Posts Tagged ‘Food’

The Gang’s All Here

March 17, 2008

Alright, look. If you, the reader, and I, the writer, of this “blog” are in fact going to “get along,” it is imperative that you know something about me. Something deeply telling of my personality and my life, that could literally make or break our reader-to-writer relationship. I, Rod Jenson, absolutely love Chinese food.

I don’t even love authentic, straight-from-China, Chinese food. I mean, that stuff is good too. I’ve had some here and there and let me tell you, it is some good food. Try some the next time you find yourself in a position to do so, because it’s not very often you get that chance, unless you happen to live in China. And who the fuck wants to live in China? I mean, this blog is probably already blocked by their government by now. Shit, all of WordPress is probably blocked by now.

But no, the Chinese food that I love so dearly is in fact the type of Chinese food you get from those little half fast-food, half legitimate “restaurant” style places, that are in the corner of the food court, next to the Togo’s and the Mongolian grill. One in particular, called Golden Chopsticks, has always tickled my taste buds, and is probably responsible for about one third of my body weight today. I go in there at least once a week, usually on Saturday’s, and lemme tell you, it’s fucking good food. Alas, there is one small problem with this restaurant. Well, not so much a problem, as it is a peculiarity. The place is fucking weird.

The inside of the store itself is actually very nice. Well organized, clean, and simple, it is the epitome of easy “get in, get out” fast food. It is for these and many more reasons that I have to wonder why, whenever I walk into this restaurant, be it noon, 5 in the morning, 8 at night, any time of the day, the place is fucking empty! Everybody I know, knows that Golden Chopsticks is a marvelous eating establishment, and yet to this day I have never seen one of them ever set foot into that fucking restaurant. I’ve never seen anybody in that restaurant before I get there. Sometimes I walk in and the employees aren’t even there. The money I’ve taken from the register in such situations is also probably responsible for about a third of the aforementioned weight that the restaurant accounts for in my overall body mass.

Now, the restaurant does not stay empty, not by any means. Usually right after I have placed my order and, as is the custom in this place, immediately received my meal, people start to walk in. Slowly at first, eventually building up to a rate the store can barely accommodate. Initially, an old, forty-something, born again Christian woman will walk into the store, and after very slowly and agonizingly ordering a plate of fat-free food (from a place that specializes in individually frying every grain of rice by hand), she sits down to her meal. Oddly enough, she then grabs the chili sauce bottle on the edge of the table, and begins dousing her food in what is essentially a liquefied heart attack. This is exactly what is weird about this place. The people.

Walking into a McDonald’s, you may find a screaming child or two; you may find a redneck, or even something very out of the ordinary like a firefighter or an astronaut. Meanwhile, at the Chinese place, a pirate with two wooden legs has just stumbled in the door, and is using the support of the tables to move him along the tile floor without slipping. As he struggles to keep his balance, the parrot on his shoulder lets out a squawk and flies over to peck at the forty-something woman’s head. Rather than become annoyed, she takes no notice, instead realizing that the nozzle on her chili sauce bottle is hindering the progress of the chili sauce mountain currently residing atop her side of kung pao chicken. She unscrews the nozzle and continues to pour chili sauce, now through the well-sized hole in the top of the bottle that the nozzle formerly sat upon.

While your adventures at Jack-in-the-Box (or Sonic Burger, for those of you unfortunate east-coasters who don’t possess the privilege of having your very own neighborhood Jack-in-the-Box) have amounted to Bimbo the Clown walking in, squeaky shoes and all, and calmly ordering a Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger with a side salad, I’m sitting over at the Golden Chopsticks, surrounded by the entire fucking rest of the circus, who apparently decided to kick Bimbo out of the clown car a few blocks down the road because he was making racist jokes. As the pirate sits down, ever so carefully due to his wooden appendages, a circus man sits across from him, asking him to pick a card. Glancing past their dull game of solitaire, I notice that the woman in the corner of the restaurant has abandoned her kung pao chicken altogether, and has taken to pouring the chili sauce on her face and body, savoring every last drop of the scalding liquid spices. That is weird. Bimbo’s preference for a delicious sandwich at a famous west-coast restaurant is not.

So the next time you’re sitting in your cozy, normal, fast-food place, and take note at the peculiarity of the sweaty construction worker team that strolled so calmly in, think of me, sitting in the Chinese food place. Because, unknown to you, the same construction workers forgot to put the parking break on their dumptruck, and it is now rolling down the hill, about to crash into the Golden Chopsticks. Peaking through the rubble of the collision, I can see that the pirate, severely weirded out by this point, is crawling back to the parking lot, terrified. It also looks like he’s going to need a wooden right arm to replace the one he just lost in the dumptruck accident. He’ll be back next week.

By this point, fire woman over here is naked, rolling around in a puddle of fucking chili sauce created by all of the bottles having broken during the crash. It was only a matter of time before she would have done it herself. The circus people are busy trying to find a way to all fit into the dumptruck (you’d think they’d be able to, having just come out of that toy car that the truck flattened upon entry). At a time like this, the only thing left to do is to casually step by and snatch sauce-girl’s untouched plate of Chinese food, and walk out the door. Next time, I’m going to fucking Jack-in-the-Box.


Hi There!

March 15, 2008

My name is Thinker St. James, and I really don’t want to talk to you!

Seriously. I sit in an office building from 9-5 sporting a smile so phony that when I pass mirrors, I mistake myself for Joan Rivers. A masculine, sexy male version of Joan Rivers. A Joan Rivers Phoenix, if you will. I can stretch for jokes with the best of ’em: thank you corporate America.

Anyway like I said, I really don’t want to talk to you, but knowing you, you’re going to talk anyway. And as luck would have it, I get to be the target of your oratory projections. Yay me! I tip my hat to you, annoying asshole; you fill the gap between my internet porn searches (ie. those vane attempts to get fired from this shithole job) and my daily contemplation of suicide (ie. literally getting “fired,” also an attempt to escape this shithole job). Like a good cubicle neighbor, you know all the right ways to invoke coworker necktie strangulation, or perhaps a letter-opener to the jugular, or even the rare but completely satisfying staplegun to the face (repeatedly). Of course I’ve only heard about such therapeutic qualities. No, I don’t know why Ted hasn’t been to work for the last week and a half.

Why do my vague threats always fail to make you sit the fuck down and leave me alone? Silly me, I can easily answer that question: no one else in the office is willing to listen to your marvelous (dare you say heroic) tales of last night’s cuisine a la Ralph, and at this point, it’s gotten so bad that you’re willing to forego the risk of bodily injury by unloading upon the last (captive) audience at your disposal. Ralph, let me be the one to break this to you in a way that every single living organism in this building wishes they could: NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT YOUR USE OF OREGANO. Not one, single, fucking, person, in this entire building, gives a rat’s ass about what types of tomatoes you used in your penne prima vera al dente minestrone lamponi fuckin’ prosciutto pimento specialé! Ralph, you’re Polish, okay? Stop pretending that you understand the Italian words you’re using! Jesus fucking Christ man!

Lucky me. God must’ve caressed my beautiful Joan Rivers Phoenix face, seating me in this cardboard square just a few feet away from you. Clowns to the left of me, the Iron Chef to my right. I wish I was Chairman Kaga, revealing that today’s secret ingredient is a 17th century war cannon, aimed squarely at your prematurely balding forehead. But no. No, no no, no…no. I just smile. Thank God I never come to work sober.

One day, this world is going to end. And on that day, every person will face a higher power, however you define it. Ralph, you’re going to be the one talking about linguine. Perhaps that’ll gain you entrance into the kingdom of the angels. As for me, I’ll be the gin-soaked drug user that looks Vishnu in the eye and says “Hey pal, you gave me this life. Fuckin’ ay, I lived it.” Courage before the flames of hell.

Now all I have to do is get the network administrator to notice the foot fetish porn I so very much enjoy and end my arduous tenure at this stupid fucking job.

Fuck Milk

February 13, 2008

I wanna know what the deal is with the “Got Milk?” campaign. First of all, when exactly did “Got Milk?” become the official slogan, and who the fuck authorized such a half-assed marketing idea to become the basis of recognition for one of the most widely produced food products in the world? Well, I guess that’s better than Coca Cola’s “Enjoy Coca Cola.” And on a side note, no I will not “Enjoy Coca Cola.” I am rendered incapable of enjoying Coca Cola, by the Coca Cola company’s inability to produce something that does not taste like bullshit. That’s what it tastes like. Watered down bullshit. Think about that, parents of the world. Not only is purchasing Coca Cola bad for your kids because of all the sugar and caffeine you’re pumping into their veins, but you are in fact wasting your money on liquefied bovine fecal matter, and then giving it to your kids. What kind of parent does that? …Assholes.

I remember “back in my day,” when milk used to “[do] a body good.” Remember that? None of this taunting me and my dry, cookie-filled mouth and throat, with that sweet, white cow nectar: milk. Guess what. Milk doesn’t do my body good anymore. It doesn’t even fucking do it pretty well. Milk does my body bad. It does my body hard. It does my body like three well endowed black men, equipped with metal condoms, having a go at gangbanging my vital internal organs. For you see, despite the fact that milk supplies my body with much-needed nutrients, such as calcium (for strong bones, unlike that neighbor whose arms fell off while pushing his wheelbarrow), it also supplies my body with much-unneeded fat. Fat that I can’t work off. Fat that I will not work off. You know why? Because there’s FUCKING MILK INSIDE ME! Have you ever tried working out with milk sloshing around in your stomach?! No, you haven’t, because if you had, you would have wound up in the hospital, with several large metal tools sticking in every orifice of your body, all because you tried to work out while milk was in your system, and as such you would have run away in utter terror from this article at the mere mention of the word “milk,” making it impossible for you to be reading the sentence that I’m typing to you right now. Yeah. You fucking pussy.

“Well Rod,” you may say, “you could just buy non-fat milk to solve that problem.” Well you know what. I can, and I will, from now on. Thanks for the suggestion. But alas, fat is not my only concern. Do you know what those “Got Milk?” ads can do to a young, impressionable mind, such as my own? Two words: Psychological Addiction. Come seven o’clock, when I turn on the television, you can bet I’ll end up seeing a few of those “Got Milk?” ads. Hell, that shit’s plastered all over the billboards in LA like a fucking Camel logo. Fuck man, I kicked the habit of cigarettes. It’s a little known fact I kicked the cocaine habit (that’s a lie), but lemme tell you, you CAN’T kick a milk habit. Cocaine withdrawals are fucking peanuts compared to milk. And the mass media does not fucking help. I’ve got a god damn addiction, so what do they do? PLASTER THAT SHIT ALL OVER! Thanks for reminding me about it, ASSHOLES! What if I don’t have any of the good stuff on me, huh? What then? You just contributed to the terrible withdrawals of a psychologically tormented milk addict. Eat my middle finger, fuckers!

Who the fuck runs the “Got Milk?” campaign anyways? Have you ever seen the guys behind it? No, you haven’t, because if you had seen them by now, they’d be dead. If I wouldn’t have killed them by now, somebody else would. And if they killed them….well, I’d have to kill them again. You’d just have these former “Got Milk?” campaign runners, dead hundreds of times over, laying around……dead….assholes. They know what would happen if they exposed themselves. They don’t want to take the responsibility for taking milk and turning it from a nutritious, delicious snack-drink, into a lethally addictive drug. They don’t want to take the responsibility for MILLIONS OF MILK ADDICTS ALL OVER THE WORLD!

But seriously, who runs it? Is it all just one company? How many milk companies are there even? Are there more than one? I’ve never seen advertisements from “Got Milk?” competitors on my TV. It’s not like there’s a fucking opposition to “Got Milk?”. I mean, when the guy says “Got Milk?”, it’s not like another company comes in and goes, “WE DO!” Maybe there really are a bunch of milk companies, that all work together. They’re all working together to get me addicted to their bastardized dairy products, through their two-word ad campaigns. They split between them the neverending, perpetual milk profit attained from all us milk addicts! Think about this. It’s not like we’re getting un-addicted. It’s not like there’s a fucking Milk Addicts Anonymous or anything. It’s all a part of their grand money-making scheme! ASSHOLES!

Maybe it’s just that one guy. The guy who does the “Got Milk?” voiceover at the end of every fucking commercial. Shit, that makes sense. All he ever had to do was say two fucking words. One time (maybe a couple if he fucked it up the first time). Boom! You’ve just hypnotized every weak-spirited, impressionable, milk lover in the world. You’ve got them doing everything for you, giving you their money, drinking your poorly advertised product, writing articles on a little known blog about it! It’s BRILLIANT! Brilliant….and evil.

Maybe it’s all just in my imagination. Can it be? Perhaps…the milk is a lie! Even better yet: maybe the milk commercials are a cruel hallucination brought on by the withdrawal symptoms I’m having, which were caused by my psychological dependence on the milk itself, which was caused by the milk commercials! WHAT THE FUCK! ASSHOLES!!!

I have to go lay down…

Rod Jenson