.”

I say this and immediately begin moving. If I stay in motion I won’t be able to talk, and if I keep from taking I’ll keep from breaking my resolve. My mind is made up! I can’t have a traditional romance with this man, he’s incapable of it!

“Miss Gasm …” Shimper sounds so hurt. So broken. I am tempted to go to him, hold him, comfort him. No. I can’t do that. My mind is made up.

Yep. My mind is made up. Until about a week later. Then we get back together, honestly, what else would happen? And I bet you’ll never guess what happens when we get back together …

YEP! He takes me to the BONE-ZONE!!

Fin