Things I would do to this cheeseburger.

2010-06-22T09:03:00.000-07:00

That, my friends, is a Spicy Chorizo Mac and Cheese Bite in a Parmesan Crisp Cup.

One more time, that is a SPICY CHORIZO MAC AND CHEESE BITE IN A PARMESAN CRISP CUP. Again? No, you're good.

But let that sink in for a bit. Click on the picture. I'll wait. Did you click on it? Do it again. Now wipe your chin.

That is what wet dreams are made of. In fact, they should rename wet dreams, "spicy chorizo mac and cheese bites in a parmesan crisp cup". As in, "I had a spicy chorizo mac and cheese bite in a parmesan crisp cup that I was porking your sister last night."

Here's my take: I like to think that God's work wasn't complete until this happened. Like he just always had some nagging thought in the the back of his mind. "What am I forgetting?...I know it's something... something big... world peace?... hahaha, no... hmmm... an amphibious, man-eating shark-tiger hybrid?... no, but let's keep that on the radar filed under Awesome...oh, I know... how about SPICY CHORIZO MOTHERFUCKING MAC AND CHEESE BITES STUFFED INTO A CUP MADE OF FRIED DELICIOUS." Then his work was done. So he screamed "Booyah!", got blackout drunk, and got himself a picture of his latest, most rad invention tattooed across his massive, rippling back with the words "You're Welcome, World" done up in really sweet old english typography.

And you know what God. Thanks. Thank you so Youdamn much.

2010-06-22T07:39:00.000-07:00

Listen here, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake. I don't know what you are. I don't know where you're from. And I sure as shit don't know why someone decided to make you.

But you are SERIOUSLY harshing my mellow right now.

Yeah, I want to like you too. I see the moisture. I see the glaze. I see the copious amounts of what you call "entertaining orifices". I see it all.

Don't get me wrong, you've got the make up of a totally fuckable dessert. You're just...you're not doing it for me.

Why? Well, for starters, you're the color of toe jam. Look at other desserts. They run the aesthetic gamut from sensuous, boner-inducing reds to rich, creamy, also boner-inducing browns. They're just delightful.

Really, that's not enough of a case, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake? Well, it appears your two main ingredients are fig and lower intestine. And while I can't speak to the appropriateness of intestine in my dessert, I do know a little something about fig.

Fig is the fruit uncle your fruit mom makes you send a fruit thank you card to after your fruit bar mitzvah. Even though he showed up 2 hours late, with a middle-aged latina escort, drank a handle of schnapps, and tit-slapped your girlfriend's 13-year old breast buds. Fig is an asshole. It's the only fruit that could singlehandedly turn one of the greatest physicist/mathematician/scholars our planet has ever known and forever link him with a dry, tasteless cookie-substitute.

So, no, we're not cool, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake. You need to stop posing as something I would ever, ever want to put in our around my mouth. You make me sick.

2010-06-21T14:02:00.000-07:00

Heheheheheheheh.

Hahahahahaha.

Hahahah.

HAH!

That should suffice.

2010-06-21T07:36:00.000-07:00

I've mulled over this pastry conundrum for many years now. I've thought about the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs. But finally, I have a quantifiable solution. An answer to the one query that's been hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles. A lifting of the burden that's weighed me down with the force of a herd of elephants. A solution to that age-old debate: What's the sluttiest pastry?

Certainly, the brothel-like appearance of Red Velvet gave the eponymous cake some distinction. And the sizable (read: fuckable) hole inside the German Bundt earned it some kudos. And I'd be remiss to not touch upon Apple Pie's mid-nineties moment in the vaginal sun. But after careful and often repulsive research, I can safely and unequivocally crown the Jelly Doughnut the Saigon Whore of the baked goods kingdom.

Think about the logistics of the whole thing. The doughnut is first filled. It is then glazed. And lastly, it is powdered. That's just a minor assembly line mix up from an ACTUAL prostitute, who is powdered, then filled, then glazed upon. Filthy, filthy, pastries. And to think, we let them hang out with our Pink Frosted.

2010-04-30T11:02:00.000-07:00

There's an old joke, "What do fat chicks and mopeds have in common?" The answer, of course, is "they're fun to ride, but you don't want your friends to see you on one".

Then there's this, "What do fat chicks and Sloppy Joes have in common?" Well, a bunch of things.

The first, and most obvious one, is don't let your prospective/current employer see you eating one. It will just be a mess. And no one looks cool doing it. And you REALLY shouldn't be going down on chicks in public, regardless of physique. Just a terrible, terrible idea.

Number 2: They're bad for you. You think, "what's one little Sloppy Joe/meaty broad?" Then you get that taste. Then you're all, "I can stop at any time. I swear." Pretty soon you're brushing your teeth with ground meat, bathing in cooking lard, and spending your Friday nights trolling the tightly packed aisles of your neighborhood Lane Bryant. It's an artery clogging, social-suicide spiral of embarrassment. And if I've seen it once, I've see it a thousand times. Don't let hubris devour you.

Third: The cleanup. With regard to the food, we're talking reams of napkins. Pretty much 2-3 after every bite. After half a Sloppy Joe, you're more of a threat to the planet's ever-dwindling forests than Kimberly-Clark, Canadian loggers and beavers combined. Fuck this recycling movement. How 'bout Flo just stops making the Sloppy Joe a blue-plate special at her white-trashy roadside diner with the blinking lights and the NSA homosexual sex out back. And with regard to the Orca in the lipstick. Ever try and get her to stop calling you? Oh. Haha. No, totally. Me neither. But I've heard it's impossible. It's like, stop calling me, Joan. We broke up 6 months ago! GOD!

And lastly, your breath afterward. Ew.

And on that note, I'm out. Have a great weekend everybody. Remember, drinking 13 beers in a 2-hour span has been known to lead to both things outlined above. So be careful out there. And if you're going to drink, get on a moped instead.

2010-04-28T09:07:00.000-07:00

Isn't it funny how the most adorable animals make the most succulent dinner? And by that, I don't mean the animals actually make dinner. Like, try not to picture a baby seal flipping a grilled cheese sandwich. (Actually, picture that. It's good. I'll wait.) What I mean is, the cutest animals become the most succulent dinner. Lambs, tiny little moo cows, curly-tailed piglets. All scrumptious. Can you imagine what baby otters must taste like? Like heaven, wrapped in awesome, fried in blowjobs. That's what.

This wacky idea didn't just come to me, either. I've been singing the praises of the adorable for years now. I was the guy who needed a bib to watch Homeward Bound. Cute animals are literally, a godsend. So, enough of all this religious zealotry, and internal searching, and scientific exploration for the secret of life. Here it is. Go get a pen. Ready? The cuter the animal, the tastier it's going to be. That is the secret of life. Done. Eat that shit.

Here's another idea, scientists. Stop genetically modifying vegetables to make grow seasons longer. And stop using steroids to make strawberries look like Bigfoot's swollen hemorrhoids. And for the love of all that is holy, stop feeding ground up cow meat to other cows. Want to make something more delicious? Get a baby sloth to fuck a bunny rabbit. Take that offspring, and get it to bang the progeny of a polar bear pup and a chimp. The brood from that bizarro-Noah's ark orgy should consist of 6-8 of the most adorable, big-eyed, fur-balls that modern science could conjure up. Now kill them, gut them, chop them up, flavor them, and cook them. Voila. It's a miracle! No, it's just the tastiest thing you've ever eaten. You're welcome world.

Now I'm starving. I know this great little zoo in the area. Who's coming with me?

2010-04-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of chicken stuffed shells. But this is not a post about chicken stuffed shells. This is a post about a word.

Stuffed.

A word that truly says it all. A word that expertly toes that imaginary line (on which I live) between food and the proverbial "hibbidy dibbidy". A word that could mean just about anything to anybody depending on context, intonation, and number of childhood years the listener has spent eating paint chips. (And just to be clear, by "hibbidy dibbidy," I mean fucking.)

Let's take a closer look inside the usage of the seemingly innocuous "stuffed":

The scene is Christmas dinner inside the sprawling, prewar estate of Mary and Carter Thurston of Greenwich, Connecticut. The couple's nubile, ready-to-rebel, vaguely-bisexual daughter, Muffy, has just brought home her first college boyfriend, Jake. Jake seems eager to make a good impression on his upper-crust hosts, and doesn't appear to despise them at all for their sense of entitlement and thinly-veiled anti-semitism. The four have just finished dinner and the Thurston's modern-day house slave is clearing the table. Mary offhandedly asks Jake if "his people" ever eat steak, when he deftly deflects the latent racism with some apparent flattery.

"Mary, that filet was a revelation." "I dare say, I'm stuffed," guffawed Jake, seemingly eager to please his girlfriend's tight-assed, Anglo-Saxon parents. The so-white-they're-clear Thurstons were overcome with delight. They were proud of their daughter for seeing past religion and socioeconomic class and horns and for bringing home the one Jew without the hook nose that could easily be snuck into their monthly regatta.

What the Thurstons didn't get, however, is crucial. The meaning of the word, "stuffed". Jake is using "stuffed" not in the satisfaction sense, but in the uncomfortable, sexual sense. You see, Jake had not actually ingested a single morsel of steak. But rather, had inserted all 12 medium-rare ounces straight into his ass, then back out, then unceremoniously fed them to the family's prized Yorkshire Terrier, Princess.

Had the Thurston's realized this was Muffy's sinister plot all along, or noticed Jake's overblown, pompous guffaw, or, alas, had known the different meanings of the word "stuffed," the 12-pound, 4-time blue-ribbon winning Yorkie would still be alive today.

So, let this be a lesson to you. Next time you hear someone tell you they're stuffed, be very wary. Tread lightly. And for Christ's sake, hide your dog.

2010-04-23T09:41:00.000-07:00

A friend (read: sexual deviant) once spoke of the grapefruit as "ABSOLUTELY the most sexual fruit in the entire world". She then took a giant step backward, squeezed a wedge of ripe grapefruit over her light brown locks, shuddered violently, curled her toes, and let out an orgasmic wail, half-reminiscent of Meg Ryan and half humpback-in-heat. It was, in a word, magical.

But I can't say I completely disagree. The hue. The juiciness. The melon-ness of it all does sort of drip with eroticism. But in the land of fruit sexiness, the grapefruit is but a role player. Look at the facts. It's competing with bananas (the King Dong of all fruits), cherries (evocative of lips, balls AND virginity), kumquats (yeah), and of course, the vaginaberry. What? That last one is just something I made up to kinkify the world of produce? Fair enough. Moving on.

In this iteration of grapefruit, it's lining the top of a cheesecake. Nothing too titillating about that, right? But it's like the chef knew the cheesecake alone wouldn't be enough to stir the loins of his diners. "Sex it up," he says. "Give it a kick in the ol' passion parts." "Arouse the beast inside the stomachs and pleated khakis of our customers." So he chose grapefruit. Not peaches. Not apples. Not the vulgar little kumquat. Grapefruit. He had his balls laid out on the table, and to awaken the sleeping giant that is his man meat, he went with the grapefruit. The grapefruit! The fluffer at the produce aisle orgy. The waiter at the food cart's bootylicious bacchanalia. The extra in Foods that Fuck: The Untold Story. The motherfucking grapefruit.

But, you know what? If the grapefruit is good enough for a chef with his globes on the table, it's good enough for me. So I salute you, grapefruit. May you be forever linked with beautiful, unabashed coitus. Or, at the very least, an outside the pants handie.

2010-04-16T11:23:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's the tiny, sprouting hairs. Maybe it's the pink coloring. And maybe, just maybe, it's my deviant, twisted mind. But goddamn, if this Raspberry Shortcake isn't the most vaginal dessert I've ever seen, I don't know what is. You could fashion a menu consisting entirely of Labia-pops, Clitoral Sorbet, and Cooter Pies and I think it would make me blush less than this.

Somewhere, Georgia O'Keefe is cursing herself for not becoming a pastry chef. Unless she's dead. Then she's rolling over in her grave. Unless, she was cremated. Then she's praying the wind picks up so she can get in someone's eyes and make them all pissed off. Vengeful, vengeful artists.

But this thing...it's just so...a vagina. A so obviously delicious one at that. Like, freshly shaven and right out of the shower. It's almost beckoning. If it had lips (ones that spoke) they'd be blowing me kisses and whispering my name.

(I can imagine the chef laying down the first layer of cake all innocently. "Well, nothing suggestive about that. That's just shortcake." Then he puts down the cream. Then the raspberries. Then the second layer of cake. Then he takes a step back, sort of cocks his head to the side and lets out a slight giggle. Then the sous chef comes in, sees the pastry chef laughing, and he starts laughing. Then the maitre' d stumbles in and sees the other two laughing. Eventually, it's the three of them, all cackling like hyenas, making period-related jokes as they pour oodles of raspberry coulis all over their creation.)

In short, order this. It's scrumptious, reminiscent of delectable lady parts, and ripe for parody. It's the dessert that truly keeps on giving. And if you're at all interested, yes, the dessert is served cold. Just like a woman.

2010-04-13T07:29:00.000-07:00

What can you say about the French? They're apathetic towards bathing and conflict. Fanatical about wine and hairy armpits. And they fucking love mimes. Nothing but extremely attractive characteristics, right? Right.

Now, out of nowhere, they start making this toast. (What's that? French toast has, literally, been around for centuries? I'm sorry, you say I should check my facts before going on anti-franco diatribes? And I should leave the house more? And my personal hygiene has lately become cause for concern? Noted.)

But let's not dwell on the Frogs. Let's talk about their creation. Their brunchy gift to the world. Their reason to arise at the crack of noon on a Sunday. Their French Toast. It really is a thing of beauty, isn't it? Its fluff, eternal bliss. Its gooeyness, straight out of folklore. Its crispy edges, undoubtedly sent down from above on a band of barrel chested steeds, powdered sugar raining down from their flowing manes. That's the way it is in my head, at least. The reality is much less sexy.

But the finished product? I don't even want to order it. I want to wine and dine it. I want to dote on it. I want to be seen with it. I want to take it to a chic bistro in a trendy part of town.

I want to order it the most expensive bottle on the list. I want to gaze at it through the candlelight and reveal my soul to it. I want it to intuitively understand every nook and cranny of my psyche. I want to kiss both sides of its neck. And run my fingers through its hair. I want to give it the world, and the life it deserves. I want it. Inside me.

2010-03-24T08:07:00.001-07:00

This picture makes me feel dirty. I don't know whether to lick my computer screen or shield it from my boss' prying, conservative eyes. At first, I just stared at it blankly, my hangdog mouth drooling and agape. Then, after 21-24 minutes of dessert-fugue had passed, and I realized I had literally been licking the area of my face surrounding my lips in chocolaty lust for what amounted to a full episode of Arrested Development, I got to thinking. I don't know if it's the drizzled chocolate or the java buttercream filling, or some combination of both, but this fucking dessert speaks to me. And not just conversationally, "Hey, I'm good food. Wouldn't you like to eat me?" It speaks to me in an Al Green baritone rife with sexual innuendo and intense eroticism. It uses words like, "baby" and phrases like, "get some". And, you know what? I am legitimately turned on by it. That chocolate sammy couldn't be more attractive to me if it was hanging from Heidi Klum's labia. I'm gonn' get me some, baby.

2010-03-04T08:50:00.000-08:00

"Parmigiana," which translates to "from Parma" is a bit of a misnomer. The I-think-I-might-have-to-change-my-underwear dish above did not actually originate in the Northern Italian city of Parma. The true story is much more sordid. And thus, like the tomato sauce-slathered chicken, much more titillating.

The true tale of the mighty Chicken Parmigiana involves cases of mistaken identity, paternity battles, knife fights, more than one case of amnesia, a chef gone rogue, a recipe gone missing, chance encounters, brief trysts, seduction, rape, weddings, funerals, parades, bar mitzvahs, and the entire ensemble cast of the 1964 traveling production of L'incoronazione di Poppea. But I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, it was the combined wet dream of every Days of Our Lives writer, ever, and M. Night Shyamalan.

That being said, I do have a very keen interest from whence the Chicken Parm came. But, I don't care about the story. I'm talking about the little old Italian birds with recipes in their heads and pit stains in their frocks. Now, I've never really had a thing for old broads who sweep carpet and decorate their lawns with religious idols. However, looking at the Chicken Parm image, I feel like I could make an exception. And by exception, I mean bang ALL of them. One by one. Vigorously. And in crazy positions. I would do it as more of a "thank you" than anything else. "Thank you, dear Rosetta or Violetta or Nicoletta or Volkswagen Jetta. Thank you for giving this brand new boner an old world feel. And thank you for putting that marinara, that sweet, sweet nectar of the heathen Roman gods, betwixt thy chicken and cheese. And thank you for letting me put my own sacred nectar betwixt your ample, sagging bosom. I'll always love you."

2010-03-03T10:16:00.000-08:00

The Onion Ring: Merely a hangover-neutralizing greasy indulgence or the true Lord of the Rings? *reminder: add nerd joke before publishing. Sure, the Onion Ring doesn't possess the eye-catching glitz of an engagement ring. And it's true, there's no awe-inspiring majesty like that of Saturn's rings. And there's no innate whorishness as is the case of the tongue ring. But what it lacks in aesthetics, it more than makes up for in eatsthetics. (That's a horseshit term I'm now using to describe the tongue's recognition of beauty in any given object. Eatsthetics. Deal with it.) And the rings have that in spades. Their specific brand of eatsthetics, "holy shit, this tastes like explosions battered in knife fights, deep-fried in lightning," is one thing: Bad Ass. What other food can make the all-mighty french fry seem like a ginger step-child? "Oh, you're gonna let me replace the fries with onion rings? Of course I'll do that. I'm sure those skinny French bastards are in the process of surrendering to the cole slaw, anyway." And let's not even get into what an Onion Ring does when placed inside a burger/sandwich/panini. People do that with potato chips and they're all, "look how artsy and innovative and cutting edge I am." Then they see someone clearly better than them stick an onion ring in a grilled chicken sandwich, and immediately they feel like they're at an Aerosmith concert sometime after 1998.

So we've already established Onion Rings are a better accompaniment than a fry or chip, tastier than a piece of jewelry or heavenly body, and cleaner than a tongue-ringed lady of the evening. If that isn't enough to lay the Lord's crown upon the Onion Ring, consider this: A(n) Ypsilanti, Michigan man recently attempted to rob a local Burger King. When the cashier explained the register can only be opened when a food order is placed, the man placed an order for Onion Rings. However, it being 5am in Ypsilanti, Michigan at the time, the fast food joint was not currently serving onion rings, and relayed that information to the gun-toting derelict. Dejected, and no longer feeling up to it, the man lowered his gun and left without even a parting gift from the penny jar. That, my friends, is the power of the Onion Ring. Tell an enterprising individual with a good plan and an even better assault rifle he can't have one order, and he turns into Charlie Brown (or, if you prefer, a recently dumped George Michael Bluth). Good grief, Onion Ring. The title is yours. Enjoy it.

2010-03-02T07:04:00.000-08:00

What isn't there to love about a mozzarella stick? So what if they fatten your ass and repulsively clone your chin? Have you forgotten that the deep-fried cheesy twigs are also singlehandedly responsible for the electric guitar, liberalism, and the automatic garage door opener? Well good, because that's a lie. But they are to pub fare what the printing press was to the Bible. Think about it. A symbiotic, synergistic, I'll-scratch-your-back-if-you-make-my-fried-ass-lusted-after relationship. Mutual assured celebrity. In the case of Gutenburg and the "Word of God", mass production of the Bible meant the Catholic Church could finally settle their bet on how gullible those foolish pagans were. It also meant JG had to literally beat chicks away with a morning star. And not just because most of the women were in the final throes of the Bubonic Plague, but because Gutenburg was ridic famous and rolling in pussy. Like his handsome distant brother, Steve Guttenburg, circa Police Academy 3: Back in Training.

The relationship between mozzies and the bar is far simpler, more beautiful, and much less full of religious zealotry. It began with a little thing called the Appetizer Sampler. Or simply, appy sampy. Around 1964, the new jewel in the combo platter's proverbial crown, forever replacing the wing, was a golden fried, battered or breaded, succulent, fried cheese rod--the Babe Ruth of the appy sampy's Murderer's Row. It took the chain restaurant and the stinky dive bar circuit by storm. People lapped up the sticks. No longer would anyone have to wonder what Jesus' dick tasted like. This is had to be it...like heaven...like a mozzarella stick. For a food invented in the mid 60's, think about what that does for national recognition. "Potato skins, chicken quesadillas, southwestern egg rolls, and now this? Shit, I gotta get my mouth on those sticks", said every stoner to stumble into a Chili's. As for the bars? Well, the presence of cheese sticks on a menu meant at least one more enticing draw for any establishment whose previous appeals had been drunken buffoonery around an Erotic Photo Hunt machine, unabashed alcoholism in the presence of complete strangers, or the prospect of a late-night MO with a loose, probably-chlamydia laden woman. Clearly, a welcome addition. Mutual assured celebrity, indeed. And that, my friends, is a completely fictional account of how Mr. Mozzarella Stick took the world by artery-clogging storm. The end.

2010-03-01T09:02:00.000-08:00

Before I begin my list of pizza-ingesting techniques, a quick metro-xenophobic word on the fare. Though "pie" is correct in vernacular, it is reprehensible in appearance. Yes, Chicago--we're looking at you and your deep dish dopiness. Guess what, I don't want to wait an hour for my pizza to be made. And I don't want it to resemble a Muppet burn victim. And I sure as shit don't want to use a knife and fork to eat it. A knife and fork? What am I, GD royalty? Screw you, Chicago. And screw your Super Fans, your pretty awesome Bean, and your insufferable windiness.

So, without further ado, here are 7 ways I would encourage everyone to eat their pizza (as long as said pizza doesn't have good, midwestern values and Cubs pajamas).

1. The Rookie: Ravage it upon immediate withdrawal from the oven. Scorch the roof of your mouth causing that hanging flap of skin behind the teeth to interfere with everything you consume for the next few days.

2. The Probably Has a Job With a Name-Tagged Uniform: Fold it in half, making it portable, locking in the grease, and allowing one to simultaneously drink domestic beer with their off hand.

3. The Glutton: Rip the cheese off. Scarf it down your mouth hole. Lick the sauce from crust to tip. Roll the dough up like a tarp. Then, slowly, take the remaining lukewarm, somewhat saucy, now-cylindrical dough and have the sex with it. Just really go to town.

4. The Looney Tunes: Place it on a windowsill to cool. Watch the steamy fingers of aroma waft into the nose of a nearby napping dog. Pretend to perform other womanly errands while actually closely monitoring the 'za. Survey the canine's cunning. Wait until the beast is right up next to the window with eyes now quadrupled in size. Hit it over the head with a frying pan. Stay perfectly still until credits roll and a portly pig sings you off into commercial break.

5. The Brit: Hold your pinkie away from the clutched pizza and eat it with abysmally-maintained teeth and effeminate accent.

6. The College: Order it online. Smoke a J. Watch something you've previously DVR'ed. Call the pizza place demanding to know the whereabouts of your food. Realize it's only been 10 minutes. Wait another half hour. Call again. Fall asleep. Get woken up by the doorbell. Eat voraciously. Fall back asleep. Wake up. Pick pizza particles out of your hair and off your beard. Watch cartoons until you fall asleep for the third and final time.

7. The White Guy: Insist on topping it with cured Italian meats and sissy vegetables. Pay $4 more for it than it's worth. Brag to your friends about it. Wash it down with bottled water and latent racism.

2010-02-24T08:54:00.000-08:00

You can mash potato. And you can do the twist. But tell me baby (tell me baby), can you twice bake potato without having your eyes roll into the back of your head, your toes curl up and your entire body spasm in shear orgasmic delight? If so, you're probably missing eyes, a nose, taste buds and a soul.

The beauty of the twice baked potato lies in its simplicity. Also, the bacon bits and gruyere. The recipe follows a basic taste edict. If baking once makes something good. Baking twice will make it inspired. It's a rule I've applied to my thrice-fried pork knuckles and my 68-time beer-battered Ding-Dongs.

A simple Google search for "twice baked potato" amasses 256,000 hits. A similar YouPorn search for "twice baked potato" curiously amasses zero. Have I gone mad? Does "twice baked potato" not sound infinitely more appealing than "pregnant amateur ebony double anal"? Why is that a thing people pleasure themselves to? Who are these people and how do they not find the potato, cheese, onion combo immensely more appetizing than the knocked up, stretch-marked, jungle fever combo? For my utterly sane, like-minded, food-rogering compatriots out there, have no fear. You are not alone. And rest assured, I will once again be offering my annual class, "The Twice Baked Potato's G-spot and You". Plenty of spots are still available. Come hither.

2010-02-23T07:52:00.000-08:00

This is what the most expensive sandwich in the world looks like. Like a standard smelly deli club sandwich. But just like a fat girl or a piñata, it's what's on the inside that counts. Inside this $200 sandwich is the planet's finest chicken, ham, hard-boiled quails' eggs and, wait for it, white muh-fuckin' truffles. Suck it, barbecue chicken panini! This sandwich makes Lobster Thermidor look like Oysters Rockefeller. Hard boiled quails' eggs? I'm not even sure what a quail is. Suffice it to say, I would still love to eat their unfertilized embryos. White truffles? Just the oil from those suckers is enough to make a grown man cry. The limeys at Cliveden in Berkshire, the geniuses responsible for this delightfully gluttonous waste of money, threw in the whole thing. Entire truffles. Recession be damned! I think it's time for me to empty my pygmy bank account, hop across the pond, slap Mr. Bean in the face, snog the chef, and hastily devour 1,182 calories of jaw-dropping, cock-lifting, club sandwich. Jolly good.

2010-02-22T13:21:00.000-08:00

Due to public outcry from some of my Canadian readers (yes, you read that correctly, Canadian followed immediately by the word readers) who felt slighted at the absence of even one Caesar reference, I have been forced to make amends. The ladies, who I can only assume were renegade fur trappers living in New York on a top-secret beaver hunting mission, held me at hockey stick-point and demanded I atone for my blunder. Calm down, Canucks. I said "blunder" not "blubber".

Anyway, for my non-curling friends with no public healthcare option, this is the Canadian version of the Bloody Mary. They call it a "Caesar". Caesar, the man, was a military and political leader who pretty much turned Rome into the badass empire you know from Gladiator. Caesar, the drink, is a Clamato-infused bastardization of the Bloody Mary. But the CTV-watching lumberjacks up north didn't stop at a half-clam, half-tomato juice produced in New York to make this drink all their own. The maple syrup mongers then said to themselves, "what do we love more than anything on the planet?" And after 3 hours of praying to a bronze bust of Wayne Gretzky, they finally answered with, "Rimjobs". So they added a rim of celery salt for a splash of red on their already entirely red concoction. You know, cause that's our color, eh? And finally, they garnished it with THE EXACT SAME THING that garnishes a Bloody Mary and called it a day. Voila, your quintessentially Canadian cocktail, the Caesar.

2010-02-22T07:57:00.000-08:00

How can we ever count the myriad gifts Philadelphia has given the world? There's the enlightened thinking that went on inside Independence Hall spurring liberty and justice for all. And then there's the time hundreds of drunken assholes (read: Eagles fans) hurled snowballs at Santa Claus. And who can forget the nimble hands of Quaker/upholsterer/thimble enthusiast, Betsy Ross? Or the nimbler trigger fingers of all the upstanding citizens that helped land Philly consistent top-billing in the annual "Most Dangerous Places to Live" contest. (Not only is Kabul safer, it has a vastly superior public education system.) But by far, the best thing to come out of Philly since the Fresh Prince inexplicably found a cabbie in West Philadelphia that drove him 2,393 miles to a mansion in Bel-Air is the Cheesesteak. Philadelphians talk about their cheesesteak like they talk about their own children. And they glorify it like they glorify their domestic abuse. There's a constant debate in the city of brotherly love and rampant gang violence over which the official home of the Philadelphia Cheesesteak, Pat's or Geno's? The answer is who the shit cares? If anyone is willing to combine frizzled beef, cheese, bread, and early-onset heart disease, wrap it all in butcher paper, and serve it with a certain amount of vitriol, you can't really go wrong. Pat, Geno, we all love what you do. Keep pumping out those delicious creations, and I'll keep pumping out my unborn children. And somebody, for the love of god, get this man a cheesesteak.

2010-02-18T20:34:00.000-08:00

Here's to a true warrior in the fight against the diabolical hangover. Here's to not needing a handful of Advils, 14 glasses of water, and a prayer. And here's to the only morning cocktail named for a virgin deity on the rag. Here's to the Bloody Mary!

We don't need no sunglasses to fight the sun's evil glare. We can sit in the shade cast by our gigantic, overly-garnished glass. We don't need to apologize to those schoolchildren we vomited upon. We'll be that drunk again momentarily. And we don't need to vaguely recall hazy details from the scene of an unidentified stranger's bedroom. We've got breakfast booze!

Which means no more talk of whatsername, whatsisname and what ball gag? No more worrying about those kids with regurgitated taco meat caked into their pleated, flannel skirts. And certainly no more crying about the HJ's, BJ's, and DWI's we both gave and received last night. Because when we can get drunk during breakfast, we can get almost anything. Thank you Bloody Mary, and Happy Friday everyone.

2010-02-18T07:32:00.000-08:00

This is how women were made. Adam (the original #1 Dad) tore into his torso, Marilyn Manson style, and ripped himself out a mate. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. It was actually "God" who ripped the rib out of Adam's ridiculously toned torso. And it was "His" enlightened idea to create women. Just so Adam would stop "Diddling" the wildlife. Well, that's all just dogmatic semantics. The fact is chicks come from ribs. Like this one. They're born slathered in rosemary-infused barbecue sauce. They smell like hickory. They taste like magic and unicorns and Sunday afternoons. And when they touch you it feels like 8 million pins and needles thrashing about inside your penis. Wait, strike that. That last one was Chlamydia. Back to women. I could not think of a more suitable progenitor for them than the spare rib. Think about it. Both rate very high on the succulence scale. Both can be purchased in Chinatown for a nominal fee. And both always leave you in the end (pun very much intended). As for which one I prefer, women or ribs? I say eat one, snuggle the other. The only problem is my sheets always end up covered in glaze. Sad, gross and true. Just like auto-erotic asphyxiation.

2010-02-17T06:59:00.000-08:00

U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A.! Yes, it's true, rooting for America is like cheering for cancer to metastasize. But sometimes, you just have to appreciate dominance. Take the case of the hot dog. This über-phallic delicacy was invented in the 1480's in Frankfurt, a city known mostly for getting the balls bombed out of it during Dubya Dubya Two, but also for its tubes of intestine-wrapped, mystery-meat. The aptly and ridiculously-named "frankfurter" was considered classic German fare for centuries, to the point where wieners were often ceremonially handed out at imperial coronations. That's not even a joke. That's just Germany. This was the case until around 1870. Until we got American all over their asses. Until we stole their delicious meat pipes and made them our own. They say a German immigrant brought them to Coney Island and the rest is history. I, however, choose my own history. I picture us going in there, guns blazing, CCR blaring, cocks all boned up, and stealing their recipes, mocking their ridiculous accents, and making the sex with their finest beer wenches all while shredding on our American-made electric guitars. And from that day forth, the hot dog has been revered in this country as the most American thing since date rape. The hot dog has also become synonymous with freedom, George Washington, the 4th of July, baseball, trans-fat and morbid obesity. And I couldn't be prouder. We also added variety to the standard sausage of yesteryear. For example, the dog above slathered in ketchup, mustard and relish is all-beef and Kosher, hence the lack of foreskin and overbearing mother.

2010-02-16T08:18:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of the Olympic games, I've been trying to shake my rabid jingoism and appreciate everything America's Hat has to offer. Obviously, it's been difficult. However, according to Google and a few expats taking asylum in the Lower East Side, the "great" white north is actually responsible for some pretty awesome stuff. For instance, there's hockey, sketch comedy set to goofy music, 95% of the world's fresh water, Ryan Reynolds' cheese-grating abs, polar bears, Pamela Anderson's ball-dropping hotness, circa 1996 (Although her tits are American-made) and finally, poutine. Poutine, from the French meaning, "Soon to be poo" is a brilliant combination of french fries, gravy, cheese curds and socialized healthcare that can only be described as Quebec's finest attempt at an apology for Céline Dion since Emanuelle Chriqui. Now, I can pretty much endorse anything fried, covered in gravy, and smothered in cheese. But then they go and name it something that sounds like a magazine for adolescent feces, how could I not get behind this dish? Congratulations 'Nucks. Though I had my doubts about Bryan Adams, clearly, the poutine shows you knew what you were doing. And after I dig into a piping hot plate of it, with glowing hearts, you'll see me rise. My moose knuckle, that is.

2010-02-15T12:19:00.000-08:00

In honor of St. Valentine and his eponymous Day celebrated the world over with Jergen's, Kleenex and loneliness, I present this handsome Devil's Food Cake topped with a blooming, O'Keefian rose. Two of the archetypal participants in any Valentine's Day. The dessert and the flower. One, a strong, genuine, rich gourmet treat whose only aim is to please. And the other, a prickly, flora whore, who slowly drains the lifeblood from its delicious partner with soul-sucking, succubusian thorns. Really, it's no wonder "Rose" is a female name, while "Cake" is just a pretty awesome band. So in lieu of regaling you with tales of fare fornication, I'll leave you with a simple, Happy Valentine's Day. Sorry, it's a day late. My typing fingers are still a little chafed from my marathon celebration.

2010-02-12T10:33:00.000-08:00

For better or worse, high-resolution pictures of delicious foodstuffs do things to me. (Clearly.) Some of the things are ordinary, some border on salacious, and some, well some just make me earnestly question my own well-being. Here are some things that this meatball hero does to me: Gives me heartburn. Gives me heartache. Gives me loin ache. Gives me a feeling in my stomach that says, "Shh, it's okay baby, melty cheese is here, everything's going to be alright". Makes me jealous of the photographer. Makes me jealous of the chef. Makes me jealous of the man/woman that gets to fellate/cunniling the photographer or chef. Afflicts me with PTSD (Pre-Terrific Sandwich Disorder), OCD (Oversized Colon Displacement), and ADHD (A Distended Hardened Dong). Makes the entire Dirty Dancing soundtrack play on repeat in my head. Makes spirals pirouette in my eyes. Drops my jaw to cartoonish depths. Hangs my tongue from my mouth like Rosie O'Donnell at an all-you-can-eat lezzer buffet. And finally, this picture works its way into the depths of my soul, draining every emotion I can muster for a fellow human being and takes all of that love, and desire, and admiration, and funnels it toward inanimate edibles that will never, ever, ever love me back. Not quite a thousand words. But definitely a whirlwind of emotion.