Wednesday, August 31, 2011

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

I SWEAR A LOT IN THIS BLOG, BROS. JUST WARNING YOU IN CASE YOU WERE A DUMBASS AND COULDN'T READ THE PARENTAL ADVISORY WARNING IN THE BLOG HEADER.

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


SERIOUSLY, HOW DO HOMO SAPIENS EAT HERE WITHOUT DYING IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARD?

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.

THIS BLOG CONTAINS LOTS OF BAD WORDS, SO DON'T READ IT WITH YOUR MOTHER.

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.

GREAT SUCCESS!

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.

Really?

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:


Goddamnit.

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... ♫

THIS BLOG PROBABLY CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE, SO IF YOU'RE A POSEUR THAT DRIVES SOMETHING LAME LIKE A PORSCHE CAYMAN, THIS MAY HURT YOUR EYES.


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.

TIME FOR SOME KROGER® meat.

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.

THE STEAKHOUSE SHAKES™.

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.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Day 9: Big Bird's surprise.

Not a good surprise.

It was Sunday and a few buddies wanted to spend the afternoon drinking. This put me in a very peculiar position-- and once again, I'd probably have to spend an entire meal on alcohol just to keep up.

I met up with them at Gordon Biersch. If you don't know, it's a brewery restaurant with generic American fare, except they fucking love garlic and I half expect someone to shove a clove or two up my ass when I'm there.

I like the place, because it's like Chili's for people that refuse to be seen at that fucking dump. Every so often, a man wants to go slumming, and Gordon Biersch is the perfect place for such activity. Sunday slumming at its finest.

I immediately decided that I would "eat" all three meals at Gordon Biersch. Since I was hungry and it was brunch time I perused the "breakfast" menu. The only thing I could get for less than $12.50 was a fucking vegetarian omelet and a glass of toxin-laden water.

When my food arrived, I gasped and in a freak "automatic" reaction, punched the man sitting next to me in the stomach. The meal looked like Big Bird took a dump on a plate and somebody thought that was appropriate and appetizing:





On top of that, it tasted like a Big Bird deuce, too. I had my food servant promptly remove it from the building. I drank beer for the rest of the afternoon in order to wash away to horror. Eventually my mouth tasted like their goat piss beer and all was well.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

♫ It's the most disgusting week of the year ♬

Did you like my song? Good.

The verse is a timely commentary on KRLD Restaurant Week, an annual Dallas shit show tradition. I didn't know whether I was going to comment or not, but then I received messages from readers asking me why I wasn't going to any of those restaurants...


Because the meals cost more than $12.50, you dumb fucks.

Then, another friend of mine inquired on a much more sensible note-- why I wasn't bitching about Restaurant Week (as usual) for the far more relevant and important topic:

The influx of undesirables.

I'm not going to bash the charitable nature of Restaurant Week. It's a wonderful thing. What's not wonderful are the fucking undesirables. You know who I'm talking about-- the ones that wear an Affliction t-shirt to dine at Lucia or Abacus or Komali and think pâté is something used during the bricklaying process. Stick to Chili's, assholes.

You and I both know where these heathens hail from-- places like low-rent AMLI properties, The Village, or--dare I say it-- the fucking suburbs.

Ugh. Even typing it sends shivers down the spine and churns the stomach. I still haven't figured out why we haven't passed legislation banning individuals from commuting into Dallas proper from north of 635; I've written several compelling letters to local legislators.

So, as charitable as it may be, you wouldn't find me at my favorite spots this week even if this endeavor didn't exist. I have no interest in getting lice.

Day 8: Disease and disappointment.

This gentleman saw neither breakfast nor lunch on the eighth day. Why, you ask? I fell ill. How? I suspect one or more of the following:

(1)  I contracted AIDS from the food court fuckers and it was just now kicking in;

(2)  Tap water toxins had finally gotten the best of me;

(3)  Residual fecal matter likely on that can of Diet Coke had contaminated my blood;

(4)  Scurvy (the most likely option); or

(5)  I contracted a vagabond virus from last night.

Whatever the culprit, I was down for the count for most of Saturday. It wasn't until eve that I emerged from my cocoon to feast on some substandard food and drink.

I had heard quite a bit of ruckus regarding Torchy's Tacos, one of the fifty fucking billion taco joints in the Dallas area. Since Tex-Mex is my trashy weakness, I made the call-- to Torchy's Tacos we went.

Fuck that place.

Oh, the food was fine. In fact, I'll go as far to say that the tacos were some of the best I've had in a while. All of that was spoiled by the thing missing from this picture:

WHERE IS THE BEER? OH, THAT'S RIGHT. THEY DON'T SELL ALCOHOL.

Chipotle sells beer. For fuck's sake, how does someone screw something this easy up? Frankly, I don't care if other locations sell alcohol. The one by me doesn't, so Torchy's gets a big fat fucking F even though the tacos are pretty good.

P.S.

I REALLY WANTED A BEER.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The Seventh Day is ruined by vagabonds.

After my most wonderful respite in the American Airlines Admirals Club®, I enjoyed a quiet flight (First Class) to Atlanta to prepare for mediation with my team. 

Lunch was forgettable. I had one of my associates get everyone lunch, and guess what she came back with?

Fucking sandwiches.

Yep. Of course, we're working, so what better food than something that screams OMGEATYOURFOODANDGETBACKTOWORK? I don't even know where they were from. At least it wasn't Subway or some other shit hole. I think mine was a combination of bread, meat and cheese [surprise]. Then again, I'm simultaneously happy she immediately went to sandwiches, because I want her working 24 hours a day.


Dinner, on the other hand, was good-- until these little fuckers ruined it for everyone.

We swung by TAP, a well-reviewed gastropub in midtown. Of course, we go to a fucking gastropub when I can't drink shit because of the damn bet, but we'll let that go for now. We sat down outside and I reluctantly ordered tap water (I'm getting used to the toxins) and a sliced egg BLT because I wanted to start a bacon barrage. 

I was but two bites into my sandwich when my table was accosted by vagabonds. These fiesty fucks walked into the restaurant area with crumpled pieces of paper and tried to get money out of my table by selling melted candy bars:

Vagabond 1:  Hey! My name is Vagabond and we're [unintelligible].

Vagabond 2:  Yeah!

Me:  Are you fucking kidding me?


At that point, our waiter came and kicked them out of the restaurant. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. My appetite was gone; I instructed our servant to remove my food immediately and bring the bill, as I'd be leaving to shower in my hotel room. He tried to comp the meal, but I'd have none of that; I paid exactly $12.50 and walked out.
Fucking vagabonds. 

Sunday, August 14, 2011

The Seventh Day: Breakfast in HEAVEN!?

Religious folk the world over have pondered-- many a time-- what "heaven" is truly like. Some believe it's filled with clouds and the entryway is the ubiquitous pearly gates; others believe there are a handful of virgins waiting to share their loins with the newly departed. Whether you're Christian, Muslim, Pastafarian, or Jedi, I'm sure you have some thoughts on the matter.

Me? I'm not religious, but if I imagined what heaven would be like, it would most certainly be an American Airlines Admirals Club® lounge.

After arriving at the airport, I made my way through security as quickly as possible, because I was holding my breath until I could get inside the Admirals Club® lounge. The filthy stench of airport dwellers does a number on my stomach, especially early in the morning.

If you've never been in an Admirals Club® lounge, you simply must try it. The easiest way is to obtain the best charge card available on the market:

That's not a Centurion® black card, you say. You are correct. However, the Platinum Card® by American Express is superior for several reasons. First, it has a certain panache and speaks well of its holder, whereas the Centurion® black card carries a certain douche factor that is quite difficult to shake. Add the ridiculous fees and similar benefits, and you have a clear winner.  Sometimes, going all out isn't the answer.  


Back to the lounge.


I held my breath the entire way and made my way into the lounge, which, of course, features ionized, separately circulated air so I don't have to breathe the same pollutants as the cattle falling over themselves in the airport. I was greeted with a smile, a complimentary shave kit from The Art of Shaving®, and was led to the breakfast lounge by a wonderful young lady.

There, I could appreciate the numerous plasma televisions, Internet access, newspapers, and most importantly, a wonderful breakfast. For a mere $6.00, I present:

A fluffy egg sandwich on a fresh croissant with jack cheese and a deliciously ripe tomato. Sextacular.

There are several other things you should notice in this picture. One is the attractive granite table, which was present throughout the tastefully decorated lounge. The second is the silverware. It's silver.

How? Oh, that's right. Those incredible fucks give you silver plastic silverware. Yep. The brilliant people behind the Admirals Club® lounge know it is generally unacceptable to dine with plastic knives and forks. Unfortunately, there are some unshakable federal regulations in airports. To get around this most distasteful issue, they present patrons with silver plastic ware, so I can feel right at home.

Heaven.

Day Six, Dinner-- An outstanding meal.

Yep, you read that right. Outstanding.

After polishing off that bumwine or whateverthefuck it was I was drinking, I was on a mission to find actual food. I was feeling lucky when I saw Lumi, a local favorite of mine. After very little deliberation, I decided to fuck it and see what I could get.

And get something I did.

For those not in the know, Lumi Empanada & Dumpling Kitchen is a fresh, hip restaurant that combines Vietnamese and Brazilian cuisine in a most excellent way. Brother-and-sister owners Susie and An Bui have crafted one of the city's most unique dining experiences thanks to the offbeat, inspired menu and the art gallery-esque restaurant design. Dare I say there is nary a bad table in the place. And I am a big table whore.

I arrived and met Susie, who was well aware of my plight and blog. She grimaced. -__-

Fear not, milady. Fill me with good eats and mayhaps I will be pleased. And such was done. ^___^


I couldn't afford an entree [Editor's note: I hate saying that], but Susie had an idea. She started me off with Lumi's complimentary shrimp crisps, which are light, wafer-like crisps with just the right hint of shrimp flavor. It was paired with a new Lumi creation-- Susie called it "edamame guacamole." Whatever it was, it was DELISH. It's equally as light, which keeps a delicate balance with the shrimp crisps-- and is just creamy enough to give it some extra weight on the tongue as one experiences the salty edamame flavor.



Susie followed that with my main dish-- feijoada. It's a combination of simmered black beans, shredded pork, and jasmine rice, topped with collard greens. The perfectly cooked black beans playfully accent the tender pork, whose juices add yet another layer of flavor to the rice; the texture combination is flawless.


Well played, Ms. Bui. Well played.
Note that this does not resemble the slop I ate at Freebirds. Why? Because feijoada is appropriately located in the soup section of the menu.

I may have to rethink my entire take on "cheap" meals. Perhaps I have seen the light...

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Day 6. Happy Hour. Well Drinks? More like piss drinks.

Since I didn't eat breakfast, I decided to waste that "meal" on Happy Hour. I ended up at a local watering hole typically populated by the much-beloved $30,000 millionaire club. Why? Well, it's always fun to laugh at people who just bought a 2001 Mercedes-Benz C320 and think that's cool. ^__^

Unfortunately, I had to relegate myself to "well" drinks, because I wanted more than one. For those that don't know, well drinks are the cheapest pieces of shit on the bar menu. Well alcohol is typically made in the establishment's bathroom by combining simple things like 2-propanol, urine, and toilet water. Before a well drink is served to a patron, it is almost always stirred with a homeless man's penis.


For a mere $2.00 per drink, I chose "vodka" and soda. FIVE OF THEM.


I put vodka in quotation marks because the first three tasted like a cross between a fat person's sweat and three week old salami that was left outside. Thankfully, drinks number four and five tasted like dog taint, so there was a noticeable improvement.


I went to the jukebox, put in enough money to play Mickey Avalon's masterpiece "My Dick" on three times in a row, and left.


Time to find dinner.

Friday, August 12, 2011

STOP IT.

Stop sending me sex messages asking me when I am going to discuss another meal. SURPRISINGLY, I HAVE A JOB. Unless you want to send me monies, let me do that and then we can talk about bullshit foods.

kthxbye


P.S. Please send me sex messages

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Day Six. Lunch. NOBODY GOES THERE ANYMORE.

I fucking hate it when out-of-towners come in to Dallas and they want to go to THE WEST END.

NOBODY GOES THERE ANYMORE.

There are risks associated with going to The West End. These include (1) not being seen by anyone important and (2) bum-rape. I really can't tell you which is worse, but both are unacceptable risks. Since I've been such a risk-taker these days past, I figured I'd make another poor decision.

We went to Sonny Bryan's Smokehouse. I have no fucking idea how this place is still open.

When we walked in, there was one "patron" in the place and I'm pretty sure he was (1) homeless and (2) had just dropped a deuce next to the soda fountain machine. After I threw up a little in my mouth, I went to place my order. The woman behind the counter looked so excited that another fucking human being walked into the place, I think she may have also partook in the rampant deuce-dropping.

Of course, I couldn't get a proper meal because a multiple meat plate would have kicked it above $12.50. What do I end up with? Some fucking kid's shit. I could not have many meats, only one meat. Disappointing.



Sonny Bryan's isn't bad barbeque, but it's not the best. Of course, the idiots that populate this city voted it "best barbeque" in the most recent issue of D Magazine, a publication that has helped cultivate Dallas cuisine by filtering the gutter trash from the truly exceptional.

Of course, I'm talking about the editors, not the readers. They think people still go to The West End.  Nobody goes there anymore.

Day 5. "Dinner." Poor Decisions.

I had a late night at the office. With Mr. Brimley fresh on my mind, I was in the mood for a drink. I knew that would fuck my meal up, because then I'd be relegated to a goddamned appetizer or something, but whatevs. Little did I know how wrong I was.

Some unruly colleagues of mine were going to a concert later in the evening and decided to stop by Snuffer's, which is great if you want a fat fuckity-fuckfuckfuck meal. I wanted no such meal, but a cold beer was sounding quite sexy.

I ended up arriving first and, since I'm an impatient bastard, ordered a draft beer in the biggest fucking glass they had. $3.99. $1.00 tip. I should have given up then. What the fuck am I going to get for $7.51!?

I was not going to indulge in a fat fuckity-fuckfuckfuck meal. NOT THIS DAY. So, in the immortal words of Bill O'Reilly, I declared:

FUCK IT, WE'LL DO IT LIVE.

And I did it live with two big ass draft beers. Here is a picture of the first beer TWICE so you can imagine how filling this fucking meal was. IT LOOKS LIKE THIS MONTH WILL BE FILLED WITH SIMILAR POOR DECISIONS.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Day 5. Lunch. Wilford Brimley.

I SWEAR A LOT IN THIS BLOG. CRY ABOUT IT.

I'll admit it right out of the gate-- I somewhat enjoyed this lunch. The food itself was decent; it was everything that went along with it which caused significant discomfort. I'll use this as an opportunity to educate on a topic near and dear to most ne'er-do-wells-- sandwiches.

It might help if you knew what I ate, eh [even though it obviously includes a fucking sandwich]? SANDWICH AND CHIPS FROM POTBELLY.


It was only about eight bucks and like I said, it wasn't bad. Here are my problems, though:

(1)  I had to go downstairs again.

This one should have been obvious. The fucking stench is unreal.

(2)  Sandwiches were invented to keep the ignorant masses working and cut down on "break" time.

Here comes the education session. I bet you did not know that the motherfucking FOURTH EARL OF SANDWICH invented these things to keep his bitches in line. By bitches, I mean the individuals that cleaned his toenails and washed his armpits and all that awesome stuff indentured servants did back in the heyday of awesome.

Basically, he was sick and tired of his wenches and gardeners and mechanics taking more than about nine minutes for a lunch break.  One day, he smashed some meats and breads together and told them to EAT THE FUCKING THING AND GET BACK TO WORK.

That is why I can never truly enjoy a sandwich. It always feels like there's some dickbag standing behind you, tapping his watch, waiting for you to finish your break, punch back in, and start pressing buttons.

I find that kind of atmosphere unsettling and appalling. Sandwiches are associated with immediacy, not a proper meal. Not. For. Me.

(3)  Who the fuck names a restaurant POTBELLY?

I really don't give a fuck how the place started. This is simply an unacceptable name and I don't think I can, in good conscience, eat at this establishment anymore. I saw the sign above the door, and the first fucking thing that came to mind:


Just look at that WILFORD BRIMLEY-LOOKING MOTHERFUCKER. Is this really the first image you want someone to think of when they're about to eat sandwiches!? Diabeetus.

Then again, who gives a fuck what sandwich savants think anyway, so perhaps these chaps are simply BRILLIANT.

That's right, I'm pretty awesome.

You didn't know that already? DUMB.

Nah, I'm sure you did. But to reinforce such truths, I direct your attention to a most excellent website-- dallas.eater.com-- to read the sexcellent interview I had with its editor, Andrea Grimes.

Go forth, my children, and enjoy it. Unlike my meals.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

It's like a Botox injection, only it isn't a toxin!

You might be noticing something awesome right about now. That something is the sexy new design I've adopted for this most glorious blog. You don't have to tell me it's excellent; I already knew that.

Big props to Michael Plummer, the brilliant artist who owns Minty Fresh Productions, for the design.

Day 4, Dinner: Treeturds.

THIS BLOG CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE BLAH BLAH BLAH

After the lunchtime debacle, I was ravenous. I was in an even worse mood because some of that used rubber tainted my simplehuman® wastebasket, so I had to discard it (I think my assistant took it, because I had her immediately fetch me a new simplehuman®  wastebasket from the store).

Can you blame me? Of course not. Who knows where that foul shit had been before those sons of bitches had the audacity to box it up for me!?

BACK ON TOPIC, SIR.

I was honestly so famished I could have eaten a live honey badger (he don't give a fuck). In fact, I probably could have downed potted meat. What's that, you ask?


It's not just food, it's food product. EERILY, IT HAS THE SAME AESTHETICS AND APPARENT CONSISTENCY OF THE GARBAGE I "HAD" FOR LUNCH. But I was so hungry, I'd probably have eaten it (then vomited) and ultimately bitched about it here. Which is probably how I stomached what I ended up eating...

I went to a Texas favorite. Let's say it rhymes with Treeturds. For those that don't know, it's like Tex-Mex for fucking hipsters.

Of course, I fell prey to the steak option, which, at $6.75, I should have known wouldn't be steak. Some guy that looked like Buddy Holly took my order and walked down the aisle with me. I eschewed the tortilla; I can't maintain abs like The Situation and shovel carbs down my gullet at the same time.

They told me what I got was the "burrito bowl." It looked like this:


I told him it didn't look like a "burrito bowl." It looked like fucking slop. That's right, I had fucking slop for dinner. I imagine this is what Bernie Madoff's prison food resembles.

That said, I was so famished, I ate every last bit of my slop. It was good, but then again, the potted rubber product looked good, too.

Well, not anymore. Come to think of it, that slop looks unappetizing now as well.

Monday, August 8, 2011

I'm tired.

I'll post dinner tomorrow morning.  I need sleep.

CALL THE COPS, I DON'T GIVE A ____.


^______^ 





Day 4, Lunch: Journey to the Food Court

THIS BLOG CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE, SO READ ON AND THEN SEND ME A NASTY E-MAIL LATER ABOUT HOW IT OFFENDED YOU.

I had a luncheon scheduled today with opposing counsel; the plan was to discuss potential settlement over a good meal. I knew I would have to be careful, since we tentatively picked the always excellent Stephan Pyles.  Now that would have been difficult.

Opposing counsel cancelled the luncheon last minute.  I suspect it's because he's afraid of me and has already recognized I'm the superior advocate.

Given my lack of plans, my assistant recommended I go to the "food court." I politely asked her what the fuck she was talking about, and she informed me there was one in our building and proceeded to describe Hell it in detail.

Sigh.

I typically try to avoid the smelly plebeians that wander the lobby of my building by taking a back corridor to my elevator; this way I don't have to shower, run the risk of being asked for spare change, or contracting AIDS.  Regardless, I dejectedly headed downstairs to look for this "food court."

Unfortunately, I fucking found it.

Nausea struck me like a rolling thunderclap, and my gag reflex threw up a white flag.  I was surrounded by a scent that can only be described as a combination of a bear's asshole and a wicker basket full of dog shit.

I found some kind of "ethnic" establishment that had an unpronounceable name and ordered the MARCO POLO, which turned out to be steamed dog dicks, but I'll get to that later. I was momentarily pleased when I saw that I could order a combination of brown rice, broccoli, steamed chicken, and a drizzle of olive oil.  I felt adventurous and added an order of egg drop soup.

$11.00.

After barely making it back upstairs alive, I sat down to examine my "feast":


Notice anything wrong? Yep, that's right. Plastic utensils.

Remember when I told you I ended up ordering steamed dog dicks?  Well, I found out after the first fucking bite.  After spitting it out into my simplehuman® wastebasket, I looked closer and discovered the problem:


I had been duped.

This wasn't steamed chicken, it was fucking dildo rubber or whatever the fuck they use to make dildos.  Into the simplehuman® wastebasket it went.

I tried the egg drop soup, expecting very little. It met those expectations admirably, because it had fucking corn in it. I don't know what fucking egg drop soup planet these people came from, but you don't do something like this unless you're Kent Rathbun. HEINOUS.

I finished my soup in the kitchen:


On second thought, I should have dumped it down the goddamned toilet.

Day 4: SKIPPEDBREAKFASTANDHADLIKESIXENERGYDRINKSOMG

THIS BLOG CONTAINS STRONG AWESOME LANGUAGE, MAN AM I WIRED!!11111

HEY GUYS I AM WRITING IN CAPS SO YOU CAN FEEL THE ENERGY I FEEL. I DECIDED I DIDN'T NEED BREAKFAST SO I BOUGHT A CAN OF FUCKING ROCKSTAR (EXTRA CAFFEINE) AND GODDAMN DOES IT WORK, I FEEL LIKE TWICE THE ROCKSTAR I ALREADY AM.



I CHASED IT WITH NOT ONE BUT TWO FIVE HOUR ENERGIES AND I THINK I AM GOING TO FUCKING BASE JUMP OUT OF MY OFFICE, LET'S DO THIS.

NOW IF YOU'LL EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO RETURN SOME VIDEOTAPES BEFORE LUNCH.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Day 3, Dinner: Tex-Mex rocks. Tap water sucks.

THIS BLOG CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE.  THIS MEANS YOU MAY SEE PHRASES SUCH AS "SHIT-STAINED LAUNDRY BAGS." YOU WERE WARNED.

After such a filling lunch, I knew my only option for dinner was meat, cheese, and a tortilla-- in some most excellent fucking combination that would tickle my fancy.  I needed some calories, and if I went with a lot of grilled chicken, I could do it most deliciously (and healthily).

Now, I'm not one to visit a suburb on a regular any basis; in fact, it goes against the very fibers of my finely pressed Armani Collezioni Super 150s suit.  Unfortunately, I had to finish some business after my lunch outside of Dallas, and I ended up meeting my wife in Hell Coppell, a suburb.

There's really only two reasons to visit Coppell.  One involves disposing of dead bodies; the other involves Anamia's, a reputable Tex-Mex restaurant.  The latter really isn't great enough to venture out where commoners roam, but every now and again, it's important to see how the rest of the world works, eh?

Of course, what I really wanted to eat wasn't an option. Ribeye fajitas.  Tex-Mex for a fucking gentleman:


Son of a cockknocker.

I had to settle for two grilled chicken tacos al carbon with a Diet Coke.  Of course, the waiter brings my bubbly beverage and I realize I am royally fucked:


A fucking can of Diet Coke.

I immediately went into panic mode.  This meant (1) I could only drink one, because they charge for each can, (2) I am drinking a lesser beverage, as compared to a fountain Diet Coke, and (3) I have an unsightly can on the table, which associates me with peasantry.

I solved the third issue rather quickly by tossing the can on the floor.

Naturally, I finished the Diet Coke in about two minutes (perhaps spoiled by the nine free refills earlier today), which meant I had to ask for tap water, which is vernacular for "toxic sludge."  Water tastes terrible to begin with, unless it's FIJI® artesian water. FIJI® artesian water is properly filtered mineral water from the beautiful island of Fiji, is in an attractive, uplifting container, and is generally too pricey for "lesser" folks (i.e., perfect).

This is what I was forced to settle for.  You can see the feces particles floating in it:

Needless to say, it tasted like a vagrant's saliva, after he had tongue-raped a roll of old nickels.  Miserable. 


At least the food was good (and cost $12.28 including tax and tip).  Anamia's always delivers in that respect.  Too bad it's centrally located in a substandard area populated by Chevrolet Silverado drivers who work in "IT," which really means a call center job that pays $9.75/hour.  Were it in Dallas proper, it would be a solid 4/5 restaurant.  Its location means I have to bump it down to a 2/5.

Lunch tomorrow will be a true test...and I'm already feeling somewhat ill.  I don't know if that's the alcohol deprivation or the leprosy I contracted at the strip mall this morning. My money is on leprosy.

Day 3, Lunch: Dining Like a Starving Third-Worlder.

THIS BLOG CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE. CALL THE COPS, I DON'T GIVE A FUCK.

I had to meet with my business partner for the better part of the afternoon to go over our latest venture capital project.  He, being aware of this bet, cheerily suggested we meet at Parigi, one of my favorite lunch spots.

I summarily told him to fuck off, and we met at The Londoner Pub, which is actually a cool place (though nothing like the phenom Parigi) that I can appreciate (somewhat).  Thankfully, it was quiet when I arrived, so I was able to choose the best table in the pub, and soon I was awash with a cool serenity, much like Patrick Bateman at Espace.  We worked and argued most diligently.


But I digress.


This was the first time I was going to have a crappy meal based solely on cost.  Since I am trying to eat healthy today, I ordered the grilled chicken skewer appetizer.  I'd have preferred the dinner entree, but of course, it was $12 without tax or tip. SON OF A BITCH. NO MEAL FOR ME.


My business partner had already partaken in several alcoholic beverages by the time I arrived, so I ordered the cheapest beer on the menu-- Miller Lite.  Then, in a wonderful twist of fate, our waitress informed me that Diet Coke was free!


OH, GLORIOUS DAY.

I thoroughly enjoyed the four fucking sticks of grilled chicken and I drank the fucking curry sauce because I needed some motherfucking calories.  I drank the beer and probably nine refills on the Diet Coke.  Total?  $10.25!  Add $2 for a tip, and I came in right at $12.25.  Good, eh?



FUCK NO.  I AM STARVING.  IF I DON'T EAT SOMETHING GOOD FOR DINNER, I WILL LIKELY PASS AWAY. 


I AM HUNGRY AS HELL. MILK THE LONDONER WAS A BAD CHOICE.

Day 3, Breakfast: Dump in a Cup

THIS BLOG CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE, SO PISS OFF.

While I've been doing OK for two days now, that's largely due to the fact I've dined at substandard establishments and have eaten calorie-rich foods that are high in saturated fat.

SUNDAY FUNDAY means I have to start clean and end clean.  Since I was going to head to the tanning salon and gym to continue sculpting my statuesque figure, I figured I'd pound a smoothie first.

My trek for a smoothie led me to what is commonly referred to as a "strip mall," which loosely translates to "low-rent, shitty commercial real estate that attracts dollar store moguls." Also, these are perfect for small business owners who will probably go under after eight months, mostly because whatever "business" idea they had sucked to begin with.

Yes, I had to shower at the gym (before my workout) after walking through this "strip mall."  I'm confident I got fleas while I was there.

There was a smoothie place right there, so I went in and ordered a "Peanut Butter Powerhouse," mostly because I'm a fucking powerhouse and I figured the aptly named drink would work some synergistic magic in my veins.  I decided a 5 Hour Energy was also in order and thought I was done, but...

Then I saw meat.

I'm talking Slim Jims, bro-- but not those beloved Macho Man meat sticks.  I'm talking shit made out of animals you'd never think should be eaten, like a fucking ostrich.  Charge three times as much for them and wrap it in something that catches the Caucasian eye, and BAM.  MONEY IN THE POCKET.

Considering I haven't been able to enjoy pheasant or duck or some other delicious beast beautifully prepared by Dean Fearing (and can't for weeks), ostrich jerky is probably the closest thing I'll get, so I put it on the tab.



$10.15 for all three.  WIN.

All in all, it was a passable breakfast, but terribly unsightly.  I took the top off the smoothie to see what looked like a fucking load of diarrhea with a straw.  I'm sure if I dropped this on the floor yesterday at the toddler party, someone would have mistaken it for a dump-and-run.



Blech.  I had to close my eyes while drinking it.  I am less pleased now as I write this. 

 

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Day 2, Part Deux: Seriously Late Dinner

THIS BLOG CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE SO DON'T READ IT IF YOU'RE GOING TO CRY, YOU RAPIST.

One of my close friends had a birthday party for his son this afternoon.  This meant I would be hanging out with about sixty toddlers. To assist, I did what anyone in my position would have done-- I drank.

And by "drank," I mean copious amounts of alcohol.  So much so that when I arrived home at 6:00 p.m., I proceeded to immediately pass out until 9:30 p.m.

DON'T JUDGE ME, ASSHOLE.

Dinner didn't sound so good when I woke up, but it was necessary.  Considering I was seriously hung over already, there was only one cheap option:


Yeah, fuckers.

Serious Pizza is actually good, which isn't what you'd expect from a meal that costs less than $25, right!?  Then again, it is pizza. The biggest problem is its location-- near the intersection of MLK and Malcom X in a less than desirable neighborhood filled with failing tattoo shops and hipster fucks.  I try to stay away from these places, because I'm not a raper (and I'm gainfully employed).

On top of that, the place is like catnip for hipsters.  They're all there listening to the godawful shitty music that was recorded in a garage and nobody's ever heard of that's blaring from the crappy radio, bobbing their heads.  Those fucks look like they just finished a shift at American Apparel, wincing down MAD DOG 40s because it's, like, hip, yo.

So yeah, all I needed was a slice and a Diet Coke. Chances are this is coming up later on anyway, because I am still feeling terrible from the combination of beer, Skittles, and mini-corndogs at the kid's party.

So far, I've lucked out, but that's because I haven't gotten the "steakhouse shakes" yet.

Day 2: Cubicle Food @ Jersey Mike's

I slept in, so breakfast consisted of a sugarfree Red Bull and a bump of cocaine.  Seriously, though, it was lunch time and I had to find something to sustain me.  Part of the problem is that I eat a lot of food-- even at "cheaper" establishments.  I'd like to think my high metabolism is what allows me to keep my Patrick Batemen physique.

So, back to lunch.  Jersey fuckin' Mike's.

I'm a man, so I needed meat.  Lots of roast beef.  I told them I wanted a plate of roast beef and they said that was really a #6, so I went with it.  I even had enough left over to get chips and a Diet Coke!



The food wasn't that bad, actually.  The only problem was that I was sitting amongst poor people and I started to feel like I was a cube monkey eating a ham sandwich during a timed lunch break.

Ugh.  How distasteful.

Dinner tonight is going to be difficult.

Happy Hour counts as a meal...

My wife just informed me that my frequent "Happy Hour" evenings would count as a meal in and of itself.

My fucking gin martini costs more than $12.50.  What am I supposed to drink, Natty Ice?  I certainly can't go sober for 29 days.

Friday, August 5, 2011

First day, first meal.

The only good thing about this bet is that I was given a reprieve-- today would count as my first day even though it was just about done.  I had already had a wonderful lunch with some of my colleagues that far exceeded this $12.50 limit, so at least I could think back on that while I consumed whatever crap I'd have to stomach.

Of course, it's Friday, so you know what that means-- I should be having a fucking filet mignon for dinner.  I want steak, so I'm getting steak.  What I found out is that "steak" shouldn't apply to anything under $40.

The wife and I wanted to see a movie, so we stopped by the food court for something...and I found Tin Star:


It was a bad choice.  I said I wanted fucking steak, and dammit, I was going to have steak.  So these #1 tacos are made with "steak."  I put "steak" in quotation marks because it tasted like horse dick marinated in cat piss.

This is going to be the worst 30 days of my life.

What is 30 Days @ $12.50?

THIS BLOG CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE, SO DON'T READ IT IF YOU LIKE TO WHINE ABOUT SHIT.

Here's the deal.

I like to eat out.  A lot.  As in all the time-- for almost every meal. As a working professional, part of my shtick involves fine dining around the clock.  I'm that asshole-- the one that takes a two hour lunch at a restaurant that looks like it came out of American Psycho (the finest piece of cinema ever filmed, of course).

Anyway, I made a bet with my wife-- that I would spend no more than $12.50 (including tax, gratuity, beverages, alcohol, etc.) per meal for the next 30 days.

Oh, it sounds easy, you say?  That's twelve tacos at Taco Bell, you say?  A veritable cornucopia of dollar menu vittles from McDonald's, you say?

Fuck that.

I don't eat that shit. Well, at least not when I'm sober.  No, I don't cook.  No, I don't plan on learning how to cook.  I plan on doing what I usually do-- eat out for just about every meal-- except this time, I'll be forced to eat gutter trash (most of the time).  I'm not a fat bastard and I don't plan on gorging myself on fast food for 30 days because it's cheap. Let's not forget the alcohol factor, too.  I'm a lawyer.  I love to drink, and I'm not talking dollar beers at that crappy dive bar college kids frequent.

Well, I'm sure fast food will happen a few times, but that's just part of the sacrifice.  So read on if you care to see me bitch about this.  Laugh at me, complain about me (I don't care what you think about anything anyway), love me, it doesn't matter. I needed to blog about this (blogging is such a lame term) because if I didn't "publicize" this bet, I'd last fifteen minutes.

Bon appétit! Well, not for me.