Calvin and Susie

Sorry it's been a while since I posted something new. I started work as a laborer recently, and it has worn me out, but I'll have a new cooking related post up soon.

The following post is not funny, nor cooking related. I've been exploring my writing potential, and decided to branch out more. I got the idea for this short story from reddit.com, under the r/writingprompts sub. The prompt I chose was "Calvin and Susie end up on opposite sides of a desk during a teacher parent conference, from the comic strip "Calvin and Hobbes". This is the last post of this nature you'll see on this blog, as I'll be moving my serious writing to my other blog, We Live in the Attic.

I hope you have as much fun reading it, as I did writing it!

I paced around my classroom, anxious. I wasn't looking forward to this meeting. I never looked forward to meetings with her, but this time I had asked her to leave John at home, thereby removing a buffer of sorts. I didn't want him to hear this conversation.

My pacing brought me back to my desk, and I stopped and glanced through the folder for John I had left there. His grades had been steadily declining for some months now, and his mother didn't make scheduling conferences easy. She had already cancelled on me twice before, once without even calling. This wasn't surprising. Her increasing erraticism was one of the reasons our lives had diverged into so very different paths.

A knock on my door interrupted my thoughts. She poked her head through the door, and muttered a faint, “Hey”.

“Hello, Susan. Come on in”, I said as I took my place at my desk. She slumped into the chair opposite mine and folded her arms and legs, while focusing at a corner of my desk.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, she weakly asked, without breaking her gaze from the desk corner, “What is this about”?

“I think you know what it’s about”.

“Has John done something wrong”?

Anger flashed through me, and I suppressed it quickly. Any sign of a confrontation and Susan would leave immediately, as I knew from experience, and that wouldn't help John.

I asked, as calmly as I could, “Have you been checking his grades”?

“Yeah, of course”, she answered in a tone that implied her mind was somewhere else. She still refused to make eye contact, her gaze shifting from the desk corner to the window on her right. The evening sun highlighted her deteriorating features. The lines on her face, her pale and spotted complexion, and her sunken in eyes all seemed more exaggerated.

“Then you know his grades in my class have dropped from a 90 percent average on assignments and tests to a sixty percent over the past few months”.

This finally drew a reaction from her. She Broke her stare from the window, and with a distantly shocked expression, turned to me.

“I guess… I've been really, well, some things have come up, and”... She trailed off, and returned to looking out the window.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about”, I said. “I've spoken with his other teachers, and they've noticed the same trend. We think… his home life may be a contributing factor to his declining grades”. She stared down at her lap, uncrossed her arms, and fiddled with the hemline of her skirt. Finally she quietly muttered, “I don’t know what you mean”.

“Susan, I know about your arrest in September. They wrote about it in the police blotter, and with your”… I struggled for the gentlest phrasing, “your past, our past, I don’t think is unreasonable to assume John may be under a lot of stress, especially at this time in his life. He’s at the same age as you when”... I trailed off. Susan had started to fidget more and glance around the room. Judging by her body language, she was getting ready to bolt, and I had to prevent that. It was always a dance with her, trying to duck and weave around her mood swings.

Over her first two years of high school she had changed from a perfect student, to a rebellious teenager. That’s probably what drew her to me in the first place. I didn't start focusing on my studies until senior year, after I realized I needed to either make a future for myself, or wind up as the school janitor.

Our initial romance had all the fire of the seediest erotic novella. I remember our summer nights down by the river, in the back of my parents station wagon. All of our adolescent fumbling, and our awkward discoveries. Our sweaty bodies, glistening from the light of the moon through the sunroof, as we whispered so many little promises to one another.

After that, she slowly started falling apart. Transitioning from going to occasional parties, to partying even on school nights. From drinking booze and smoking weed occasionally, to popping pills, and dropping acid regularly, and from that to… God knows what, she was always good at keeping things from me. It was hard to ignore the rumors going around school, rumors of her drug use, and of her sleeping around. The number of our fights increased, along with her blackouts and aggressive, erratic behavior. Our tumultuous relationship finally ended when her parents sent her to rehab shortly before she was to graduate high school.

Looking at her now, the years etched into her face as she slumped, defeated, across from me, was painful to see.

“I’m doing the best I can”, Susan snapped, bringing me out of my thoughts.

“The hell you are”, I yelled, my calm vanishing.

“What do you expect me to do”?

“I expect you to give a shit about your son! He’s on the same path as you, and you fucking know it! Jesus, Suz, wake up”!

She looked at me again, this time with an expression of shocked remorse, and I realized I hadn't called her by that nickname since we were lovers, all those years ago.

“I’ll...I’ll have a talk with him, okay? It’s just been a tough couple of years, I’m getting my shit together. I just… things have been hard recently”, she said, as she stood up, and with trembling hands, grabbed her purse and coat.

I sighed and said, “That’s all I’m asking”, knowing our conversation was over.

Susan put on her coat, and walked to the door, as I clasped my hands together, and stared down at my desk. Nothing would change, it had been the same story since she left for rehab. Susan would keep making excuses, and promise change, then wind up in rehab or jail again a few weeks later. It’s a miracle John kept his grades up this long, being shuffled from his mothers dingy apartment to his grandparents home so many times.

She paused for a moment at the door, brushing her hair over one ear. She opened the door, then suddenly turned back to me, and said, “I still have him, you know”.

I looked up from my desk, puzzled, “have him”?

“That stupid stuffed tiger you gave me the night before I went to rehab for the first time... Hobbes. You said he would keep me safe. I still sleep with him every night”.

I stared blankly at her for a few moments, my mouth opening and closing several times, before she let out a sigh, and walked out of my classroom. I had forgotten about Hobbes completely. I used to lug that silly stuffed tiger everywhere. When I was younger, I had even imagined he was real, and my best friend. As Susan's heels clicked down the empty hallway, I remembered the night I gave him to her. With both of us in tears, I promised Susan that he would protect her. At the time, I think I really believed it.

Sitting at my desk, my thoughts drifted back to John. His blonde hair, full of cowlicks, his wit and silliness. Susan had always denied it, but it’s hard to argue with the timing. Not to mention the physical resemblance. We had both been drunk that last night, and we probably weren't very cautious in our lovemaking.

I stayed in my classroom for a long time, lost in thought, as the evening rays of light dimmed to dusk. Finally I stood up, and walked to the door. I looked back at my classroom for a moment, then flicked the light switch off, and closed the door.

Fried Mac and Cheese

Oh that's right folks, I fucking went there. I fried some of the leftover mac and cheese. Not only did I fry it up, I made some more cheese sauce to dip them in. I did say this would be a mini post, so I'll try to make this quick.

Ingredients:

Pretty much the same shit you used to make the baked macaroni, with the addition of breadcrumbs. An egg, some flour, cheese and of course, the leftover macaroni.

So after your mac has chilled in the fridge for a while, slice it up nice and thin, like the pic up there. About a half an inch. Then put a cup or so of flour in one bowl, beat your egg in another, and fill the final bowl with a cup of breadcrumbs.

I don't have a picture of the above, just figure it out.

So heat up enough oil in a pan to cover half of one of the slices, and then start breading the mac. Flour, egg, breadcrumbs, and repeat for each slice of mac.

Then fry, baby, fry. You'll know the oil is hot enough when it's shimmering like a mirror. A weird, flowy mirror. Throw your breaded slices in, a few at a time, and watch them really fucking closely. They'll only take a minute or less to brown on one side, and once that happens flip them over and repeat. Then take 'em out, and drain them on a paper towel. Continue until they're all done.

Now you could save some of the cheese sauce from the original recipe to dip them in, or if you're an idiot like me, forget to do that. I just made more cheese sauce with my leftover ingredients. Or you could eat them plain, still very good.

Well, there you go folks, fried mac and cheese. Yummers.

Baked Macaroni and Cheese

Ingredients:

1 Box of medium sized shells (I know it's not macaroni. I like these better)

2 and 1/2 Cups whole milk or cream

16 oz Sharp cheddar cheese. Or one pound, which is the same as one pint. As they say, "a pint's a pound so get your head out of your butthole and memorize this shit, you ass goblins". The saying is actually, "a pint's a pound the world around", but I like mine better.

1/4 Cup or so of flour

1 Egg

1/2 Stick butter

Some salt and peppah and a tablespoon or so of dry mustard. Emphasis on the dry part. Paprika and whatever other spices you'd like to throw in, like garlic powder

Oh yeah, and some Ritz crackers. A sleeve of them or so.

This shit is just plain, delicious comfort food. It's cheap, it's pretty damn simple, and the leftovers can last for several meals. I've reheated this stuff for breakfast, I've used it as a side dish for a meal later on in the week, and I've even piled it onto a fucking hot dog with mustard and shoved it right down my high metabolism assed throat. Did that last sentence even make sense? Fuck if I know, you people will get the point.

Also, there's something even more sphincter-tearingly awesome you can do with the leftovers from this dish, which I'll be posting tomorrow as a mini post, so stay at full mast until then... you food reaming deviants.

Alright, the first step is to boil your pasta of choice for about five minutes, until it's very al dente, which is Italian for "hard". Or so I assume, I don't speak the language of spaghetti benders. But yeah, super al dente. Like, Rom Jeremy al dente, if you know what I mean. Which I'm sure you perverts do.

This post got kinda sexual huh? Well, you can't blame me for it. My girlfriend has had, how should I put this... her Aunt Bleedy McHormones over for the past week, and Danny boy has gotten very intimate with his calloused, working mans left hand. I'm a gentleman, so I didn't even hire a hooker or anything. Now that I think about it though, it'd probably be worth it just to see a streetwalker clamber down my fire escape in six inch high heels like some kind of palsy inflicted spider monkey, after Meg came home unexpectedly.

Yeesh, that whole paragraph was pretty gross. Sorry about that, my loyal readers. Like I said in an earlier post, I have to lace this thing with sexual references, followed by the name "Netflix", so I can convince them to advertise on this site. Come on Netflix, let me shake my tasseled  ta-tas over your collective grill. I'm ready!

Jesus Christ, isn't this blog supposed to be about cooking? I don't even know anymore, as far as I can tell it's basically become a place for me to projectile vomit my thoughts onto my readers. So lap it up, dickshits, and savor that flavor.

While your pasta is boiling, grate up your cheese. Yeah, it's a lot of work, deal with it pussies. It'll really help develop that forearm strength, which you'll need for all that beating off you're gonna do once you taste this dish.

Also save some of the cheese, like the amount in the above pic. That's maybe a cup and a quarter or so. I also grated some parm into that. Who doesn't love salty cheese? Or, as my lisp afflicted girlfriend would say, "Thalty Cheethe". She's just fucking adorable, isn't she?

Once your pasta is all drained, and the cheese is grated, put your pot back on the burner, sans pasta, and melt the butter over medium heat. Once it's melted, add your flour, and whisk the shit out of it until it's combined. Then add the milk, and heat it up for five minutes or so. It has to be somewhat hot. Not burn the shit out of your mouth when you taste it hot, mind you. During this heating up process, throw in the spices, and beat your egg, in another bowl, the same way you will beat your meat after tasting this recipe.

Speaking of spices, do not use regular mustard, you fucking retards. What's the main ingredient in mustard? It's vinegar, which is what you add to hot milk to curdle it. It's how they make cheese. I know this because I have no friends, and I'm addicted to Wikipedia. Also, I may have curdled several milk based recipes this way. Learn from my mistakes, limpdicks, and use dry mustard.

This next part is fucking important, you shitbones, so pay attention. Take a quarter cup of the liquid, and very fucking slowly, while whisking constantly, pour it into the egg. This is so you can heat up the egg all slow like, because you know what happens if you just dump that egg into the pot. What you don't? Really? Jesus, you people are like the five year old who shoves a crayon far enough up his nose to require surgical removal.

If you add egg to a hot ass mixture, it scrambles. Yup, just like that, and it's gross. It'll ruin your cheese sauce, so don't do it.

Once you've finished adding the sauce to the egg, pour it back into the pot, and then slowly whisk the cheese in, one handful at a time, until it's nice and smooth.

Oh right, sometime during this whole process, you can search your fridge for shit you can throw in for fun. I found these mushrooms, but other good ideas would be bacon, or peas, or anything that's about to expire and you can't afford to waste, because you're a cheap ass. It's okay, I am too, no shame.

So your cheese sauce should look like this. You can taste it and add any extra seasoning if you'd like.

Also, get dem crackers mashed up. I use Ritz, because my dad did, because his mom did, and so on and so forth. Speaking of my grandmother, she died when I was pretty young, so I have only a few memories of her. One of those memories was that she always recognized me and my brother when we would visit, but when my dad came in she would ask who the hell he was. He would tell her his name, and explain that he was her son, and she would say something to the effect of "bullshit", and make him stand by the door of her room while she talked to me and my brother. He always laughed, and just shook his head, but I think that really bothered him. I just made myself sad.

Shit, first the post is funny, then it's depressing, I'm jerking you people around like I have Parkinsons.

Okay, time to finish this shit. Throw your pasta and any extras into the cheese sauce, and mix it up, baby. Then throw it into a bakey thingy, and top with your extra cheese, and the crackers.

Yeah, like that. Except finish covering that shit with your crackers. Then pop it into a 350 degree oven, and bake for 20 to 25 minutes.

Then just stuff your fat fucking faces with it. It's seriously badass and delicious. My girlfriend actually got mad at me for how great this dish tasted, because she couldn't stop eating it. To her credit, neither could I. It's a dish even Mr. Loafers would enjoy. It would bring back memories of his childhood, when he was just an ambitious little shit and the son of an unwed mother. Every bite would remind him of the morals he has compromised over the years, of the heads he stepped on, and the great loves he sacrificed to get to where he is today. See that? I brought you right back to sad.

Well, don't sympathize with Mr. Loafers. He's the one who is in a loveless marriage, hiring hookers and showing off by using ipad minis as coasters for his scotch. His hookers don't have to flee via the fire escape, either. They just take the penthouse elevator down, while his wife pretends she doesn't know what's going on, and pops another Valium.

This was a long one, huh? I was feeling fucking inspired, alright? Just get your asses ready for the mini post tomorrow, you tit zits.

Beach Day

So this isn't really a recipe, so much as a guide to using those fuckin' gross ass public grills in parks and the like. In my case, since I live in New England, our parks are often overlapping beaches. It almost makes up for the 8 months of frostbite inducing winter we have up here.

No, it doesn't, actually. It's awful. When I moved up here I felt like I had been sentenced to a goddamn exile in Narnia. I fucking bought long underwear, for christ sake. I wear like 5 layers of everything in the winter. It's ri-goddamn-diculous. I mean, jesus, my state is higher north than parts of Canada. Shit's cold.

With that rant over, I'll provide the recipe for what my girlfriend and I cooked, but feel free to improvise. We like to do the shish kabob thing, usually with veggies and chicken or beef, but we were lazy this day, and did veggie kabobs with hot dogs. Plus, who doesn't fucking love hot dogs? People who hate America, I bet. I'm leaving the amount of the ingredients up to you, depending on how many you'll be serving.

Ingredients:

For the dawgs

Hot dogs, how every many you want
Buns for the dogs
Relish
Mustard

For the veggie kebobs

Zucchini
Mushrooms
Pearl onions
Purple potatoes (I used these because they're tiny and pretty. I like pretty shit)
Olive oil
Salt and peppah

This is the bastard you'll be cooking on. This one has a tray, where you can light the coals and then lift them up. Other variations have you lowering the grilling surface itself, down to the coals. I like this style of grill. They don't have any pretension. When you walk up to them, they seem to say, "hey buddy, I know you're a poor piece of shit, and can't afford a real grill. But I'm here for you. Break out the natty ice and let's get this party started"!

I'm gonna interrupt this post here, because my girlfriend just pissed me off, and writing about it is cathartic. She's cooking some kind of Indian chicken thing today for the next post and sent me, her errand boy, out to get the ingredients while she stayed home and spent three hours painting her nails. Literally, she uses a paintbrush, and makes a painting pallete using nail polish. Her nails turn out great, by the way, but I'm not waiting the fuck around for dinner while she does her bullshit.

So she's cooking, I just got into my writing groove, and she starts yelling at me, because I apparently didn't pick up enough yogurt. I disagreed. Strongly.

And that's when the fight started, folks.

She wrote on the list, "one small container yogurt", followed by, what appeared to me to be, "about 1/4 of a cup". I whipped the list out of my back pocket and showed her what she wrote. I'd post a picture here, but after her explanation, I threw the list into the kitchen and stormed out. I'm an asshole, I know. So, after tempers cooled, I had her write it again, after we both looked for the original note, and couldn't find it.

What the fuck does that look like to you? I figured she just twitched and accidentally hit the pen against the paper before she wrote the slash and the four. According to her, that right there is 1 1/4 cups. After she told me this I, in my infinite wisdom, yelled something to the effect of, "That's not a one, meg, it's a fucking period"! I also pointed out that when I returned home from shopping, I held up the yogurt container, so she could approve of the brand I bought, and that she seemed to think the size of the container was adequate.

I should say, I pointed that out by screaming it at her, because I'm a psycho. She then left to go get more yogurt, while I chain smoked on the fire escape, and slowly realized I have a temper problem. I'm working on it.

If you're still reading this, it's because I have my girlfriend proof read my posts, and she read the above and didn't snap my laptop in half over my head. She's a saint for putting up with my shit.

Well, that was a nice break for y'all to have some insight into my daily life. Let's get back to our grill, huh?

So get your coals going, according to the instructions. I used much less lighter fluid in the beginning than I should have, because my head is so far up my own ass that I can brush my teeth with my scalp. I ended up dousing the coals with lighter fluid multiple times, while barely avoiding third degree burns. I'm basically the guy who shows you what not to do, by doing it. I hope you fuckbuckets appreciate it.

So I made the skewers at home, and added all of the oil and seasonings, and wrapped them in extra foil before leaving for the park. I use the extra foil to cover the grilling surface, because I don't want to catch fucking hepatitis from one of these rusty grills. Seriously, no one ever cleans them, ever. I also grabbed some rocks from the beach to hold down the foil. This was all my idea, and I was way too proud about it. But I got what was coming to me, as you'll see below.

That's one vicious looking fucker, isn't it? Guess how I found that thing? If you guessed I found it embedded in the side of my foot, you win. That's right embedded , just like Anderson Cooper in Afghanistan, only somehow even more fucking annoying.

So yeah, I side stepped into this thing, and it punched right through my fucking shoe and into my foot, while I was manning the grill. It confused the hell out of Meg, because from her perspective, I took a step to the left while turning the kabobs, and just collapsed while screaming, "OW! SHITFUCK! WHAT THE MOTHERFUCKING CUMBASKET!

According to her, it's part of a lobster trap. According to me, it's a part of a lobster trap that some degenerate, mouth breathing tittyjuicer sharpened, and then planted in the ground, like some kind of white trash caltrop, just to hurt me.

I don't know who you are, lobster trap caltrop planter, but I will find you, and I will stab this thing right into your pale, hairy, overweight, New England clam eating back. Right at the base of the spine. The last thing you will see will be my hairy ballbag, as I dip it down onto your paralyzed face. Over, and over again, right before I shove that thorny piece of lobster trap right up your ass, and leave you to die from an infection.

That's a great image to have in your head while eating, huh? Sorry.

So, get the veggies nice and charred, then throw down the dogs. Once they start charring, toast your buns. Mmm, yeah, just like that.

Then, just eat. Eat angrily, like you've just been stabbed in the foot with a rusty lobster trap. I know from personal experience that it feels good. I like to feel that I've earned my food.

This was a goddamn delicious meal and, besides getting shanked in the foot by a rusty piece of metal, a very fun day. Y'all should try it.

And to the guy who left that rusty foot stabber out there, I wasn't kidding. I'm gonna twist your intestines around this thing like they were motherfucking linguine. I might even throw them on the grill before I force you to eat them.

I hope you're hungry, you son of a bitch.

Braised Artichoke Guacamole

Ingredients:

4 Whole artichokes (uhhh, you may want to change this up. I'll explain why further down)
1 Cup chicken broth. Or veggie broth, if you want to keep it vegetarian. Maybe a little more than one cup. Figure it out, I'm sick of holding your hand
1 Red onion
1 Jalapeno
1 Bunch of cilantro
4 Garlic cloves
4 to 5 Limes
Olive oil

That's right, there are zero avocados in this recipe. I have never eaten an avocado in my life. Why, you ask? Because many people are allergic to avocados, and since I'm allergic to tree nuts, and also because I'm great, I've sworn off of any and all allergens, to show solidarity with my fellow allergy sufferers.

That's a lie, it's actually because the Mayan word for avocado means testicle. Seriously. And I'm not putting something that resembles the hulks balls into my mouth. Also, avocados weird me out. I don't know why, but they do.

Anyway, I've been trying to start these posts with a picture of the finished dish. I do that because I know my readers, like me, have the attention spans of a goddamn gnat. It's a strange new world, and we demand constantly changing, rapid fire stimuli. I'm adapting. Well, you may have noticed I didn't do that this time, and I have a very good reason why.

I, ahh, fucked this one up. Kinda. Don't get me wrong, the guac came out great, my mistake isn't regarding that. It is, however, hilarious. I'll show y'all at the end. If you can't laugh at yourself, right?

Speaking of laughing at myself, my girlfriend is out at her mothers bachelorette party right now, and just asked me to text her the selfie I took after she FORCED me to let her do my makeup. Alright, she just convinced me. Fuck, fine, I asked her to do it, alright? What? You've never been curious about how you might look in makeup? I make one hot to trot little bitch, by the way. You should see it.

Well, I said you should see it. Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me. Also, can you believe she messed up my wings? The "wings", for my male readers, are the little eyeliner offshoots at the corners of my eyes. I've always thought they look pretty Egyptian. Also, now that you creepy fucks know what I look like, please don't try to find me in order to murder me and make a lampshade out of my skin.

Anyway, the point of this story is that right now, a bunch of 50 something ladies are drunk and laughing about how I look in drag, while sipping mojitos through dick shaped straws, and slapping the thonged asses of whatever passes for male strippers in New England. Amazing where life takes you, huh?

Shit, okay, let's get to cooking.

So first, get your 'chokes, and slice the end of the stems off, and peel the outside of the stems off. Then, split them in half, like the above picture. Then pull the outer, tough leaves off of the 'chokes. Then, do you see that bristly looking thing towards the center of the artichoke? That's called the choke. Take that title literally, people. If you attempt to eat that, you're gonna have a bad time. The choking kind of bad time. Artichokes are a member of the thistle family, you see. Go out and try to eat a thistle, if you don't believe me. However, you may not come back to read the rest of this if you try that. So, on second thought, please don't do that. The last thing I need is for my readership to go from four to three. That's 25 percent, right there.

So get your dumb asses a spoon, and scoop that shit out. They should look like the picture above. As you finish each 'choke, throw them into a bowl filled with water and the juice of one lime. This stops the 'chokies from browning. It's important to keep them nice and green and pretty. Just like me in drag. You like that? I like putting that thought into peoples heads. Did you know my ass looks great in heels? Netflix should know, since I've been walking the block for them since I started this thing.

So yeah, they should look like that up there. Once all the 'chokies are done, and bathing in delicious lime water, get out your baking plate thing, and slice up your limes into little lime circles. Then, take the circles and cover the bottom of the bakey pan thing. Like this!

Just kidding, not like that. Ideally, they should cover the bottom of the pan. I'm just an idiot who didn't buy enough limes. Be sure to save at least one lime though, you'll need it later. Then, cut the garlic cloves in half, and smash them lightly, as in they are still mostly held together. Shove your halved and crushed garlic cloves into the space where the choke part of the artichoke was, and brush with oil and season with salt and pepper. Then, lay the artichokes, cut side down, into your lime layered bakey thing. Brush the tops with more oil, and season the tops the same way. Then take your broth, and pour it into the bakey thingy.

That pic up there doesn't have the broth in it yet, but you get the idea. So, cover your bakey fucker with foil, and throw into a preheated, 400 degree oven for an hour or so.

After an hour, your normally shitty smelling apartment will smell fuckin' great, so you're welcome there. Take the 'chokes out, and let them cool a bit.

Then, prepare yourself for the most tedious goddamn process I've been through in my culinary career. Get a spoon, and scrape every usable bit of the artichoke off. The bottoms of the leaves, the hearts, the stems. It took me and my girlfriend a fuckin' hour to  finish. But hey, you'll get this beautiful, delicious, end result.

So worth it, right? Well, remember that part about my hilarious fuck up? Yeah, you ready to find out what that fuck up was?

That bowl, up there, was ALL OF THE FUCKING GUAC! That's right, four artichokes made just that. Seriously, it's like six ounces. Pathetic. And I made this for a party, people. A party held by my girlfriends family, for her birthday, and I showed up with this. I bet they think I'm just the fucking best now.

I got her cantankerous step-grandmother to eat it though, so that's a win. She even said she liked it, after prefacing the compliment with "I can't stand artichokes". Well, you're stuffing your wrinkled old face with it, bitch, so shut your dick warmer.

God I'm awful. Alright, that's it for me. If you make this, I recommend buying jarred or canned artichoke hearts, and just marinating them in lime or something. I'll try making this again that way, and I'll let y'all know how it goes.

Crock Pot Shredded Chicken Tacos

Ingredients:

For the Chicken:

4 chicken thighs
2 cups chicken broth
1 package taco seasoning
1 bay leaf
1 clove smashed garlic
1 lime
If you wanna throw some beer in there, go ahead, you drunk.

For the salsa:

1 16 oz package frozen sweet corn, but only use about half to 3/4 of the bag
1/2 red onion
1 jalapeno
Another Lime
Some cilantro (4 tablespoons, maybe?)
Some salt (Maybe a teaspoon)

For everything else:

The other half of the onion, for the fajita veggies
1 green bell pepper, again for the fajita veggies
Sour cream
Sharp cheddar cheese
1 package small tortillas
Some oregano, for the veggies, and the chicken
An avocado, if you want one

Holy fuck, I need some better dishware. Look at that hideous, blue glass plate. Also, my shithole, attic apartment needs better lighting. Meh, I brought this on myself, because I'm a cheap ass bastard.

I really am. Want to know how cheap? My TV stand is a goddamn milk crate. Seriously. I'm gonna take a picture of it right now, just to prove it to you people.

See that shit? Do you have any idea how much my girlfriend hates that set up? I bet my female readers do. I think that's half the reason I've kept it that way. Meg comes home from a long day at work, and can just barely muster up the strength to plop down on the futon. Yeah, futon, we don't have a couch, which she also hates. Then she just stares at the milk crate, unable to get up from the futon due to her complete exhaustion. Her eye twitches, and I just know she wants to get rid of it and buy a real TV stand. But she's cheap too, and knows if she wants a TV stand, it'll be on her own dime, because the milk crate doesn't bother me. In fact, I've come to enjoy it. It's rustic. So she just sits there and fumes with annoyance for a few minutes, while I sit next to her, with a half smile on my face, because this is one of the very few battles I've won in this relationship, and I get to relive it almost every evening.

Isn't that kind of sadistic, you might ask? I don't think so. A relationship is a war, people, and I'll be damned if I end up like ol' Georgie Custer at Little Bighorn.

First off, you'll need one of these bastards.

A crock pot. You can buy a used one at goodwill for like, three bucks, and they make cooking easy. Oh, I know that picture up there isn't very interesting, but I thought I'd force you to suffer through boredom with me. You see, my girlfriend just came back from a long day of shopping, and is putting on a fashion show for me, as I try to write this. Let me tell you, the level of annoyed indifference I'm feeling right now can't be put into words. I actually started glancing around the room, looking for something I could knock over, in a desperate hope that her OCD cleaning tendencies would kick in and she'd have to stop and take care of it, thereby giving me a few minutes of peace.

She usually proofreads this thing too, so... Let's just say Danny boy might be getting real intimate with this futon tonight. See? I'm dedicated to my readers. All four of them.

Alright, so here's what you do.

Get your chicken thighs, and throw 'em into the crock pot. Then pour in the chicken broth, and maybe a dash of beer, if you'd like, and the juice of one lime. Then throw in the bay leaf, and the crushed garlic. Then, add my little secret ingredient. A package of store brand taco seasoning. What? It gets the job done people, for cheap. Ignore Mr. Loafers, as , with a knowing wink, he tells his maid/cook/mistress that he hopes she never pulls any poor people shenanigans like that Dan fellow.

Then, turn that fucker to high, cover, and let it sit for four hours. While it's sitting, you can prep all the other shit. Or jerk one out, then go to a nature preserve and read, which is what I did.  You know, whatever pulls your pork, dude.

Or watch Netflix! Netflix is great! Are you listening yet Netflix, 'cause I still want your money. I'll keep shaking this ass, and including sexual references, until I put the word "Netflix" into this blog enough times for one of your peons to notice it while searching Google for porn.

Oh, hey there Google, you're lookin' pretty good. Can I buy you a drink?

Jesus, I've already sold out, somehow without producing anything of real value. Oh well, what to prep next? I say the salsa. Who doesn't love salsa?

So let your frozen corn thaw a bit, and throw it in a bowl. Dice up one half of the red onion and your jalapeno, and add that. Then chop up the cilantro, throw it in, and add the lime juice and salt. Taste, then go change your underwear, cause this salsa is orgasmic. You dirty bitch.

Alright, when your chicken is done, pull it out of the crock pot and put it in a bowl. Then shred that shit up, and separate the meat, bones, fat, and other gross shit, from the delicious, tender meat. Then, drain most of the cooking liquid from the crock pot. I said most, not all, leave some of that awesome juice in there. Throw the chicken back in, with the pot set to low, and get ready to prepare the rest of the ingredients. Man, tacos are complicated.

Final stretch here. Just hang in there, ya pussies. No, I'm not gonna give you any encouragement. You're cooking tacos, not taking Omaha beach on D-Day, alright?

Chop up your onions and bell pepper into thin slices, like the picture below. Also, grate up your cheese, so you're ready when the good ship taco comes into port.

Then, throw some olive oil into a pan, and get that oil real hot. You'll know it's hot enough when the oil shimmers, just like the dreams you gave up on, long ago, when they rear up in the dead of night. Sorry, I like to bring people back to reality every once and a while. I'm a dick, I'm working on it.

Once your fajita veggies look like that, take them off the heat. They should only cook for a minute or two at most. If it takes longer for you, then you fucked the dog on this one. Shame on you.

After this, just assemble your tacos, once again, like that Jew hating Henry Ford. Throw the chicken into a tortilla, then add the veggies, then the salsa, then the sour cream and cheese. And avocados, if you're into that. I'd show you some pictures of the assembly, but I forgot to take them. My bad.

Did you know Walt Disney also hated Jews? Why do people like to hate on the 'Hebs so much? I don't get it, what's the worst thing they've done? Become accountants, and forget to dot an i on Mr. Loafers tax return? It's a mystery.

Alright, I've got a few posts coming up soon, neither of which were actually cooked by me. One was actually cooked about a thousand miles from here, by a friend of mine. The other is called "Low Wage Lo Mein", and was cooked by my girlfriend. Exciting shit, huh?

That's the end of this post, try not to fuck my recipe up too badly, and then post it on Instagram. When you do that, my street cred suffers.

Toasted Ravioli

Ingredients:

10 or so frozen ravioli (Using home made ravioli is amazing for this recipe)
2-3 Cups vegetable oil
2 Eggs
2 Tablespoons (or so) half and half or milk
1 Cup seasoned breadcrumbs
1 Cup flour
Little bit of Parmesan cheese
Some dried parsley.

First off, the title of this post is a fucking lie. These bastards are fried, alright? I have no idea why everyone says they're toasted, because it's just not true. My guess is they named it that because Mr. Loafers wants to take a few inches off of his waistline by not eating anything with the word "fried" in it, while he drinks enough Blue Label to forget that scotch has calories.

Alright, so I recommend using the Homemade Ravioli recipe I recently posted, but you can pick up a package of those little frozen guys from the grocery store if you'd like. You lazy cock gobblers.

I love that phrase, it makes me think of some kind of horrific offshoot of the regular turkey, which runs at you in the weird turkey, head bobbing way, and attacks your crotch. Shit, that's a terrifying thought. Imagine that for a second. You're just out there, walking your dog or whatever, and all of a sudden you see one of those things stalking around a few yards away. You try to back up slowly, but you step on a twig and suddenly, it's creepy, naked head whips around as its wattle slaps back and forth, and then it lets out a dick shrinking shriek of a gobble and makes a beeline for your genitals. Thoughts like this keep me up at night.

Wow, so that train of thought hit a penny on the tracks, let's get on with it, huh?

So, Mix up the eggs and half and half, and put the flour and breadcrumbs into separate bowls. Then, just follow these steps exactly. Grab the ravioli, and dip it in the egg mix, then dip it in the flour, then dip it back into the egg mix, then dip it into the breadcrumbs. That's right, you'll be double dipping here, folks. There's always one at every party, right? Hovering around the chip bowl, throwing furtive glances in every fuckin' direction. You know what's fun to do? When you see someone doing that, stare at them and wait for them to make eye contact. When they do, use two fingers to point at your eyes, then one finger to point at them. The ol' "I'm watching you" thing. Then laugh as they try various strategies to try and seem like they have no idea what you're implying.

Anyway, after three or so dunks of the ravioli, your fingers will look like this.

Yeah, that's gross. Just rinse 'em off in the sink, and repeat until all of them are breaded and ready to fry.

Ah shit, I fucked this up again. While you're breading these guys up, throw your oil into a pot and put it on your burner, set to medium high. You want it at 400 degrees, so invest in a cheap thermometer. Seriously, buy one. I was like, "fuck that, I got this shit. I know how to fry"!

Ya huh. I let the oil get way too hot, and I burned the everloving shit out of the first batch. You know what I did next? I ate them. That's right, all of them. Also, I ate them while I looked at myself in the mirror that adorns my shitty kitchen combined with a living room apartment. And with every bite, and every tasteless, sickening crunch, I said to myself, with blackened crumbs falling down my chin, "See what you get, you arrogant bastard"?

I learn from my mistakes. I make sure I do.

Those guys look better, huh? Ideally, they should roll about in the oil, all bubbly like, for a couple of minutes. These guys tasted wonderful. They made my shame eating of the ruined batch almost worth it.

Alright, so when they look like the above, fetch 'em out of the oil with a slotted spoon or something, and let them drain on a paper towel.

Then, heat of some of the marinara sauce from when you made your own ravioli a few days ago, garnish these crispy little shits with Parmesan cheese and some dried parsley, and enjoy!

Yeah you could use fresh parsley, Mr. Loafers. But have you seen the size of the parsley bunches they sell at the store? Most of that shit's gonna rot before you can use it, you know. They might as well sell you the whole fuckin' parsley... bush...or whatever. I guess its not a bush, really. Fuck it, you get the point. I'm done with this post.

Good Night, Mr. Williams

On a serious note, which is a first for this site, I have some very saddening news. As I was typing my last  post up, I found out that the great Robin Williams has died, by apparent suicide. If you're like me, you've grown up with this incredibly funny, talented, and inspiring man. From his voice acting in "The Lion King", to his early comedic role in "Mrs. Doubtfire", to his unbelievably heart wrenching performances in films like "What Dreams May Come" and "Patch Adams", he never ceased to inspire me, and millions of others. You will be missed, Mr. Williams, by countless numbers of fans. If it wasn't for you, I never would have looked into trying my hand at comedy, as mediocre as my comedy may be, and I know the same is true for many of the best comedians out there now.

Robin Williams changed the face of comedy as we know it. He also changed the perceptions of what a comedian can be, in a way never done before. He showed us a comedian can act outside of comedic roles with the best of them, to the point of forcing an audience to tears. He showed us that being a comedian isn't a dead end, where you end up telling worn out jokes to a worn out audience in various lounge clubs. Most importantly, he showed us that comedians have emotions and feelings far beyond what they show us on stage.

With his death, Robin Williams has shown us what so many other great comedians have before... the great burden they carry. The burden of having to always be the "funny man" while suffering inside against the insidious disease known simply as "Depression".

...It's a disease I know well. A true monster, that I still sometimes face, whether I'm alone in the dark, or out with friends, in the light.

This monster took him, as it takes many others. It did not, however, take his legacy, nor the millions of lives Mr. Williams touched and influenced.

So I will end this simply with, good night, Mr. Williams, the world is a lesser place without you in it.

Update

The "Fried Green Tomato BLT" post will be back up soon. I have been having issues with it ever since I updated the look of the blog a few days ago.

In other news, my good friend Caleb Sisco, has created a Kickstarter to help fund a project that his charity, The Farming Rust Foundation, is hoping to start. I'll try to sum it up here real quick, but keep in mind that I'm practically, as my brother would say, "pants on head retarded". Basically, there's a plague running through coffee trees called "rusted root", and it's destroying the livelihood of already impoverished South American coffee farmers. Wait, rusted root is that band from the ninties, isn't it? They did that catchy song, with the whistles and shit? Whatever, I'm a moron.

Caleb is not a moron. He's awesome. And he's trying to help out these farmers, and give them a voice, and bring back their livelihood. There are only a few days left in his Kickstarter campaign, and I urge you to help him out. The actual name of this disease, is coffee leaf rust, by the way. Which is also an acceptable band name.

Anyway, the video on the Kickstarter page, does a way better job of explaining it than I can. You can find it at http://ow.ly/A1rEi. So get out your wallets and donate a buck or two, or twenty, you cheap fucks.

Homemade Ravioli

I've been chain posting on this site recently. It's a desperate bid to draw a fan base, and have some loyal readers. It's not because I like you people, I just want to start making money this way. You can't blame me for that. I'd get to just sit around in my jammy jams all day, and come up with ideas for merch... make my girlfriend draw and design all of the merch, send her to the shirt shop to pick up the product, or however the hell that process works. Have her mail it out, and kiss her on her way out the door to her degrading service job. It's the modern American dream. Well, it's my dream, at least.

What I'm trying to get to here, is that at some point in the near future I will commit to an actual schedule. To spell schedule I have to sound it out in my brain they way the Limeys pronounce it, with the emphasis on the "schh" part. Yep.

By the way, yes I did notice the BLT post went full retard regarding the formatting. Yes, it took my stupid brain a couple of days to figure out how to fix it. No, I haven't done that yet, because it's work, and the whole point of this site is to do as little work as possible. You have to set goals in life, people. I'll do it tomorrow, in my jammy jams. If I get around to it. No promises.

Alright, lets get to this shit already.

So, the ever patient Meg actually cooked this recipe, and took pictures of it. So I guess this is kind of a guest post, even though I'm writing it. During her cooking process, I was watching Netflix. Netflix is great. Give me some money, Netflix. I'll walk the street, I'll be your whore.

Ingredients:

For the dough:
3 cups of flour
3 eggs
1 Tablespoon olive oil
6 tablespoons of water. About, she's not totally sure there.
Easy shit, right?

For the Sauce:
1 Small can tomato paste
1 28 oz can crushed tomatoes, whichever you prefer. If you used diced, use a stick blender or something to puree them a bit.
1/4 of one red onion, minced
A pinch of sugar
Minced basil to taste
1 clove minced garlic
Dash of dried parsley and oregano
Salt and peppah

For the filling:
About 8 oz of Ricotta cheese
1/4 cup Parmesan, grated
1/4 cup feta, because we had it left over and I love feta
Another dash of dried parsley and oregano
Pinch of fresh basil, garlic powder, and onion powder
Half of an egg, beaten. Like it owes you money, you know how I do
Salt and peppah

Jesus, This one is complex. Thanks meg, don't you read my blog? You know my feelings on working. Alright, here we go.

Alright, here are some of the ingredients. I don't know why she took a picture of them in the bag, on the floor. I'll ask her right now. She said, "I don't know". I'll just keep writing then.

Pour your flour into a bowl, like Meg did up there, and sculpt yourself a little volcano at the top. Beat the shit out of your eggs, water and oil in another bowl, then pour it into your flour volcano. As you can see, meg didn't bother to beat the shit out of the eggs, she's not a violent maniac like me. Then just mix that stuff up until it's all nice and together. After that, throw some flour down on your counter, because this shit is sticky, and knead the dough on it until it feels like silly putty, and looks like the pic below.

Apparently the kneading process takes like, ten minutes. Jesus, is it even worth it? Eh, I didn't have to do it, and if you're reading this you obviously don't have anything better to do. Once you're done kneading, cover with a moist paper towel. Meg forgot this part. I wandered over after a few minutes of the dough ball sitting out, to bug her by humming the drum beat of "Black Girls" by the Violent Femmes right up in her grill. When she told me to go away, I retaliated by shoving my finger into the dough. I then asked her if it was supposed to be getting all crunchy, and she said, "shit", and covered it. I saved the culinary day, once again. I'm like a hero or something.

Chop up the ingredients for the sauce, throw all your tommy tom products into a pot over medium heat, add the other sauce shit, and let it cook like that for, according to Meg, "About an hour".

Yeah, just like that. Mmm. Who puts red onions in a tomato sauce? Poor people, like us. We had one of those red bastards just sitting in the fridge, so that's what we used. Don't make me bring up Mr. Loafers again.

Mix all of the filling ingredients, and then roll out your dough to about 1/6th of an inch. Like anyone is going to measure it. Just make it thin, people. Real thin. Place little scoopies of your filling down, like in the picture below, then paint some water in between said little scoopies. It'll help form the seal better, don't question me. Oh yeah, only do this on one half of your dough sheet. Once you're done, you'll need to fold the other half of your dough sheet down around your little scoopies, and press between them to make a seal. I like saying little scoopies.

Evidently, my spell checker hates it. I like pissing off my spell checker, too.

Then, use your pasta cutter to cut the ravioli into squares. What's a pasta cutter? It's this little thing that looks like a pizza wheel with...teeth. In a circle. On each side of the pizza wheel. Is that the right term? Is it pizza cutter? Maybe a pizza wheel is something else... yeah I think it is. Fuck it, I don't know. Google it.

We had to go out and buy one, and by "we", I mean Meg. They cost like, five bucks you cheap bastards, quit your bitchin'.

See? They look really fuckin' fancy now. Mr. Loafers would give them a five star review, until he found out I cooked them. Then he'd probably say something snide about them, and chortle into his pino noir while exchanging knowing glances with his trust fund buddy douche bags.

I bet that smug son of a bitch has a pasta rolling machine too. Fucker.

Anyway, once all that is done, throw these cute little fuckers into a pot of boiling, salted water. Boil for a couple minutes and they'll let you know when they're done, by letting loose blood curdling screams.

Nah, they just float to the top of the water when they're done. Easy peasy. Imagine what I said up there for a second though, it's disturbingly funny.

We're in the home stretch here, so put on your game face. Like my sports references? I don't watch sports, they annoy me. How much of my readers can I drive away today? Most of them, probably, there aren't that many. I like to think of my readers as "exclusive".

Scoop the little bastards out, plate 'em, and cover with sauce, and preferably, extra Parmesan cheese. I'm a whore for cheese. Still haven't forgot about you Netflix, don't fret. I'll put on the skirt and shake my ass for you all day. For the money.

This is a shit picture. Meg picked a bad bowl to use, but I don't blame her. All our other plates are blue glass. Ugh. I gotta get some better presentation plates, maybe when Netflix starts paying me, instead of the other way around.

Anyway, this shit was delicious, much better than that store bought garbage. And if you have leftovers, you can make toasted ravioli, which is really fuckin' good. Yeah, you guessed it, I'll probably be making that next. And no, it isn't actually "toasted". It's fried, which is waaaay better. Alright, ya cock holsters, I'm out.