Month: March 2014


Posterized is a column where we (me) make snap judgements about upcoming releases using their movie posters as a guide. Enjoy.

Into The Storm


Sometimes, nature gets mad at us. With good reason, of course… we generally treat the planet we live on like frat guys treat an old couch. We beat it all to hell, we dump our shit (sometimes our literal shit) all over it, and then we’re like, “whatever Couch Earth, you smell bad, let’s get wasted on grain alcohol pizza drugs! WE ARE YOUTH!!!”

So, because we as a people are generally thoughtless assheads, the Earth occasionally tries to kill us all. Sometimes with tsunamis, sometimes with Lava Monsters (oh, they’re real), but sometimes… when the Earth is REALLY fucking cheesed at us… it will try to kill us with tornadoes. Tornadoes are terrifying. They are literally the manifestation of the concept of “destruction.” Maybe I’m just sensitive to their particular brand of horror because I grew up in a part of the world that is usually besieged by tornadoes every Spring, but they are, to me, the epitome of nature’s righteous hate. I pee a little when I hear a tornado siren, but don’t tell anyone I told you that.

Despite there literally being nothing scarier than a tornado… literally NOTHING, fuck your clowns and snakes and serial killers… MOVIES about tornadoes are a decidedly mixed bag. It’s no easy thing to capture that almighty fury. Twister did an okay job… probably the best out there… but it also took some pretty serious liberties with science all in the name of making Helen Hunt do her squinty Drama Face. I love that movie, don’t get me wrong. It’s just kind of brain-damaged. Plus there’s an “evil” storm chaser. C’mon.

ANYWAY, Into The Storm is about tornadoes. I guess it’s a found-footage movie? The trailer makes it look kind of okay. It appears that they’re treating tornadoes like they’re wind-based Godzillas, which is ENTIRELY ACCURATE. So good job, filmmakers!



I don’t think I really “get” Angelina Jolie. I’ve enjoyed her presence in exactly ONE movie (that would be Hackers), and even in Girl, Interrupted, for which she won an Oscar, I’m not entirely sure she was aware she was being filmed for a film. Frankly, she has always seemed to me like an insane person who was lucky enough to be considered attractive by a large portion of the planet’s population, so… CONGRATS, HERE’S YOUR FAME. That’s the other thing; her looks. I’ll admit that she’s striking, but… and I guess this is just a testament to how the varied tapestry of human opinion is a multifaceted and wondrously unquantifiable thing… I don’t really find her all that attractive. For one thing, crazy is just such a weenie-shrinker for me. I’m not 21 anyone more. Crazy isn’t exotic. It’s exhausting. LET’S ADOPT MORE KIDS, AND HERE WEAR MY BLOOD!!! Please, lady… I have to work in the morning. Also, I don’t really require of the opposite sex cheekbones that could thinly slice beef.

NOW… with all that being said… I have to admit that there has quite possibly never been a more perfect Actor/Role match up than Angelina Jolie and Maleficent. Look at that fucking poster? She IS Maleficent. You could even say that this is the role Jolie was born to play, especially if you believe my admittedly-unproven theory that she is actually an Evil Queen in real life. Her on-set trailer was littered with cursed spinning wheels and poisoned apples anyway, so they might as well make a fucking movie about it.

Side Note: How close to the release of Maleficent will our nation’s fetish shops and sex toy emporiums start stocking movie tie-in latex and rubber bondage gear? I expect replicas of that horned headdress thingy to be atop the noggins of many a kinky weirdo within in a week of Maleficent hitting theaters.

The Other Woman


This is a poster for a movie about… well, who gives a shit? It’s a movie poster that is made up almost entirely of Emoji. THAT’S all you need to know about The Other Woman. 20th Century Fox had all the advertising options available to them, and they went with Emoji.

So… I mean… what else is there to say? You can sit there at your computer, and you can read all my extremely obvious thoughts about how massively insulting this is, and about how it’s one of the most patronizing marketing moves I’ve EVER seen from a major motion picture studio, and how simply LOOKING at this poster is like rubbing crumpled tinfoil across your eyes until your vision is permanently warped and whitish goo is leaking from your pupils, OR… OR… you can just watch this video of a Panda doing “The Nae Nae:”

Watch it a few times right in a row. See… that’s such a better use of our time! And… BONUS… it’s not a thing made of fucking Emojis!

We got through this one together, guys. We’re forever bonded, like war veterans. EXACTLY LIKE WAR VETERANS, don’t sass me. I can see it in your face, mister and/or missy. You got a sassy face.

The Bleakest fortune cookie


I don’t even know how to respond to that. I mean… I’ve never had my beliefs shaken to their core by a cookie like this. These are uncharted waters.

That cookie has really given me a lot to think about. You don’t get reality checks like this from fucking Oreos, you know.

New Ballpark Concessions for 2014


The 2014 baseball season begins on Monday and, with that, a brand new wave of extreme, attention-grabbing foodstuffs will be hitting the ballpark concession stands. In keeping with the trends of our time, these foods will be bigger than your skull, unnecessarily elaborate in their presentation, and gluttonous to the point that there is a real chance you’ll still be suffering from acid reflux many years after you’ve died. Here now, a glance around the league at what you can cram into your face while cheering on your favorite team:

Kauffman Stadium – Kansas City Royals  – “The Kansas City Kalamity”

16 grilled hot dogs are folded into a cinder block-sized wad of pizza dough, then baked in a charcoal oven until someone remembers to take it out (it’s usually Patty; she’s a real go-getter). Once the dough-meat brick has cooled down, it is iced like a cake with spicy guacamole, then iced again with actual frosting. The Kansas City Kalamity is served on a bed of onion straws that is large enough to double as an actual bed for quick between-inning naps.

Globe Life Park – Texas Rangers – “El Macho Destroyo”

Are you man enough for the El Macho Destroyo? ARE YOU??? To be served an El Macho Destroyo, you must first sign several waivers, chop down a reasonably-sized oak tree with a small hand-axe, and survive a cage match with the Lone Star State’s native son, Randall “Tex” Cobb. Once you have completed these trials… especially the signing of the waivers… only THEN can you legally purchase an El Macho Destroyo.

The El Macho Destroyo is a taco, but… you know… very spicy.

Camden Yards – Baltimore Orioles – “The Camden Stack”

Seven patties of grass-fed, Angus beef are piled high on a brioche bun loaded with lettuce, tomatoes, sauteed onions, house-made pickles, bacon, and… what’s this… NO CHEESE? That’s right, The Camden Stack contains no cheese! Instead, DVDs of HBO’s hit series The Wire are carefully melted over each beef patty, giving it a gritty, realistic taste of Baltimore’s inner city. 10% off to anyone presenting proof that they shot a Prop Joe down by the vacants.

Coors Field – Colorado Rockies – “Rocky Mountain SugarBelly”

What happens when we put nine different kinds of ice cream into a commemorative Colorado Rockies catcher’s mitt, then dunk the whole thing in a succulent caramel sauce?

We don’t know. We haven’t sold one yet. Presumably people will be quite happy with the experience. That caramel sauce is pretty great. We DO think it is going to be quite the messy experience, however, so we’re suggesting to our vendors that they attempt to up-sell our patrons with a Troy Tulowitzki-branded body tarp.

US Cellular Field – Chicago White Sox – “Sack of Loose Bacon”

Several pounds of loose bacon, fried extra-crispy, fill up an old burlap sack. You can have hot, cream gravy poured in the sack for an additional $17, or for $50, one of our security personnel will simply ram it up your ass.

Progressive Field – Cleveland Indians – “Chief Wahoo’s Pop-Ups”

Whiskey-fried lobster chunks are drowned in jalapeno juice, then lovingly wrapped with pictures of Kate Upton before receiving the key to the city from the Mayor of Cleveland, himself. They are then enrobed in a batter made from gluten-free flour, Miller Light, and brackish water from the Cuyahoga River, and fried until everything bursts into flames.  Chief Wahoo’s Pop-Ups are served wet and, for some reason, screaming, wrapped in a replica Gaylord Perry jersey.

Dodger Stadium – Los Angeles Dodgers – “Emilio’s Torment”

Not a foodstuff, per se, but if you’re interested, you can pay our Director of Park Concessions $34 to burn the paycheck of Emilio Velasquez, a member of our janitorial staff, in front of him while he weeps. For $10 more, you can take home Emilio’s watch, which is the only memento of his deceased grandfather that Emilio has left. The Spanish word for “grandfather” is “abeulo,” by the way. You’ll hear him scream that quite a bit when you take the watch, so be sure to listen for it. Really adds to the experience.

Citi Field – New York Mets – “The Cheesy Fries Special”

The Cheesy Fries Special is just an ordinary plate of cheese fries. Nothing unusual about it at all. Go ahead… eat it. Don’t worry about why we’re all watching you. Just try the cheese fries. Good, aren’t they…? So cheesy. Rich and fatty. Mmm… here, dip them in some Ranch. THAT really takes it to the next level, amirght? Shhh… no… the sky isn’t darkening. My eyes aren’t slowly beginning to bleed. Just keep eating. Really savor that flavor. Don’t be alarmed, as this is all perfectly normal, but we’re all going to start chanting in Latin now. What… this dagger? It’s nothing. Just for ceremony, I assure you. YES, I bet you ARE getting sleepy… you ate so many cheese fries! Just lay down on this Commemorative 1986 Mets Resting Bench that in no way resembles some sort of unholy altar. Just stretch out there. Yes… yes… that’s it… now… IT IS TIME TO FULFILL THE PROPHECY, hahaha, I mean would you like some more Ranch???

My New Monopoly Rules


Hasbro, the monolithic toy company behind the majority of your childhood’s entertainment (the part that didn’t involve trying to watch scrambled Cinemax late at night, desperately hunting for a glimpse of boob) is crowd-sourcing new rules to spice up one of its oldest, most popular games… Monopoly.

Here are my suggestions:

-If a player remains “in jail” for more than two turns, the player to his immediate left must shank him in the chest with a shiv made out of a sharpened spoon.

-If a player actively CHOOSES the Top Hat as his/her piece, then he/she must also submit to a painful wedgie, purple nurple, or Indian burn from whichever player chose the Race Car. The Top Hat is a poindexter piece. Fucking nerds.

-Once passing Go, players have the option of collecting $200, or getting 20 minutes to check their email, texts, and Facebook on their phones without getting hassled by the other players for “not being in the board game spirit.”

-Once a player is chosen to be The Banker, he or she is given the option of laying all of the Monopoly money out on the floor and rolling around in it for up to five minutes. Nude? Is there any OTHER way to roll around in a big pile of fake money? All bills that are sticky or in any way soiled post-frolic must be discarded for sanitary reasons, unless you’re playing with a group of people that are into that sort of thing. It takes all kinds, I guess…

-Baltic Ave. and Mediterranean Ave. are replaced by tiny pictures of burned-out, vacant buildings where players can land to buy drugs.

-The Chance cards are all rewritten to contain hurtful comments regarding the players’ lack of social lives.

-Dice are no longer used. The movement of all pieces is determined by the results of an informal “Battle of the Bands.” If no one has any musical equipment and/or talent, then simply have all the players beat each other senseless with pillowcases filled with citrus fruit. Everything should work itself out eventually.  Or maybe just use the dice. Whatever.

-If a player lands on the Income Tax square, they must immediately quit the game, head back home, and begin working on their taxes. This is a particularly useful square for procrastinators playing in early April.

-Mandatory Rich Uncle Pennybags cosplay.

-Two players cannot occupy the same space on the board at the same time. If this happens, their souls will merge in a torrent of psycosexual energy that permanently binds them together as one lumpen mass of shuddering, twitching flesh, their brains unified… their… oh… sorry, that’s already a part of the original Monopoly rule book. My mistake.

Girl Drink Drunk

Girl Drink Drunk is a regular column that features your host, an adult male who prefers bourbon and beer, exploring the sugary, sweet world of “girly drinks” for your edification and entertainment. He promises not to barf on you. Enjoy.

Being a mother is hard work. Or so I’ve gathered from the mothers on my Facebook feed. Personally, I wouldn’t know… I don’t have kids, plus I’m a dude. Even if I was the proud owner of a few toddlers… legally, like I provided the sperm that created them, not “won them in a sketchy game of Baccarat”… I feel like my role would mostly be providing them with an example of what not to turn into when they grow up. “Daddy smells like if liquor could fart, and is also covered with a thick grit of tater tot crumbs, Frosted Mini-Wheat leavings, and dried tears,” they’ll say, frantically doing research on what traits in a human are passed down via genetics.

But the moms… they do the REAL work. The picking up after, and the getting everyone places, and the making sure no one is eating big flakes of paint directly off the walls, and the covering up the murders committed by their one child that is CLEARLY the Devil incarnate, and so on. Again… this is only what I’ve gleaned from the statuses of the women that I know on social media, and the SomeECards they spread from wall-to-wall like an only-kind-of-funny comedy virus. Maybe they’re lying. Maybe motherhood is a pocketful of miracles. I simply don’t know. (nor do I care to know, as kids are basically hairless rats who feed on attention) (not YOUR kids, of course… your kids are lovely) (ish)

What I DO know about motherhood is that moms love to get fucking hammered. Not a day goes by that I don’t see some variation of “mommy needs her wine, amiright, ladies” splashed across the internet’s various meeting spots, and I think that’s FINE. Fantastic, even. You’ll find no bigger proponent of alcohol as a life-coping mechanism than me; if that fifth of vodka hidden in the freezer behind the jumbo bag of chicken thighs is the only thing that keeps you from coming completely untethered from reality, then… hey… drink the fuck up. That’s why they invented that shit anyway; to keep the wolves from scratching at the door for just a little bit longer. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Anyway, I bring all this up because today we’re going to talk about these:

The Girl Drink(s)


Not since Bartles & James laid waste to the 80’s has there been such mom-based alcohol on the market. These things are sweet, pack a decent punch, and are sugary to the point that… after drinking four of these… I fear my spit will forever taste like an Everlasting Gobstober. But such is my duty to my craft. That’s right, I said CRAFT… stop making jerk-off motions, you bastards.

Now, a quick note before we get started… I feel that I should admit, up front, that I did not drink full-sized (12oz) versions of these jumped-up melted sno-cones. I only had “mini” ones… 8oz each. I know that this might SEEM like a total pussy move, but you have to consider that… had I gone for the full-sized ones, and drank four of them in a row… my kidneys would have fallen out of my butt, then exploded in a cloud of Pixie Stix dust. Erring on the side of caution seemed like the way to go.

On with it!


Margaritas are delicious. REAL margaritas, I mean… those served on the rocks, that employ actual lime juice, and are mixed by the hands of a bartender who knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing. The Lime-A-Rita does not taste like that. But it doesn’t taste NOT like that, either. It’s closer than I expected, albeit in a completely synthetic, manufactured way. It tastes like a margarita in the same way that a tanning bed mimics the Sun; close enough to produce similar results, but no substitute for the original. That being said… I didn’t hate the Lime-A-Rita. It’s not something I’d usually jam back en masse… especially since the sugar content makes my eyes rattle around in their sockets like tennis shoes in a dryer… but, you know, they’re pretty okay. Points off for the fake “salt” taste that lingers on the palate, which has been chemically added to make you feel like you just licked salt off the rim of a wide-mouthed, frozen glass, seductively, because that bartender looks like a truck stop version of Clive Owen… but still. Pretty okay. It earns…

3 Soccer Moms on the 5-Soccer Mom Scale of Boozetacularness




Mangoes are, by and large, a decent tropical fruit. Sweet… juicy… a damn sight better than papayas, which very faintly taste like how feet smell. They’re no passionfruits, or guavas, but they’re dependable… kind of the equivalent of a boring friend that’s always good for a ride to the airport.

So it’s kind of a bummer that the Mang-O-Rita is a total dud. First off, they’re too sweet… I know, I know, that’s like dissing gravity for being too good at keeping all your stuff affixed to the Earth, but dude… we’re talking SWEET here. Getting smushed by a rolling boulder of rock candy… THAT level of sweetness. And it’s got that salty thing, too! You’d think it would balance shit out, but nope… it just gives the whole beverage a weird, medicinal taste, like children’s cough syrup that’s trying so hard to not taste like poison that comes all the way back around to being flagrantly poisonous,

On the plus side, it looks EXACTLY like orange soda. This would be pretty easy to pour into an empty Fanta bottle so you can get a buzz at your kids Pop Warner football game without earning a reputation as the local PTA’s Amy Winehouse. So that’s nice.

2 Soccer Moms on the 5-Soccer Mom Scale of Boozetacularness




NOW we’re talking. These sons of bitches are legitimately tasty. I mean, for what they are… they’ll never leapfrog over a decent beer or anything. Still though, a fine representation of the mom-booze genre.

Mostly, it’s because the sweetness has been dialed down a few notches compared to its counterparts. It’s still powerfully sugary, of course… no escaping that in this Girl Drink world… but the Raz-Ber-Ritas are balanced with a pleasant tartness that mellows out the harsh sensation that you’re drinking Gummi Bear piss.

Of all of these, it reminded me the most of what the girls were drinking in parties when I was in high school. A slick of sugar and fruit still on their lips during furious make-outs behind houses and in the backs of cars, late at night, with an hour of curfew stretched out before you like a yellow-brick road. Good times… good beverage…

5 Soccer Moms on the 5-Soccer Mom Scale of Boozetacularness




Hollywood lied to us when it posited that all “ugly ducklings” are just a glasses-removal and a make-over away from gorgeous glamor. Sometimes, plain is plain… boring is boring… straightforward mom-booze is just straightforward mom-booze. The Straw-Ber-Rita is a mousy, wallflower-y iteration of the canned, fake liquor trend. Does it taste like strawberries? As long as we’re using a very loose definition of the term… sure. Will it get those with low-to-moderate alcohol tolerances syllable-slurring drunk? Yeah, for the most part. Is it sweet? Of course… the Bud Light overlords didn’t suddenly jump tracks and make this one taste like an IPA.

But is it anything exciting at all? NOPE. It reaches no thrilling highs, it scrapes its belly on exactly zero thudding lows. It just kind of IS. Its only defining characteristic is its bright shade of red, and that pretty much only brings to mind stained shirts and unflattering Kool-Aid mouths. Hardly a plus.

So drink a Straw-Ber-Rita if you want to know what the denizens of Candy Land use to take pills with. Otherwise… meh.

3 Soccer Moms on the 5-Soccer Mom Scale of Boozetacularness



Closing Time:

So cheers, moms… cheers to the work you do, and the drinks that get you through it. These “ritas” will do you right. They’re suitable for backyard BBQ-esque functions, as well as reserved nights out with the ladies. They are girly… they are mild… they are sweet. They are MOM-BOOZE.

Knock a few back with pride! THEN hit that freezer-stashed bottle of vodka. “Mom’s so HAPPY after 8pm… she must really love having us all together for dinner.” [Mom laughs bitterly to herself, takes another slug, dares the next day to start anew]

“C’mon” she says, with vodka-breath. “Bring it, you fucking sunrise. BRING IT.”

I Would Like To Sell You Some Sushi


I have decided to start selling sushi. Nothing fancy, of course. Maybe I’ll start with just a small sushi station at my local flea market. Or perhaps I’ll go the hip, trendy route and open a “food truck” (really just my Ford Focus; the backseat is pretty dirty, but it would hold a LOT of sushi). The point is, I need to get my sushi into the hands of rich people as fast as possible, so I can FINALLY pay off my numerous debts accrued while gambling on Foxy Boxing student loans.

Sushi, for those of you that don’t know, is a varied and delicious style of Japanese cuisine that involves only the freshest ingredients, as well as a preparation technique that borders on inspired artistry. Raw belly of tuna (toro), eel (unagi) and sea urchin roe (uni). Spiny lobster and tobiko. Seaweed and rice prepared according to methods perfected long ago. Simple, elegant… frankly, kind of a hassle. And EXPENSIVE. Do you know how much toro costs? A fuckload more than fish sticks, let me tell you. Even the expired stuff. Not that I would EVER sell expired sushi meats at Sea-Dog’s Sushi Emporium Truck! That’s ridiculous! DON’T LOOK IN THE TRUNK! That smell is just… my old bathing suit… from my last trip to the beach… not a bunch of expired cans of Starkist…

ANYWAY, here’s a sneak peek at the menu. I feel like I’ve hit a good balance between honoring the ancient Japanese traditions of their sushi-making ancestors (or whatever) and appealing to the more reserved, less-adventurous, American palate.

I’m going to be so fucking rich, you guys. You hear that, Rico!!! YOU’LL GET YOUR MONEY SOON, I SWEAR!!!

Stupid Foxy Boxing student loans…

Sea-Dog’s Sushi Emporium Truck, Super Elegant, Amiright (…too much? …still working on the name)

NOTE: All sales are final. Buy purchasing sushi from this establishment, you’re agreeing that any barfing you do after eating said sushi was caused by something else… most likely your reckless lifestyle, with the booze, and the drugs, and the eating raw pork out of an old ashtray. NO LAWSUITS OR FREE WASABI REFILLS. You want more wasabi, that green shit will cost you.

The California Roll – Crab stick, avocado, cream cheese, wrapped in rice and seaweed.

The Boxer Rebellion Roll – Grilled chicken breast, cream cheese, pickled jalapenos, wrapped in rice and seaweed, drizzled with mayonnaise.

The Golden Dragon Roll – Fried shrimp, wasabi mayonnaise, regular mayonnaise, wrapped in rice and a tortilla.

The Smiling Buddha Roll – Fish stick, tarter sauce, soy sauce-flavored mayonnaise, Miracle Whip, iceberg lettuce, wrapped in rice and served with bagel chips.

The Ancient Orient Roll – Starkist tuna, mayonnaise, dill relish, mixed together with rice and served on white bread with a wasabi-soy-ginger mayonnaise drizzle. Side of Ruffles.

The Oktoberfest Roll (seasonal) – Bratwurst, sauerkraut, beer-flavored mayonnaise, wrapped in a potato pancake and served Sake Bomb-style over a stein of beer.

The Geisha Girl Roll – A bowl of rice and mayonnaise. Ranch dressing drizzle.

The Rising Sun Roll – A hamburger (for cheeseburger, add .50)

Job Interview Tips & Tricks with “Capt. Job Interview Jones”


HELLO! I am Capt. Job Interview Jones. I am the foremost expert on job interviews, resume updating, writing a cover letter, and controlling a crippling sex addiction. The first three are what we’ll be discussing today! C-dog has asked me to come to ZFS to give all of you some tips, tricks and techniques on nailing that upcoming job interview and looking like a goddamn professional for once in your life. Also, I feel you should know that C-dog insinuated pretty heavily that he feels all of his readers are incapable of holding down a job, and are also most likely homeless. C-dog is kind of an jerk, I don’t mind saying. His breath REEKED of old liquor. There was a lot of food in his beard, too. A LOT. At least a third of a sandwich.

ANYWAY, let’s get started. Maybe we can prove him wrong! First up, some…


-While you might feel it adds a personal touch, a big smooch in bright red lipstick at the bottom of your resume is extremely unprofessional. Especially if you are a man. Loose mustache hairs in the lip print… very unsettling…

-Your resume should stick strictly to your work and education history. Even though you truly believe that you make the best red-eye gravy in the tri-state area, it is not necessary to list it on your resume. Not even in the “special skills” section. Besides, I’ve tried your red-eye gravy and it is much too salty. I don’t know why you have such a high opinion of it. Frankly, I’d be ashamed to serve that to my cat.

-If you intend to put fraudulent info on your resume, you should at least attempt to make it seem plausible. Nobody is going to believe that you were once the President of Nairobi, nor will they buy that your last job was on the Moon, doing “moon junk.”

-The proper way to write dates on a resume is: 3/20/14. Not “March 20th, 2014.” And certainly not “3/20/my favorite episode of Full House is the one where they go to Disney World.”

-Use ONLY high-quality paper for resume printing. I can’t tell you how many resumes I’ve seen printed on tin foil, used Burger King napkins, the Magna Carta, $100 dollar bills, deployed parachutes, the skin of murdered runaways, and so on. Very, very unprofessional.

Cover Letters

-With cover letters, you can get a little more personal. You can really give the hiring company a good idea of who you are and what you’re hoping to achieve. Don’t get TOO personal, of course. Discussions of your menstruation cycle and/or exactly what types of unusual fetish porn you’re into are not advisable.

-Do not attempt to write in an accent, as there is no need to establish yourself as, say, a courtly Southern gentleman or an Irish gadabout.

-Your cover letter should be clear, concise, and should not include a Word Jumble.

The Job Interview

-Always dress appropriately. Wearing a tie is always a good idea, but you should make sure that it is subdued, businesslike, and doesn’t have a bunch of cartoon penises on it. I would also advise against stained denim overalls, a full clown costume (with makeup), a naughty French maid outfit, and/or wearing nothing at all. Nothing will derail an interview faster than the sight of your horrifying nutsack.

-Though it WILL make you stand apart from the other applicants, it is generally considered an unwise move to have a pizza delivered to you in the middle of the interview. Even if you offer to share.

-It can be tough, but do your best to not bad-mouth other companies for whom you have worked. Calling them “dickless fuckfaces” will only reflect poorly on you, as will… at the very mention of your ex-employers name… getting out of your chair and proceeding to loudly defecate into the nearest trashcan while never breaking eye contact with the interviewer.

-No juggling. Unless, of course, you’re applying for a job that REQUIRES a mastery of the juggling arts. Then by all means, never STOP juggling.

-You shouldn’t automatically assume that the interviewer speaks Japanese, especially since you don’t either. What you’re doing is very racist. Stop bowing. Quite screaming, “BANZAI!”

-Try to save the uncontrollable weeping for the car ride home.

So You Want To Be A Foodie?


NOTE: Food is delicious, but some people are real assholes about it. But maybe that’s what you’re looking for. Congratulations, you’re on your way to becoming a “foodie.” A “foodie” is someone who is just the worst, and also eats, writes, talks about, takes pictures of, bores you with stories regarding, won’t shut the fuck up about, high-quality food. Here’s some tips on becoming a part of that culture…

-Drink wine. Yes, wine tastes like unsweetened Kool-Aid that someone left out on the patio during a heatwave… sorry, if you want to be a foodie, you have to think wine is amazing. When you drink it, use words like “grape varietal,” “soil density,” “mouth-feel,” and “nose.” People will think you are a real piece of shit, but you will be too gooned on spoiled grape squeezings to care.

-Eat some foie gras. Meaty and rich, right? Wonderfully creamy, like butter found in an ancient urn inside the Ark of the Covenant. SURPRISE it comes from animal torture. You’re basically a monster. Quit using it like ChapStick.

-Burn down a Taco Bell in the dead of night.

-Find someone that is extremely knowledgeable on the art of butchery. Interview him about his techniques. Ask him to show you how to properly break down a side of beef. Stab him in the throat. Use his techniques to butcher the butcher. Irony is a delicacy.

-If a waiter serves you a salad with an entree fork, it is well within your legal rights to call CPS and have his children taken away.

-Chef Boyardee is not a real chef, though his canned offerings are amazing when you’ve had too much cheap tequila and your room is spinning like a cone of gyro meat.

-Bacon is very “on-trend” right now, so it’s best to put it on everything. Sprinkle some on ice cream. A stick of bacon in your coffee is very hip. Wrap some bacon around each heart pill before swallowing. Use bacon as toilet paper. The mark of a superior foodie is a greasy, pork-scented butthole.

-Demand all your BBQ be cooked by an old black man. It’s not racist! IT’S AUTHENTIC.

-It’s okay to eat a bag of Doritos in your underwear if you’re being really ironic about it. Roll your eyes a lot. Put on old episodes of Roseanne. See, you’re in on the joke. Don’t forget to lick the pads of your fingers because seasoning gets trapped in the whorls of your fingerprint.

-If you’re not exclusively eating at farm-to-table restaurants, then you’re basically shitting in the face of a thousand starving African children. THEY WOULD IF THEY COULD. Africa has a really poor Yelp rating, though.