Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Eighteen: EPIC FAIL.


This is the end of our story.

It can't be! I love this man! I want his babies!

These are all normal thoughts you are experiencing. Unfortunately, we all fall short one time or another. I ultimately fell short interacting with plebeians and other common folk.

You may be thinking I lost because I cracked. Perhaps the Steakhouse Shakes were more than he could take!


You know what did me in, over halfway through this debacle?


That's right. The generic "Tex-Mex for hipsters and their ignorant friends" place. Since I can't fucking add, I lost when my wife and I decided to grab a late lunch here on our way to an event. "It's cheap," I thought. "Surely this will be a quest even the simplest of simpletons would dispatch with ease."

Wrong. Fucking wrong.

Without further ado, the shitty meal that did me in:

Yes, that's shredded white people, Ecto Cooler vomit, and a bunch of other generic Mexican shit in a paper bowl. Yes, that's a fucking Dos Equis. How can I eat at Chipotle without drinking alcohol to wash my sorrows down?

It turns out that my meal was a shred over $12.50. I tried to take the guacamole back, but they'd have none of that. So I enjoyed my fail meal in peace.

My wife was pleased. Just so you know, if I lost this bet, I was supposed to do another thirty days of cheap meals-- but this time, under $10.00 per meal.

Fuck that. I need a goddamned man's meal.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Day XVII: Yeah, I did it. Golden Corral.


If one phrase could sum up my decision to eat at Golden Corral, it would be this:


The worst part is walking in to this low-income catering fuckshop. The scent of fat is everywhere. I'm confident scientific studies would show that each breath of air you take in a Golden Corral is 10 calories, all from polysaturated fat.

I left Golden Corral to buy a SARS mask at Home Depot. I came back and felt a bit better, though I was already somewhat full from the 15 breaths of air I took earlier.

It was time to "eat." It's a fucking buffet. You may not know this, but the word "buffet" is derived from the Latin word "fukshopus," which means FUCKSHOP.

Every person in this nuclear wasteland weighed at least four bills. At least. Except me, duh.

It wasn't even worth taking a picture of the food, because it all looked the fucking same. Everything in this fucking place is fried beyond belief. I could have eaten fried feet or fried shit-stained laundry bags for all I knew, because IT ALL TASTED THE FUCKING SAME.

It tasted like FRIED GOODNESS.

Oh, you expected me to hate it? Are you kidding me? What decent human being hates fried food? Only bad people and child rapists dislike fried food, and even the latter enjoys a corny dog now and again.

Fried food is always good, because you have to be a real asshole to screw it up. And while there may have been at least a dozen assholes in the place when I was there, nobody fucked the food up. I don't know what the fuck it was that I ate, but it was crispy and brown and tasted like fried.

I can't go back to this place, though. For one, I can't have this interfering with my flawless physique. Furthermore, I fully intend on limiting my plebeian interaction once this godforsaken bet is over. These people talk about things like food stamps and supermarket coupons and made-for-TV movies. Fuck that.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Day 16: Awkward ethnic marketing is...awkward.


What in the fucking.

That's exactly what I said after I ate lunch. You would too.

I once again made the mistake choice of venturing into plebeian palace, AKA the food court. This time, I was on a mission-- to eat something even worse than that rubber shit.


Well, it was more like mildly offensive and somewhat off-putting success, because I ate Burguesa Burger. It's a Mexican hamburger joint.

The first problem is the name of the place itself. It makes me think BURGER BURGER. The second problem is that this is like me opening a Japanese spaghetti stand. YOU CAN'T JUST PICK AN ETHNICITY AND "ADD" IT TO RANDOM FOOD. It has to be a more calculated decision than that.

And the shit show continued.

My colleague went ahead and ordered "La Monumental," which is essentially this place's racist version of The Whopper or Big Mac. It also looks like a pile of horse shit:

It's a double patty burger with...you guessed it, "Mexican" garnish like a fucking tortilla and some avocado paste.


I didn't want to die from the SARS my colleague most likely contracted from eating the Mexi-burger, so I went with a chicken sandwich:

It looks so...deflated. And it tasted like a deflated rubber chicken. I don't know what the fuck was on this thing, so I took a peek:


At least it tasted like chicken (albeit rubber), so I can't complain about that. What really bothered me was that my meal came with A MEXICAN FORTUNE COOKIE:

This is wrong. And disgusting. Fortune cookies usually taste like meh. This tasted like sour milk that was wrung out of cheesecloth someone found under a pile of dead cats.

And the fortune. Or should I say, "generic statements of goodwill from non-existent Hispanic individuals." My fortune was from Jose (I SHIT YOU NOT) and my colleague's was from Maria. This is worse than the Confucius says shit.

I was so disturbed I went back downstairs, expressed my displeasure to the food servant behind the counter, and then induced vomiting by drinking a gallon of ipecac.

P.S. I was going to make a joke about the whole Lucky Taco thing, but I figured that was too lowbrow for such a classy blog.

Friday, August 26, 2011

♫ Whoa, we're halfway there... ♫


Hello, fucks friends.

I couldn't take it anymore. I required steak sustenance. Halfway through this dumb bet, I had to cave in. So I totally did it in style.


There's nothing as appetizing as bottom-barrel meat from your local supermarket. I would never have gone so low had it not been out of pure necessity, but such is life. I made sure to go to the supermarket midday, when nobody would be around. There are few things more unsettling than watching hundreds of fat people buy ice cream.

My mission was a success. I bought a small "tenderloin" for a mere $7.00. Now, it was on to the most upsetting part of this entire endeavor-- cooking my own food. :-\

I bumped into my most likely unemployed neighbor when I came back and asked him if he would be my food servant for an hour. He looked puzzled. I said that I had $5.50 with his name on it if he could find an apron, cook my steak, serve it to me, and then sit in a different room (nobody wants a food servant in the same room whilst dining) until I was done. Then, he could clean up my plate and vacate the premises.

He was curious but commented on the fact that what I was offering was less than minimum wage. Since I couldn't budge, we compromised-- I would cook the food and then he would serve it to me.

He even had an apron. At this point, I was thinking he may have been a food servant in another life.

Though I don't normally cook my own food, I do know how to do everything damn near perfectly, so I proceeded to make the best possible steak out of what was most likely cow dung. The result?

What an attractive piece of cow dung. I know you're especially smitten with my blue flower plate. Let's cut it open and see if I'm as excellent as is widely believed:

 Oh man, I wish I were me right now.

The steak was average because it was a mediocre cut of meat and came from a supermarket. My neighbor temporary food servant was also mediocre. I take back what I said earlier. He was probably unemployed in his previous life as well.

I only gave him $5.00 because of poor service, so this meal was fifty cents under budget. It was not worth it.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Day 14: A Chance Encounter with Truckrapers™

You're lucky I'm alive. Or, at the least, that I wasn't truckraped™.

Why would you get truckraped, sir? That's what you should be thinking right now. Under any other circumstance, it would be a ludicrous question. Unfortunately, it became a palpable reality for me when I went to lunch.

Several friends decided that it would be a great idea to meet up for Friday lunch. I agreed. They recommended Tex-Mex. I agreed. They recommended a place in Dallas. I fucking agreed.

Then I find out that they're meeting at a place called Carmen's. I have no fucking idea where that is, so I map it out. FIRST WARNING SIGN-- THIS PLACE IS IN SOUTH DALLAS. For those not in the know, you don't go to South Dallas unless you like vuvuzelas and rape and buying 9mm guns at convenience stores. I only like one of those three, so this was clearly going to be another poor choice.

I am a brave soul. So I caved in-- for you, my awesome readers. For you.

I should have known this would be a shit show when I put the address in my vehicle's navigation device. As soon as I hit I-30, the car immediately instructed me to TURN THE FUCK AROUND. I think it even killed the power when I was at a stoplight, auto-locked the doors, and dialed the local police. I turned it off and navigated using my cell phone. I said, "Today will not be a day of cowardice; today will be a day of bravery and vittles served with a side of life-threatening fear."

My sphincter went into autoclench™ when I arrived at Carmen's. The restaurant looked like the kind of place you'd go if you wanted to find missing guerilla combatants or score 10 kilos of coke. It's surrounded by truck stops and industrial buildings.

And then there's the parking lot.

It was filled with 18 wheeler cabs and soiled pick-up trucks. Scores of truckrapers™ were standing outside in small groups, fondling their well-groomed moustaches and eyeing the prize (me). I could smell rape in the air. I parked as close to the building as possible and ran in with my hands covering my ass.

Of course, nobody warned me about the fucking epileptic seizure I'd suffer upon entry. I walk in and see BLUEGREENYELLOWREDORANGE everywhere. It's like some asshole thought it would be funny to paint EVERYTHING A DIFFERENT FUCKING COLOR. Initially, I thought it was a relapse of the Steakhouse Shakes™, but it turned out to be an epileptic fit. I foamed at the mouth and fell on the floor.

When I came to, I saw that someone ordered me a generic combination of meat, cheese, and tortillas. As you can see, it looks OK; refried beans always look like Mexican diarrhea, so there's no getting around that. Honestly, the food was actually pretty good.

The rape scare was not. I will never go back to this place. Not even if I bring my rape whistle.

Days 11 - 13: Corn Nuts® & The Steakhouse Shakes™

Do you feel cheated because I'm posting three days at once? Good thing I don't care.

I took a few days off with the wife to relax and take a quick midweek vacation. That means she was with me for every meal, and let me make this clear-- she wants to see me suffer. And suffer I did.

One night, we went to a nice restaurant where she enjoyed a delicious meal-- I'm talking redfish, two sides, and several glasses of wine. My meal?

Fucking bread and one glass of mediocre cab sauv. Good times. To make matters worse, some fuck sitting next to us ordered a filet mignon, medium-rare (the way it should be cooked). When the food servant brought that patron's feast, they started.


My right hand started to twitch uncontrollably. Sweat started to bead down my forehead and my mouth was gasping for the blood of a thousand cows. I had to drape myself in several blankets later that night to quash wave after wave of my steaklust™.

So what do I do to curb the problem? Nothing, cockbag. The only cure is eating a good steak. I had to settle for fucking Corn Nuts® from a vending machine.

Yep. Corn Nuts®.

The only positive thing I can say about Corn Nuts® is that I sincerely appreciate the brand's overt references to testicles in its advertisements. I like when people try to sell things and somehow work testicles into the sales pitch. It's a surefire winner every time.

I need a fucking steak, bros.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Day 10: The $1,ooo,ooo.oo Question

A lot of readers have asked me the following question:

Good sir, how do you manage to stay so incredibly fit and sexy whilst dining out on the regular?

I'm more than happy to divulge my secrets to you, peons. It's not as if you'd be in any position to match my balanced lifestyle. So, without further ado, the secret[s]:

Go to a fitness club, you lazy fucks. 

Please note that I said fitness club, not gymnasium. Gymnasium is a disgusting word; those "places" are usually located in bottom-tier high schools and low income areas. I once made the mistake of exercising in a gymnasium; it was replete with foul-smelling serfs and I was convinced someone had wiped elephant shit all over the treadmills.

So the bottom line is join a fitness club and exercise vigorously at least five days per week. There's nothing wrong with hitting the treadmill after a few drinks; you'll just throw up in your mouth a little. Nothing tastes as good as ripped feels.

Speaking of taste, my fitness club has a wonderful little cafe and serves health-conscious food, like the BLTT below (turkey bacon, lettuce, tomato, and turkey):

Yes, it's a fucking sandwich. Thankfully, the immediacy serves a purpose-- I can finish quickly and get home in order to pound a whey protein shake and feed my glorious muscles.

And that I did. That's how you do it, folks. Go and do likewise.