Train Travel – Fantasy VS Reality

Boarding (Fantasy)

There you are, standing on a thick slab of well-trod concrete, the kind that makes an attractive *clop* with the slightest of steps. A warm breeze tugs at your trench coat and guides a slow river of slate grey clouds so low across the sky that if you had a ladder, you just might be able to dip your hand into the misty current.

A sudden gust threatens to take away your fedora. You spin to shield yourself; that’s when you notice her standing at the other end of the platformwatching you. She has decidedly French or perhaps Eastern European features. The gust slowly lifts the skirt of her otherwise form fitting red dress, like a curtain being raised to reveal, legsand more legs.

“My God,” you ejaculate, “they must go all the way up!”
The skirt continues to lift.
“Do they connect at the neck?

“Aaaaaall aboooooard!”

Boarding (Reality)

There you are, sitting on a large wooden-bench in the middle of a marble room that smells like a curious mix of boys locker room and falafel, an environment unaided by the elderly Gentleman to your left who farts every thiry-seconds, as if regulated by quartz.

*pfffft

The room is populated by third-tier Breaking Bad characters and if there is a woman in a red dress, there’s also a questionably aged and apparently unquenchable nursing child who refuses to STOP. MAKING. EYE CONTACT.

*tok *tok *tok *tok *tok *tok *tok *tok

Between the frenzied suckling and flatulating you could almost be convinced that you’ve stumbled upon some body function themed art installation. Surely someone will start belching lines from Pale Fire. Close enough.

The intercom cracks and whatever creature is on the other end makes barking sounds. No one knows WTF is going on, but the general feeling in the room is to line up and wait. It’s at this point, when everyone is standing around looking at each other, that you start to panic.

Isn’t this how they slaughter cows? Is this the beginning to the worst ‘Eyes Wide Shut’ party ever?

*pffftt

To your relief, the line starts to move, and a half hour later you are at the back of the train. A man yells “Allllll…” begins a coughing fit, and eventually just waves you on-board.

The People (Fantasy)

As you make your way deeper into the gilt hallways of the lavish locomotive you meet all sorts of people: adventurers with Amazonian tales of intrigue, socialites who smoke using cigarette holders and abuse the word ‘marvelous’, and academics who eagerly tell you of the curious beetle specimen they are to study in Madagascar.

And of course there is the love interestwhere DID she go?

The People (Reality)

The first calamity you will encounter on a train is the dreaded Hossferatu. The Hossferatu is a social vampire who preys on other travelers, bleeding them dry with unsolicited hillbilly-wisdom and endless personal anecdotes.

Hossferatu tend to cluster and compete for resources by one-upping each other’s stories, or by asking mind-numbing geographical questions in an attempt to stump one another.

EXAMPLE
(Hoss-A is feeding on nearby passengers)

Oh yeah, I used to go all up and down the fifteen back when I was driving for McClintock.”

(Hoss-B issues a challenge by asking a pointless geographical question)

“Fifteen, now is that the one that goes out there by Lewiston?”

(Hoss-A pauses momentarily, recognizing the formal challenge; if he doesn’t know, or gets the answer wrong, he will lose his prey to Hoss B.)

“No, no, you’re thinking of the ninety; fifteen runs south past Hollow Top.”

(Hossferatu A is successful. Hossferatu B will have to go hungry tonight.)

 

Rainman

These passengers pretend they’re not listening to the conversation until they see an opportunity to be insufferable, such as when two Hossferatu are stumped and can’t remember the name of a city. A Rainman will blurt out the answer, destroying the illusion that they aren’t paying attention, and aren’t a total dick-toaster.

Brave Little Dick Toaster

 

Everyone Else
Everyone else just stares out the window contemplating death and the fact that coach apparently doesn’t entitle you to wifi.

 

Dining (Fantasy)

White napkins adorn rich Mahogany tables, while chandeliers gently dance throwing nebulas of sparkling golden light onto the ceiling from the sweeping and twilit vistas outside.

There she is, the giraffentine woman from before, she’s sitting at a table alone sipping a cocktail. You saunter over.

“Do you mind?” you say.
“Please,” she replies.

You sit down and silently motion with your finger to the waiter that you’ll have a 1946 Francis Darroze Bas – Armagnac Chateau de Lasserrade; it’s an excellent choice and he bristles with approval.

“So tell me,” you say, moving your lips much more than necessary. “Where are you from?”

woman on bar

“I’m probably French, or maybe even Eastern European,” she says.
“I can’t be certain you see as my Mother was a traveling contortionist and sword swallower who saw fit to take me from land to land, educating me in the art of pleasure and the carnal desires of men. I just ride trains endlessly searching for the right man to bestow my coital endowments upon.”

“Cccoital, endowments you say?”
“I like it European style.”
You haven’t the slightest clue what that means but you know you want it.
“I like to be naked when I do it,” you offer.
“I can’t get pregnant,” she whispers.

Something lurches in your pants and you grab the table-top to steady yourself. Wait…it’s your phone. It’s vibrating.
“Excuse me,” you say with a nod.
It’s a text from your wife.

Hello, I hope you are well as I am. I need to confess my fantasy. Should you run into a beautiful French woman (Eastern European would also be acceptable) I want you to go for it. It would be a shame for such a formidably girthed and equine lover such as you are to be wasted on my humble sexual needs.

-Yours Truly, Clarita.

 

Dining (Reality)

Dining on a train is like going to an All-You-CAN’T-Eat Buffet, and by that I mean it’s buffet-quality food, and you can’t eat it.

No matter what you order, you receive a meal that some poor Chef has had to MacGyver together out of food scraps purchased from a shady back-alley grocery store, ran by an even shadier two-foot-fellow who goes by the name of Mr. Not-a-racoon-er-son.

You can also forget your fantasy of quietly eating alone while breath taking scenery whips by. If you are alone you will be placed into the last empty seat with a group of strangers, or if you’re extra unfortunate, a family. Enjoy your romantic dinner of Braised Question Mark with the family that slurps spaghetti.

 

Sleeping Accommodations (Fantasy)

Full of Armagnac and Duck meat you lead your love interest back to your sleeper car for a “night cap,” and there under the moonlight your bodies sicken the heavens with your exotic copulations. French style, Eastern European style, you do it all.

Panicked concierge rush up and down the halls, afraid in their admirably simple understanding of the world, that your lovemaking may shake the train off the very rails that it so steadily rides upon. A few of them faint as your new lover reaches her easily attained and unquestionably authentic climax.

“Marvelous! Simply marvelous!”

 

Sleeping Accommodations (Reality)

If you would like to purchase a closet they are available starting at like $350 which means you’ll be trying to sleep on a seat in coach. It will not work. You will go without sleep your entire trip.

The Bathroom (Reality)

There is no fantasy of using the bathroom on a train to my knowledge and I refuse to Google it. That said, bathrooms on trains are like using a Honeybucket while it’s strapped to the flat-bed of a monster truck. It was such a difficult situation that at one point I literally* just gave up and started throwing my poop at the toilet like a goddamn monkey playing Skee-ball.

*figuratively

Speed (Fantasy)

You assume you’ll eventually get somewhere.

Speed (Reality)

TRAINS ARE SLOW AS F*CK

 

TL;DR

For trips under 6 hours it might be ok. Otherwise…

eff trains

 

3 Messy Foods that Need To Die Till They Are Dead

'Dirty Kid' photo by daily sunny

HARD SHELL TACOS

Hard Shell Taco


Imagine with me: You have a delicious taco in your hand. You lift it to your face and savor its enticing aroma. The beef glistens with a juicy promise. Your mouth opens. Just enough to take it in. You bite down, eyes rolling into the back of your head, mind lurching into the white-hot oblivion of a Sante Fe ecstasy. But then…

Whoops!

The taco shell breaks, and no amount of slightly thrusting your head forward, and quickly shrugging your shoulders is gonna save you. You’re completely fucked. You shirt is fucked. Your recently purchased Khakis are fucked. And when you manage to pick it up off the car seat and shove it back into your mouth because no one is watching, you KNOW there is gonna be hair on it. And it will be fucked.

 

Don’t nobody like a hairy taco.

 

Welcome to the fucked up world of hard shell tacos.

They will ruin your clothes. They will stab you in the roof of your mouth and gums. They will destroy everything you love, and leave you just as broken.

How many times, when setting out to bite into a hard shell taco have you had it break all the way down the middle, spilling out the entirety of it’s contents onto your plate, lap, or Stepdad’s ass? The answer may shock you…

…it’s hundreds.

“Ooooh greeeeaaat! Another taco ruined!” you shout as you throw the remains on the floor.

Next thing you know, patches – your lovable  German Shepherd – comes bounding into the room, loses his footing, and slides his soft under-belly across the discarded taco shards, disemboweling him in front of the entire family. But hey, you like tacos.

The bad news is that taco salads are just as bad. The good news is that someone made a pre-broken hard shell taco that is delicious, and won’t let you down – they call it Nachos.

 

 

SLOPPY JOES

Sloppy Joe

FUCK YOU SLOPPY JOES!

If you’re giving me something sloppy, it better be a blowjob, a drunk, or an X-Files reboot. I mean come on! “Sloppy” is literally part of the name?!

 

“Hmm, what do you feel like eating tonight honey?”

“I’m not sure, but I know I want it to be sloppy and frustrating.”

“I’ll go put some lingerie on.”

 

And I know what you’re thinking: “But Raffy my love, sloppy Joes are for kids!” To which I’d have to reply: difficulty eating does not equal “fun”. I mean seriously, when was the last time you voluntarily used chopsticks?

(Btw, if you’re that person in the group who always declares that everyone HAS to use chopsticks because it’s Asian food, when really you just want to inconvenience everyone else to make them see how amazing you are at using them so you can feel superior to everyone who normally eats with the utensils specific to their culture, FUCK YOU TOO – you’re like, the sloppy Joe of humans.)

The point is, there is no pleasure to be obtained from the difficulty in eating a Joe, or any food for that matter. Eating should be easy, just like wiping your ass should be easy. Maybe next time you should try wiping your ass with your non-dominant hand and tell us how fun it is. I bet it’ll be sloppy!

What are we talking about? Oh yeah, your kid, and what you’re doing to them when you give them Sloppy Joes…

So your child, essentially a Bonobo you slapped into some overalls, is not only at the will of it’s apparent biological impulse to throw handfuls of beef around a dining room, but you’re gonna encourage it by serving it a dish whose name itself admonishes him or her to abandon all tact, and get sloppy. And please, be honest here for a second, you are not gonna be happy when they actually get sloppy with it. #mixedSignals

 

~Moral of the story~

If you’ve never met a Joe you didn’t slop – please stop.

 

Also get tested for Gonorrhea.

 

 

SPAGHETTI

Spaghetti


Look, I’m sorry, but Spaghetti is a filthy, impractical mess that needs to be destroyedI don’t care if Eminem’s Mom made it. It’s literally impossible to get to it before the noodles get cold and even if you could, you’d still have to contend with the fact that Spaghetti noodles are twenty feet long.

Who the fuck was this designed for, Aardvark people?

Here’s how it goes: you try to spin it on your fork, watch helplessly as the noodles keep flopping over, try some more, finally get it close, try to stick it into your mouth before the whole thing unravels, and then sit there with food hanging out of your mouth like a total asshole.

Kangaroo Eating Noodle

And what do you do at that point? Well first, you smirk like a buffoon at everyone else at the table, in a look that you think means “Oopsie!”, but is actually a passive “Fuckin’ Spaghetti am I right?” And now that I’m thinking about it, this is usually followed up with a “The spaghetti is really good!” a sentiment which everyone painfully regurgitates to the host in consolation because deep down, everyone realizes spaghetti is homemade garbage.

And why do we always say it tastes good after one of these spaghetti feeding mishaps? Are we really saying “The spaghetti tastes good, DESPITE being a train wreck on a plate?” I digress.

Spaghetti hanging out of your mouth. You have three options:

First, you can bite through the thirty feet of noodles, get sauce on your lips, and let them drop onto your plate, like some ironic pantomime of what will be happening to them 12 hours later on your business end.

Or second, you can slurp them into your mouth like some disgusting sauce covered hose vacuum. This will also result in an annoying “spurt” of sauce at the end of the forty foot long noodle, that you will feel on your neck, which is gross. Oh yeah, your recently purchased replacement Khakis? FUCKED.

Option 3
Eat Buster Keaton GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

 

 

CONCLUSION

Look, eating is already a pretty gross process when it comes down to it, so the last thing we need are foods that make the process even worse. Let’s all just promise never to make these foods again, and I’ll never type “a juicy promise” again.

 

And THAT is a juicy promise!

How I Buy Toilet Paper

Of all the rectal themed barbarity on offer at the local grocery store, my least favorite is the purchasing of toilet paper. There’s simply too much disparity with the presentation of myself as a reasonably put together member of society, and the rather primitive truth of scrubbing my tiny little man butthole with a crudely grasped handful of soft white paper. Therefore, when I find myself with no other option but to head down the turd-blanket aisle, I employ the following strategy.

rectal themed barbarity

First I make it a point to appear impatient and somewhat exhausted by the whole process; as if my inescapable burden of a butthole has sent me, the reluctant friend, on an errand for something I know nothing about. This look—if done correctly—will contain a hint of the same disdain I display when my Chihuahua poops in view of a stranger; “I’m disgusted by the antics of my dog’s loathsome butthole, and I have no time for this.”

The next step is to take a cursory pass at the products on display, all the while trying to keep a fine balance between bafflement and burgeoning rage. Keep in mind, I’m not actually taking in information at this point, it’s simply a charade that says “This is someone who is out of his element.” With any luck they’ll think I’m a misogynist who doesn’t usually handle this sort of business.

After sufficient time has elapsed, I approach a package and begin to analyze such details as: price, ply-count, roll count, and footage. Once again, though I am reading the information, this is designed to give the appearance that I am a shrewd and rational thinker who determines his ass-wipe purchase by quantitative data and scientific thinking, not by visualizing myself hunkered over in a dimly lit bathroom, inelegantly pawing at my filthy butthole.

I proceed in this manner, from product to product, all the while thinking to myself “Do I need ripples? Should I get it with aloe if I’m planning on Korean tonight? Will it tear when I periscope? And why does this one say ‘confident clean’ on it? Doesn’t that imply that while their plush paper offers a more pleasurable ride, some confidence is sacrificed? And isn’t confidence at the top of everyone’s list of requirements for toilet paper?

It’s at this point, driven mad by the complexity of the process, that I must either be done with the thing—or perish. I grab the nearest product available without a baby on it, that is twelve rolls or less (I don’t want to appear as if I’m planning ahead for a Hometown Buffet marathon), and scurry off to find some secondary items to distract from the rolls of ass wipe. That, or I must prepare to go home to my Girlfriend—who I’m pretty sure is perfecting her eye-rolls in the mirror while I’m away— and explain to her how I couldn’t successfully perform the most basic of domestic duties.

Luckily, there is a strategy for that.