Pretty sure the only reason food spoils is so grocery stores can keep you coming back for more like drug dealers, and absolutely nothing to do with bacteria, chemistry or me just liking to go to the grocery store to hang out by the eggs with no pants on.

An Italian Chef Whose Wife Left Him For the Mailman Giving Cooking Tips on Live TV While Commenting on the President’s Tax Plan

Benvenuto! Have I gotta show for you today, just sit back and enjoy, unless you’re the piece of shit coglione who stole my wife, you asshole, how dare you, you hand me bills every day then take my wife, you bastard, you no good son of a bitch, you faccia di cazzo, yous gonna eat rotten meatballs soaked in la pipi all alone tonight, capiche? The rest of you, let’s cook! But before we start, cutting the corporate tax rate may reduce revenues by $2 trillion over ten years, but where we gettin’ $2 trillion? You got $2 trillion? I don’t. I don’t even have a wife. Sfiga! We can’t generate enough economic growth to compensate for that type of loss, but I tells you what we can do: we can do is sprinkle a little oregano and basilico on these veal cutlets when they’re done frying for some extra flavor, ok? And in the oven here we’re making spanaci casseruola, so let’s take a peek at that, the same way I peeked in on that no good postal service cretino having his way with my wife, alla pecorina, in my house! Merda! Spanaci looks about done, so we’re gonna lower the oven temp, like the capital gains tax, way down real low. Capiche?

Of Mice and Potatoes and Men

“Can I still tend the rabbits, MacTuber?”


Working with Spuds on this blog, I now know what it was like for George to drift along in life with Lenny, a “huge man, shapeless of face, with large, pale eyes,” in Steinbeck’s Of Mice And Men. Spuds is big, friendly, not at all bright, and my best friend. So take note readers – in days ahead, I will be chronicling my complex, rich, deeply troubled, relationship with Spuds.

Faithfully yours,



There was a period of time when I would look at a clock

and it was always 12:34.

It wasn’t a broken clock, I just never bothered to look

at other points during the day

and when I’d finally look after hours of wasted time

or diurnal hunger

I’d sneak a peek and it’d be 12:34

and I started giving significance to that coincidence

it had to mean something—like I knew I would eventually die exactly at 12:34—

and the fact that the numbers were sequential added a layer of deeper meaning

like the golden ratio or 420

and then I started forcing myself to see it

if it was only 12:31 or 9:15 I’d keep looking and looking so that I would be looking

when it was 12:34 like an idiot’s idea of destiny masking an evident confirmation bias

and really all it ever meant was that it was lunchtime

or that I should go the fuck to sleep.

5 steps to curing your iPhone addiction

Do you check your iPhone compulsively early in the morning, late at night, and every other godforsaken hour of your pathetic existence? Want to stop? No problem. Legal disclaimer: I’m not a doctor, addiction expert, or self-sabotaging Apple executive, but here are 5 foolproof suggestions for curing your pesky iPhone addiction.

  1. Develop a far more expensive addiction, like snorting cocaine mixed with gold flakes, that leaves you so depleted of funds the phone company suspends your service.
  2. Mutilate your favorite pet in a wildly savage and appalling manner, then snap a pic and make it your lock-screen photo. This will deincentivize you from checking your iPhone.
  3. Develop meaningful friendships with the people around you, then just use their phones.
  4. Channel your energies into more productive endeavors, like reading up on psycholinguistics or building a mausoleum.
  5. Switch to a Samsung Galaxy S.

Check back first thing tomorrow for 5 more suggestions.

Backyard Wedding

It’s a sunny day, the grass not quite green, but hay-colored in places

there’s a prefabricated wooden arch for the bride and groom to stand before

hanging planters and

newly planted flowering bushes dot the perimeter

a football floats in its tossed parabola above and then below the wood-plank privacy fence


the sound of kids playing

the homes are tucked against each other like dominoes

stucco siding in all directions

the pastor reads the holy words off pieces of printer paper folded halfway lengthwise

pausing when it comes time to flip to the next page

one wedding guest is dressed in an Under Armour polo shirt and jeans

the bride and groom hold hands and face each other

we sit and watch behind sunglasses

internalizing the recited vows

and for a brief moment look past all the added artifice necessary to paint this space in solemnity

and connect with that thing that spark that passion that great spirit that feeling of sticky shoulder flesh against my fingers

and even the beer bottle balancing on my plastic folding chair

because it’s a backyard wedding

and it’s hot

and the beer is cold

but I know to only take sips at opportune moments.


He kisses the bride, they walk down the grass aisle and out the back gate that crashes

loudly when it closes

and before anyone has moved the couple reappear through the door off the kitchen

like magic.

The moment is opportune.

The Ultimate Worrier

I’m not cut out for fake wrestling. The Royal Rumble, yikes. Sounds scary. Maybe I just call in sick? My throat does feel scratchy, now that I think about it…. Are these steroids bad for me? What am I doing with my life? I’m a fraud! Do my fans know it’s all staged? These arm bands cutting off circulation. My hands are turning purple! Also is this green speedo too much? I feel silly standing in the ring. I hope my fans don’t read this blog post.


I think I’m the last person in the world to realize that Cinnabon was intended to rhyme with cinnamon. Most cinnamon-flavored baked goods are bun-shaped (which is close enough to ‘bon’ that that’s what they must’ve been going for, and what I always just assumed; or perhaps ‘bon’ as in the French word for good) [don’t expect me to actually look this up].

Where I come from we mostly call those pastries, cinnamon rolls. There’s less rhyme with Cinnaroll, however; and less recall, too, I suspect.

Maybe newborn babies don’t know that either. But give them time.

Respiration meditation

At a red light at the corner of River Valley Road and Riverside Drive in Atlanta

there’s nowhere to go but left

or right; not straight.

Straight is into the yellow rectangular sign with the arrows pointing left and right.

Straight is into the brush.

Straight is a dead end.

I’m turning left towards the place where I’m heading.

Left towards the big oak tree full of crooked limbs and spring growth.

Right is some whole other direction I haven’t even considered.

A whole stream of possibilities that remain unknown; can’t give them any credence.

I sit in the driver’s seat breathing through my nose, reminding myself

to do that slower, really let the oxygen come through

and enrich my blood, bring my hyper-mind to a crawl.

The light is long, but I need it; every last second.

A few seconds before (still at the light) I thought only

fearful thoughts. Fear for the future. Fear for the present.

Fear for failing to feel secure in either.

But the breath comes and goes. The chest

heaves, doing its job.

Now all I’m thinking about is left.

Left and the majestic oak tree that was there before I took

my first breath, and will be there after my last

and the next turn and the next and the breath I forgot to take

but took without thinking.