Let me mansplain lasagna to y’all

guido-crew1So dude has broz comin’ over to beer and pasta and Netflix and chill. First off, these dudez are broz, ‘standee? They’ve got manly beards and sweet Chelseas and they’re into rad tribal shit like motorbikes and greasing the iron with their fuckin’ sweat. And these dudez do not get nervous. They get intense. And they also get hungry, real hungry ‘kaysee? ‘Cause broz are totally into being chefz and may actually be chefz who are out there being all up in it (AKA the WORLD) being intense and theyz have a lot on their mindz and soulz and muzclez, so broz need a lot on their platez. These guyz are super real, you can tell by their tatz. They’ve got skulls and snakes and titty piratez on the all over and also some cute shit too. Because of the emotionz. And no fuckin’ lolz. ‘Cause it’s for realz. So when you bake that lasagna it’s not just friggin’ meat and sauce and cheese and pasta. It’s a fuckin’ beast of a slab for a Man Damnimal. First get your ass out of your head and make those pasta sheets fucking fresh. Broz don’t nosh on no dried shit from no box from the nineties. No way, these are dudez whose emotional dial is permanently on bro. And fuck if they don’t nosh their pasta fresh. Stone ground wheat and no shit filler and eggs fresh from no bitch-ass hens but pure coq and roll, ‘standee? Okay, take that can of Ditchwater perineum flavoured tomato sauce and ram it up your icing hole. You see, true hombrez get the fuck off on slowly simmered sauce that gives God hizself the wet tuna, so get a big Calphalon pot and pick some fresh basil and some sweet romas from the fucking farmer’s fucking market and stew that shit up. Stewz! Brewz! Broz! Now that better not be regular ol’ grease-baggin’ ground beef you’re getting ready to slop in there. Dudez be enjoyin share-chuggin’ bro-style their Snakeskin hammerhsmashed triple IPA so don’t think about beefin’ them, ‘standee? No, you take that cow dung and grip it and stick it and lube up and pull that pork and juice it in and smooth it on then layer over some of tasty thrice smoked pork belly and top that off with some venison sausage drip. Ground it and pound it, bitch! Damnz! Okay, throw that no name garbage can low-rent cottage cheese in the river and send that river to fucking hell and get some artisanal curds up in that pASSta. Manz gotz a cheeze fetizh ‘coz he’z horny for cheeze that taztez like the puzzy he eatz nightleez. Do yo understand how super good dude is? Fuck yes you do. Now dole some mac n’ cheese on that slab. Layer that gourmet shit up like it was a kick-ass condo where you live in the fucking penthouse full of bad-ass gourmet furniture and shit that dude and his broz are stone chillin’ on watchin’ a rad Ed Hardy fashion show on an awesome-ass huge-ass flatscreen teevee. Once the slab is ready, bake that shit hardcore in the convection oven until it’s bubblin’ fuckin’ crispy and smellin’ fuckin’ tasty. And yo better get that oil in the fryer heatin’ ’cause this slab is ’bout to get fuckin’ real for real real. Broz don’t fuck around with lasagna, yo. They bake that shit. And then they fry that shit. Deep and steep. Get it out and then drop it in and let that brew battered pASSta turn motherfuckin’ gold! Dudez are tight on that shit between broz when they nosh chow with MMA SPLASHDOWN VII kickin’ ass on the plasma and that lasagna better be fuck as fuck for dude and his broz. ‘Standee? Word.

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Watercooler 2.0

E.F. Hutton office in Denver, Colorado

Attn. employees,

Due to recent legislation that has been enacted by both state and federal governments we have found the need to clarify acceptable inter-office conversations based around this beverage station. Please do not take this as any sort of ban on conversing with your fellow employees around said beverage station, in fact, a major principle of a piece of said legislation expressly forbids employers from prohibiting inter-office conversations around beverage stations of any kind, be it water, coffee, tea, juice, smoothie, lassi, soda (diet, high-fructose, Dr. Pepper), milk, lactose-free milk, non-dairy lactose infused milk, non-milk milk (almond, soy, pine), or liquid whatever.

It is now company policy that any and all conversations around this beverage station must recognize the following guidelines:

-Regarding any and all of employee’s political views and their opinions there of, in no way will the pure and proper ideals of ownership and management impede on those held by the painfully mistaken members of our team, and neither shall any employee. This includes, and is not limited to, right-wing conservatives (try it, you’ll like it, there are pamphlets in the staff room), liberal leftists (Santa is dead. Believe that.), centrists (get off the fucking fence), socialists (you want me to pay for whose what?), communists (so ultra-over), kleptocrats (there’s something there but it’s all “who you know”, y’know?), anarchists (like the IT department, it’s lonely, complains a lot, and smells like b.o.), proponents of true democracy (BWAHAHAHAHA! –wiping away tears- Seriously though, your points are valid), and the don’t know-don’t care-don’t vote ideologues (we’re looking at you, Janitorial staff). It’s all good.

-Regarding any and all employee’s political views, whether they be (most correctly) right-wing conservative, gossip-mongering centrists (we hear you secretarial pool), anarchy (which like it’s IT dept. proponents is lonely, complains a lot, and smells like b.o.), or the don’t-know don’t-care don’t-vote ideologues of the Janitorial staff, it’s all good.

-Regarding sports. All hail sports. Unless you hate sports. Then, go heil yourself.

-Concerning co-workers who like to spout off about their sexual conquests. While the newly minted personage bestowed upon the corporate entity that is this company believes that certain sexual proclivities are utterly indecent and immoral, it is no way our business, or yours, to restrict Lance in the data-processing department from extolling you with how much fucking pole he smoked at Buster’s Thug and Tug last night. Nor is it in anyway acceptable for us to limit the amount of Melissa in PR’s non-stop dry as all hell descriptions of how painfully unsatisfying her husbands penis is.

-This also goes for conversations concerning employee’s automobiles. All forms of transit are valid and to be included. Especially someone’s robust enthusiasm for continuously letting you know how awesome theirs is and how much awesomer theirs is going to be with the new whatever the hell kind of thing they’re going to attach to it mechano-babble-blah-blah-blah, day-in and day-out. Yes Hector, we know you have a cool car. Is that also why you have five kids with three different women at age twenty-six? It’s not for us to judge or even question. But still–

-When Janelle or Peter or You-know-who wants to talk ceaselessly about how many hot wings they put back at The Sports Pump on the weekend, you must let them, but also you are well within your rights to let them know they make you sick to your fucking stomachs. Then politely let them roll back to their special desks near the elevator, which of course was also part of new special legislation, which made fat-as-shit a universal job qualification in all places of employment.

-When a co-worker just has to rave about the episode of television he/she/gender-neutral saw last night, and is just BLOWN AWAY that you didn’t see it and then you’re all like if she says spoiler alert one more time I swear on my gram-mam’s freakin’ grave I’m-a gonna stab her freakin’ eyes in wit’ a pen, please understand that you have just got to roll with that, bro. (Important note, this company is legally obligated to ensuring that this is a certifiably safe working environment and that any and all acts of violence will not be tolerated and may result in suspension and/or some kind of mild reprimand).

-If Soo-Yin from Acquisitions and Mergers wants to tell you how talented and smart her two-year old twins are she is fully encouraged to. Over and over and over again. But always keep in mind the rumor that they may actually both have Down’s Syndrome and/or Spina Bifida, which is totally fine by the way, and that in no way makes them any lesser a part of society, but that’s also why she looks so tired all the time. And why the husband’s no longer in the picture. Feel free to discuss.

-Concerning religion, there is of course only one true God and it is through him and his only begotten son, Jesus, that you will find the way. We’re pretty firm on this one. Still, we respect your right to talk out of your ass.

We hope this clarifies things.
Thank you for your understanding on this issue,
The Management.

His tan is so deep his bones are brown.

space-riders-backglass_7650

She rested her head on his chest. It was like listening to rawhide breathe.

“I can’t hear your heart beat,” she said.

“It’s there, baby,” he cooed, “beneath the lotion, beneath the bronze silk made by the licking of the Sun. Listen deep.”

She did. ba-dump. ba-dump. ba-dump. Yes, it was there, like some deep snuff-coloured planetoid floating in a crimson void. And on it was a civilization of sensual intellectuals whose culture was steeped in a copper-toned mysticism that radiated out across the universe uplifting the spirits of any and all lifeforms that were bathed by its waves of mahogany goodness. She imagined Jesus himself, lying out on the beach by the Sea of Galilee with Simon Peter and a couple of the other apostles, maybe Phil and Judy and Jimmy the Lesser, soaking up some rays, and these magical vibes giving him a solid tan and inspiration for the Sermon on the Mount.
She looked up into his bisterous face.
“Teach me to tan,” she whispered.

His eyes looked into her, into the well of her soul, sending a bucket of knowing into its waters and he intoned, “I will teach you. I will tan you. We will become one. In ecru.”

She knew then that she had finally–

Arrived.

 

Ricky Rick’s Ekphrasis Bar & Grill

V0011226 Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating to Susan

V0011226 Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating to Susan Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating t Susannah who holds her nose near the wounded baby Tristram Shandy. Coloured etching after H.W. Bunbury after L. Sterne. By: Laurence Sterneafter: Henry William BunburyPublished: – Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

 

The space is long and thin and cramped like the fallopian tube of some giant woman that offers a blue plate special up inside her. The waitress, herself some giant woman, seats you at your table, which is covered in a fungoid mold unknown outside the blast zones of atomic weapon test sites. Her demeanor conveys a mixture of emotions that fit somewhere between blue and brown. Call it bluwn. Her teeth are like used buckshot, round and bloody and reeking of death, and the breath they filter is equally so. It merges with the ordure of the kitchen that floats through the pores in the drywall and slap-swingy doors lazily and lethally like a cloud of summertime Sarin, and hangs there in the air, daring you to breathe. It stirs your hunger like a cannibal chef stirs a massive iron pot of man-stew, strong and proud and utterly terrifying. The menu is a stupefying assortment of Sweet Holy Christ and You Want Me To What? Gravy is everywhere like a sludgy, grey dictator’s secret police. Will it come for me in the night? Tell my wife I love her. You order. The waitress in the sonic equivalent of a rusty rake disagrees with your choice, chooses not to give a shit, and blobs off, hacking a thousand cigarettes worth of phlegm into the fabric of space-time as she does. Rick himself, blurping and cursing around the grill and deep fryer like some kind of hell-pear, dumpy and and ovoid and violent and sweating as if he had been born with malaria and then went on to engage daily with what must be the anti-thesis of exercise. Dying fatly, I’d offer. He trowels out your hash as if it was an ancient plague, splashing the plate down with a vomitous “PICK UP!”. The waitress still phlegming at the mouth and so charitably raining it over your dish like a Rangoon monsoon, drops the plate before you like a dead pigeon and possibly mouths the dirt-bag version of bon appetit. I looked it up, it’s Go Fuck Yourself. You gag it down. And now you know now what trench warfare tastes like. Prepare to sleep the sleep of million rampaging bowels.

Ricky Rick’s Bar & Grill

324 West Ash Rd.

Open for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner.

Reservations recommended.

$$$

 

The big book of f’n wisdom (3rd edition)

Rupe looked up from the page, staring off into space.

Mama, that’s some head spinning shit, he thought, who writes this stuff?

He looked at the book’s spine. Thornelius Lumberbottom. Some weird ethnic with too much education and not enough wood in the shed, Rupe thought, I guess that’s how you get deep alright.

He turned his gaze back to the thick, musty tome. Picked a passage at random–

Yeh, ye musteth let the stink weed dry before ye puteth it in the pipe packer to be packeth in thee bowl for ye to smoke. That’s only commonest of sense, ye dumbass, so get ye head out of ye bowels and get ye in the game. It be started soonest enough, am I right? Yeh, I be.  Toketh hard.

The game must be played by ye and all. For it be the game calleth life. Maximum to the mosteth. Winner take all. No do overs. Stampeth, stampeth, no eraseth.

Rupe filled ahead a few pages–

So then, when ye need to hit ye olde time sexxe shoppe to get ye some of that sweet olde time sexxe for ye nuts must need yeh a sweet busting as ye I can tell don’t have ye nuts been busted for yeh some long time like since ye got drunk on foul mead and olde time rotgut wine and made sweet olde time sexxe to that sweet olde nag in the stable of the vicar. Yeh what a time that was. And be ye I mean me. Yeh, I be the nastieth…

Rupe wondered if they sold rotgut wine at the Jolly-J Liquor Shop. 

Ridin’ dirty in the Tumbrel of Life

tumblr_ntf6rsQsY41qbvm6yo6_1280Okay.

Long story short.

I’m cruisin’ like a neon worm. Squiggling through the electric soil. Atomic manure bleeding radioactive small particles picking at my fluorescent flesh like so many diesel-powered mosquitoes. bzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzzzz. I’m gonna need some balm, rub it on sweet because this future fresh picnic is purring along like a candy-cane motorbike–whoa, sorry I’ve got a bad case of the metaphors. Probably was those gas-station tamales, they give me the psychedelic mind runs something fierce. Can anyone recommend a good brain firmer? I’ve used  Bayer’s SolidThought (both regular and x-tra strength (both x and xx but not xxx)) and had reasonable results but it still had my mentalities hanging lambent and loose in the wind all razzle this and dazzle that and freaking the crap out of everybody. So I’d appreciate any help.

Smooches.

 

 

Sweat Factor 65

CP02KVuGeezum, them geezers sure do put up a fight. I can’t blame ’em though, I’d do the same gobslobbin’ thing. Get on my dug-nut of a high horse and just charge into the muck and mold soaked fray. But the problem always is that I don’t need them fogies fightin’ the doodle-diggin’ good fight when I’m just tryin’ finish my SENSIBLE BREAKFAST! Egg white omelette with some lightly sauteed shallots, spinach and feta salad, freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, gluten-fucking-free ancient-fucking-grains toast lightly coated with almond butter, a piece of cantaloupe. All I ask is that before you and your silver-haired freedom fighters start hootin’ and hollerin’ and blastin’ off your pork-piggin’ saed-off shotguns, give me a moment to DIGEST THIS DOG CRAP! Some underpaid, over-worked, tattooed joy-boy toiled hard in a grease-stained, stainless-steel laden pit of culinary despair to make sure my egg-white omelette was done JUST RIGHT! And you have the nerve and the labia lips to bust in here and RAMPAGE?! C’mon, grumpy grammy, just let’s chill. Have a sip. Take a breath. Relax. And understand, the revolution is all cool. I dig it. All of it. But it’ll just have to wait until  after noon. A’ight?