Sounds like you would not enjoy sharing a meal with my dog.

Three other words: Non. Seared. Steak.

I travel a lot, and work with the bluest of blue collar workers in the railroad industry. I observe these people in their natural habitats. If you want these morons to vax up, you’re going to have to hide the mRNA in chicharrones, funyuns, twizzlers, monster energy drinks, chewing tobacco, and slim jims.

This is a pretty week apology for Jez’s slavering coverage of Minaj despite her many, many, many problematic behaviors. 

People who swallow with their mouth open really irritate me; that’s why I stopped sharing meals with seagulls.

I wipe down the shelves and such with clorox type wipes once a week or so. Seems to do the trick. 

That’s the spirit.

How did they source the cubed pepperoni for those shit pizzas? I’ve never seen it outside of awful cafeteria foods of the 80s/90s.

Everybody’s proportions are off, but inconsistently, and all to different degrees. Looking at these images makes me feel like I’m having a stroke.

I was a bit late to discovering James Blake, but I do dig him. 

He’s still technically a meat-based athlete.

I typically just put the meat in the skillet and whack it with the tenderizer for the entire time it’s cooking. This is also helps to spray boiling grease all over the kitchen, which is an important part of mise en place.

I’d rather get consistently fucked-up orders than for corporate shitbirds to make food service workers’ lives even more miserable.

How do you know if you’re a gamer, though? Is there some kind of test? I doubt IKEA would let any kind of non-gamer near this stuff.

I started playing Destiny (1) the day it was released. Destiny 2 is my bread and butter today. I love every aspect of the game: gunplay, art, lore, music (D1 had better music, but D2 is still above average). 

I like to seal the juices in by wrapping my meat in saran wrap, then dipping it in marine epoxy, and then I slap that fucker on the grill. By the time my guests come out of their comas, they say things like “burger ... jicagochusterr ... can’t breathe.”

A pack of goldens let loose in the MET for an evening? I would watch.

I always seem to have jerky in a pocket, or pouch, or crease somewhere.

Like I’m gonna fall for that old trick.

Well I guess I just can’t keep track of all the various poultry-of-the-woods.