You know that website that’s like, tell me everything you have in your kitchen and I’ll tell you what to make for dinner? Well, I just used it and let me tell you—it’s amazing. I mean, seriously, I feel fucking great. And it’s super simple!
First thing’s first: take an inventory of your comestibles. In my own kitchen, I had two German beers, one bottle of Irish whiskey, a tray of ice cubes, 500 milligrams of synthetic heroin that was prescribed to treat a spinal injury in 2005, an orange, and a dog. Nothing substantial. The dog, I mean. You wouldn’t be caught eating it. It weighs about nine pounds and pisses on its own leg. I don’t need Todd Akin to tell you this dog is a female…
I didn’t get a ton of instruction from the what to make for dinner website so I just kind of winged it. And by winged it, I mean I put it in all in the blender and floated some beer on top… not the dog though. It’s not a fancy blender like they have at Jamba Juice. No, I would have to push the dog into the spinning blades for quite a while before she fit in. And who wants to drink bones? And fur?
I think this is a great and family friendly way of deciding on what to eat for dinner. It really works. It works so well that now that I’ve finished my well-balanced meal, I feel like I should quit my job and pursue my passion of telling children to get the fuck out of America and go back to the fetuses that they came from because they act like victims and don’t pay income taxes. I’m sick of paying for the 47% of kids who are totally dependent on people like myself and 14.1% of Mitt’s income in 2011 so they can learn how to read, and write in cursive and cheat on math tests. Because honestly, I’ve been around America’s youth lately and they are truly fucked. I’m talking Marlon Brandon thrusting a stick of butter up the ass of that soon-to-be lesbian chick in the Last Tango In Paris-fucked.
The website didn’t say anything about dessert, but I assume I’ll just have another course of the whiskey or canine tartar. And a side of hatred for America’s future. Have you heard? The kids these days—well, first off they don’t pay any income taxes. They’re victims that expect us to pay for their education, to tie their shoes—I lost my train of thought. Anyway, I’d kill for a pinch of expired opiates, but I’m fresh out. I’m still hungry so I’ll probably go to the Thai place around the corner. I’ll order mango sticky rice and tell the 18-year-old hostess that I’m not ready for a serious relationship. If she’s anything like most of the youth these days, she’ll probably want a guarantee that I’ll pay off her forthcoming student loans for the Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising before she’ll consider giving me a non-tax paying heir.
What can I say? I’m an optimist.
Exchanging Pleasantries 