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!

Lays Flavor Challenge

I’ll admit it. I’m bitter that none of my flavors were selected for the Lay’s “Do us a Flavor” chip flavor contest this year, and it’s not just that the grand prize is a million dollars either. I mean it’s mostly that, but it’s also other stuff too. For instance two runner-up finalists will receive $50,000. One poor schmuck will only receive $10,000 – hardly compensation for thinking of up a flavor.

Oh well, maybe next year. Till then, I guess we’ll just have to imagine cracking open a bag of…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Yelp Review

I arrived for my appointment 5 minutes early, and after 35 minutes, was taken to an examination room by the front desk clerk. I spent the next 30 or maybe 45 minutes lying down in an examination chair, listening to a satellite radio station completely composed of ads. This was a little longer of a wait than I’m used to, but not altogether un-enjoyable.

A man entered and left the room several times, throwing his hands up into the air, and muttering to himself. Finally, he spun a chair around and flopped down, straddling it.

“To put it plainly for you, your spinal column is slightly fucked.”

This was news to me, as I had just come in for a routine dental examination.

“You see?” he said. “Look at this.”

He shoved a handful of X-rays in my face and shook them. Had it not been for his angry tone I might have asked for a second glance, as the shaking, and distance of the X-rays, made it impossible for me to figure out what I was looking at. As it was, I didn’t want to take up the good Dentist’s time with my foolish questions, so I just put on a look of concern and replied, “Oh my yes, that doesn’t look good does it?”

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as he once again threw up his arms, and left the room.

Now to be fair, I haven’t done much travelling outside of a trip to Europe, Mexico, Canada, Spain, Morocco, Thailand, Mongolia, and the Dominican Republic. There was also a two-week stay in Iceland, but as it was a layover, I hardly think it counts. That said, it is very possible that I accidentally did or said something that offended the Dentist. I couldn’t exactly figure out what country he was from, though the accent suggested India, or perhaps New Zealand.

In any event, a half hour later, a smocked woman came in who I recognized to be the front desk clerk. She sat down and began to put together some sort of dental device.

“I hope I didn’t say anything to offend the Dentist. I have rather limited experience with other cultures you see, and I just hope that I didn’t unknowingly cause offense.”

“Open,” she said.

“You see, I couldn’t quite place the accent and

“Armenian,” she said.

“Oh,” I replied. “I knew it was one of those.”

She clamped the device to my lower jaw and extended a sharp-looking rectangular plate into my mouth.

“Bite down.”

I bit down and tasted blood as the device cut into the roof of my mouth.

“Don’t move till I come back.”

I waited as she went into the other room to take what I believed was an X-ray. 10 or maybe 15 minutes later I heard a toilet flush and then footsteps behind me, entering an adjacent room.

The Dentist came in and stared at the device clamped to my jaw.

“Are you allergic to Element 115?”

“What’s Element 115?” I tried to say, but with the device in my mouth I could only manage to gurgle out a few broken and unintelligible syllables.

“Excellent!” he said, springing up and disappearing behind me.

No sooner had he left, when the device started to hum, and the smell of burning plastic filled the room. My vision doubled, and I slipped into a deep sleep. When I came to, the smocked desk clerk was sitting there watching me.

“All done,” she said, standing up. “We’ll see you up front.”

I reached a hand up to my face and realized that the device was gone. After a few minutes of dizziness and slight nausea, I started making my way to the front office. In my disoriented state however, I opened the door to the Dentist’s personal office, and interrupted him meditating in the fetal position on the floor.

He opened his eyes and looked at me.

“Look,” he said, remaining lying on the floor. “We had a close one today, ok? No more lifting above your waist, ok? No more rice foods. No more turning up right, or else you might not be as lucky next time. Next time I might not be able to help you. Ok?”

“Oh yes. Yes, that all sounds fine to me, and sorry for the trouble Doctor.” Admittedly, I hadn’t the foggiest what he meant by “rice foods”, or “turning up right”. Certainly not how it pertained to my periodontal. But that’s why I’m not a Dentist.

I took his eyes closing as “goodbye”, and backed out of the room, being careful to shut the door as quietly as I could. A few more minutes of searching and I had found the lobby.

“600 hundred dollars,” the front desk clerk said.

“Oh, I have insurance!” I said, remembering the card in my back pocket.

She sighed heavily and took the card. Several moments passed as she stared into her computer screen.

“550 dollars.”

I handed her my credit card and she cringed, informing me that there was a 50 dollar processing fee. I reassured her that I knew how those “sorts of things” went, and not to worry about it. I know how banks can be and after paying my mechanic 20 dollars for new battery tags every month, a one time charge of 50 dollars didn’t seem out of line at all.

Now, as for the missing star in the review: I hate to be a stickler, but when I show up on time to an appointment, I hope, in most circumstances, to be called within the next 20 minutes or maybe 30 minutes. Though to be fair, clocks can easily be off by 5 to even 10 minutes in some circumstances, in which case I only waited an extra 10-20 minutes. Which isn’t too bad.

EDIT: Fifth star given. Sorry for the trouble!

 

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.