September 15, 2011

Culinary Journey Is Still Going

After a year of working, going to school, and djing, I still don't have a lot of time to write. Given the schedule, I found it best to write some posts while in class. I'm still listening of course, and just multitasking my ass off.

Since cooking at school and work, working in my own kitchen at home is quite a challenge. It's one thing that I need to do more, and am planning on it. I have a 3 week plan to get back in that bitch on regular basis.

The need for more Filipino food is always prominent in my life. The ingredients are so simple, yet it takes skill and refined technique to make it taste the way it's supposed to.

My sister is a home chef, equivalent to TK (Thomas Keller) if he were to only cook at home. Her recipes are all tweaked to her specs, changing a thing or two in the recipe to make it that much better. Her site is def worth visiting. If you don't want to use this link, I have it on the sidebar there on the right you picky bastard.

Here's her recipe for BBQ on a stick. There is no traditional name for it, so BBQ is more than sufficient. My favorite dish to cook up for any occassion, even in the winter. Break out that grill in January and tell me you're not a man.

BBQ pork skewers
makes about 20 skewers

Ingredients
For marinade:
1/2 head of garlic, minced
1/2 cup pineapple juice
1/2 cup Jufran banana ketchup (regular ketchup can be substituted)
1/3 cup dark soy sauce
1 teaspoon sesame oil
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 teaspoon salt

2 pounds pork shoulder (or 1 pound pork shoulder, 1 pound pork belly)
8-inch bamboo skewers

Combine all the marinade ingredients. Let it sit while you prepare the pork.
Cut the pork into small pieces about ¼ inch in width. It’ll feel like the pieces are too small, but this is important as huge chunks will not cook fast enough on the grill. Transfer the pork to an airtight plastic container.
Reserve about a 1/2 cup of marinade. Pour the rest over the pork. Stir, put the cover on (make sure it is sealed, otherwise everything in your fridge will smell and taste like marinade). Set in the refrigerator for 8-24 hours.
In the morning, give the pork a stir to make sure it’s all distributed. Set your skewers in a container of water.
About a half hour before you plan on grilling (more if you are making a lot), start skewering the pork, leaving an inch or so at the bottom of the skewer.
Heat your grill as you normally do (relatively high if you have a gas grill). Grill the pork, brushing with the excess marinade everytime you turn them over.
Serve with steamed rice, or, if you want to go classic pinoy fiesta-style, with pancit, lumpia shanghai and rice.

October 28, 2010

My encounter with David Sedaris

When I found out that Mr. Sedaris was touring to my beloved city, I immediately started to plot how I was going to attain tickets. My scheme was to email him a story of how much I hate his work, and going to see him would be his last shot at getting my vote for the Pulitzer prize. My letter would be written on White House letterhead, all in 1980's MLA format so he could appreciate me as a historian. So what if MLA format is still around in the standard of writing in small, anti-social circles. The body of my work will shine through the auto formatting, sending Mr. Sedaris quickly to guilt island for making me hate his work and stuffing an envelope full of backstage passes, green room accesability, signed copies of first editions, and head shots from his early press conferences. Since none of what I would write would be true, my dedicated fan-ness wouldn't allow me to tell a fib for personal gain. So instead, I chose to wait until someone special was smart enough to purchase me tickets. BLAMMO.

I prepared for the evening a few weeks in advance, reading one of his books in 5-10 increments while defecating in my home bathroom. Some people may like to bring that same book with them for public # 2 appearances, but I chose to take my time and read in the comfort of my personal surroundings. My own lighting, vent on or off option, early jazz Pandora station to help get things going, the bid war winner for best in toilet paper, and my freedom to excrete noises without the use of a "camo-cough." Students should consider this as a serious studying environment, being that the couch is too comfortable and the library is simply not comfortable enough. This meets all needs in the middle, sort of like bringing your own mug to coffee shops to reduce waste, only that location is a Starbucks.

In my quest to dazzle Mr. Sedaris on his evening spent with Milwaukee, I was told to watch his appearances on YouTube to hear how he sounds. Evidently his voice is so moving that most readers of his imagine him reading his essays aloud in the sanctity of their own homes. I gave it a shot, watching his visits to David Letterman and other talk shows. His humor is so funny on paper, but has a different effect when you hear him talk. His voice is very high pitched, giving innocence to his essays. What's fascinating about this combination of words and voice is that they don't match, but make sense in a opposites attract equation. His creative ways of describing feces and all around stupid Americans is accompanied beautifully by the voice of a 12-year-old girl during her public speaking final.

His delivery is equally important, pausing at the right moments in his readings and accentuating his punchlines with full force. This is followed by an uproar of uncontrollable laughter and sea otter clapping. His non-reaction to his own humor only adds to his character, as if he puts his genius on hold during shows to stall any kind of Tourettes-like incidence. It's as if he's reading to a group of owls, never fearing a glitch because his only crowd reaction is blinking. Never fumbling words, he enunciates with non-regional diction, reminding me that "Anchorman" is an incredible movie. Hey, I get sidetracked just as much as the next guy, and if I want to tell you that "Anchorman" is top notch flick, I'm going to do so.

We arrived at the venue (after going to the wrong place purely due to laziness in checking the tickets) and walked in with a breath of fresh air. The crowd was as expected: old ex-hippies that love non-fiction, unproductive cubicle droids who get paid to watch him read "Stadium Pal" on the Internet, boyfriends that were dragged by their girlfriends and go directly to the bar, trophy wives that like him because it's "fetch", writers that enjoy his work because all they write are dog show reviews, and readers like myself that enjoy a well-written way of thinking on paper. If I had to guess, there were at least 500 people attending, all eager to forget about their bad week and laugh hysterically to the point where their assigned seat could be a potential "Me Talk Pretty One Day" reading destination.

I looked at a table crowded with drooling drones and peeked down to see a little man signing books. It was him. The man of the hour. The Dorito Grande Burrito so to speak. The king dressed in his best Benjamin Button outfit. Or maybe it was more like Betty Davis in drag. Either way, it was David Sedaris, gleaming with intelligence and wit, all packed into a child-sized body. His demeanor was sweet, wiping the slate clean with each person he met and acting like he was genuinely interested in what they were saying.

Waltzing into the theater, the air appeared to be thinner than in the lobby. I felt like a mountain hiker about to embark on an exhilarating journey into the mystic, searching for the meaning of life or an abandoned bus to die in. The feeling of freedom and relaxation overcame me, and it felt good to start removing pieces of clothing from my cold, sweat-ridden body. It seemed like a great idea at the moment, but I snapped back from my hark on the alps dreamsicle and realized that I was here to see a person read, not perform dementia-induced acts of survival tactics while in the wild.

As soon as the reading started, my heart grew fonder, as if David and I had been separated for years and have reunited like two needles in a haystack. His wit and ability to woo a crowd gave me goosebumps on my forehead. I faintly concluded that he fed off the crowd's energy like how a dj feeds off a crowded dance floor, a figure skater feeds off Olympic hopefuls, or how pigs feed off the compost from our kitchens. It gave me inspiration to make my writing more refined, more defined. A vision to run a fist hair comb through my work before submitting it into the cold, cruel world. There was so much I wanted to ask him at that very moment:

Do you write with your socks on or off?

Is it me, or are you really, REALLY funny?

What do you think of Ed Hardy cowboy boots?

Are your words inspired by semi-automatic weapons, by chance?

I must have been thinking out loud because a moment later my date asked me, "Well, why don't you just purchase his new book and ask him all those stupid questions?"

I agreed, purchased the book, and waited in the mile long line.

My anticipation was roller-coaster-child-anxiety type shit. What should I REALLY say? Is there a chance he could invite me on his long book tour for sound advice for his wardrobe decisions? Would his partner Hugh be jealous? Is my fly open? Oh, damn! I was next!

The man in front of me was telling Mr. Sedaris jokes, and he seemed to be amused by the gangly looking monster. Their conversation was adventurous, enough for me to envy the man's banality. If I were to dumb down my excessive inappropriate thoughts on, well, just about everything, could I have the same intense conversation with a legend?

I approached the table, my little sheet filled out with who I wanted the book made out to. I courageously asked if he ever toured in Den Haag, Netherlands, where my sister and family currently live. He responded, "Well yes, but not in the Haag. It was in another part of the Netherlands. It's called Mocht" (not sure if the spelling is correct, but he pronounced it where it was like he was saying "mocked" along with a hacking-your-tonsils-out kinda of sound).

I replied, "Oh. Really? That's cool."

"Do you know where that is?" he asked.

David Sedaris was asking ME a question. I replied, "Uh, no, but it sounds cool."

Never short on words, but at this time, I was being a complete idiot. Filled to the brim with more banality than the guy in front of me could ever imagine.

He said, Oh, that's too bad. Nice to meet you."

"Yes, yes! Thank you. Love your work."

I walked away, ashamed of my starstruck attack and how painfully embarrassing that meeting was. My biggest words to the man of many words were "cool" and "cool." I hesitated and stumbled like a high school student mathematician that accidentally walked into the girl's locker room. It was as successful if I were talking to a kindergarten teacher who understands the language of young children without motor skills. Other than that, I failed with furious vengeance.

I wanted to shine in front of someone that I consider the duke of sarcasm but came up short. The next time we meet I will come up with the best joke he's ever heard, know every city in the Netherlands AND Ireland (just in case it comes up), and give him a full description of what i think he should write about.

I'll tell you one thing though: He was not bedazzled by me. But, in due time, I'll dazzle the shit out of him.

October 10, 2010

Hey! I have some thoughts too!

I sit in this fucking cooler all day, reaching all day for the apples that sit beneath me and the marinara sauce right next to me. Anything to grab some dumbasses attention so I can get out of this frigid nightmare. Why was I even created? A step by step process to bring me into the world only to ignore me? Neglect me 23.5 hours out of the day, only giving me love and affection when I need to be fed?? Yes, I may be hungry only once a day, but you're still benefiting from my satiety. It adds a little more flavor to my sourdough spectacularity, and makes me stronger and more alive with each meal. And who said I like flour and water as my meal EVERY GODDAMN DAY? How did I get pinpointed as a flourtarian? I make out a list of all the foods I wish to have, but they never gets ordered. The list includes:

1. Pie. Any kind.

2. Cheddarwurst. It's definitely not the worst, let me tell ya.

3. Gatorade 03. I'm always in recovery from being mishandled by smelly line cooks.

4. Dole Acai Berry fruit bars. Don't judge me. I'm bread for Christ's sake.

5. 1 jar of Bacobits. You think real bacon lasts around here with all these pear shaped assholes eating it by the pound?

And before I forget: "Starving Little Fucker" for a name? Real creative guys. Glad you weren't there when they were brainstorming for restaurant names for this joint.

These simple yet genius requests get denied every time moron is doing the order, looking past me like I'm some worthless bread starter in a white pail that has no meaning unless baked and consumed, eventually to be shat out of some unappreciative bitchface. I may be sour, but I'm sure as hell bitter as well.

Maybe I'll sabotage myself and try to tip over in the middle of the night and show these farting wiener dogs what they've been taking for granted. I'll inch over to the edge slowly, gaining momentum from the gusts of cold wind behind me. With the help of the celery stalking me and the potatoes eyeing me up, I should have enough cover to watch if any of these donkeys are onto me. That's the plan. Then they will mourn over my vomit looking carcass, weeping in rivers at what I could've been.

Wait, I can't do that. My feeding is soon. Maybe another time. I can't wait for flour and water!!

I get desperate close to feeding time. It's genetic.

September 22, 2010

Bread Making: Day 14

It's two weeks into this poor decision and the work remains tedious. The love has decreased significantly, my extended "uggggghs" have grown louder in decibels, and the urge to throw the whole fricking thing away and slam beers has been prominent. The little hope I have that there will be something great out of all of this still remains, and my "bread trainer" has assured me that when the bread is actually made, I will have a new wave of positivity.

He was correct.

Our stage in the game has brought us to the point where we can test the starchy waters. The time when you cross your fingers that the hard work will pay off, and that you missed all those episodes of "hoarders" for a very good reason. A reason to defecate in peace, dropping deuces without the worry of a faulty product coming out of the oven and not your lower cheeks. This time, my friends, was the time to make our first loaf of homemade bread.

The bread trainer grabbed the starving little fucker, smelled the ferocious beast, and decided that it was semi-ready. This meaning that we could take some out, mix it with some flour and water, let it rise a bit, and throw it in the oven. A few things were working against us though:

1) Problem: The oven was way too hot, like 500 degrees hot. There was no way of lowering the temp since it was mainly used for pizzas

Solution: Use it anyways

2) Problem: The dough wasn't rising at any rate that was considered fast. We wanted it to rise in 20 minutes, and 3 hours later we were still waiting

Solution: Throw it on top of the pizza oven, swear at it, and blame a server

3) Problem: I didn't know what the hell I was doing

Solution: Let the bread trainer do all the work

Once these problems were addressed, I watched the trainer work with the dough. He treated it very differently then I treated dough last semester, giving it a bread boot camp and working the dough until it had no life left in it. Not to mention the verbal abuse this poor dough took, it's self esteem decreasing at an alarming rate and looking like a skinny little pussy that was "trying his best." I stared intently, and waited for the final result.

It was big, squishy, and sexy. Thrown into the oven with frustration, the bread trainer walked away and proceeded to his next task. I checked on the little guys later (there were two loaves), and a sense of accomplishment raced into my veins. The crispy golden brown outside was making my mouth water, and watching it rise in the oven brought tears to my eyes. I didn't want to cry in front of the other cooks of course because they would've called me a giant pussy. I held the tears back and thought about the bread like raising a child. Imagining it learning to read and write, ride a bike, go through puberty, get chicks pregnant, study abroad, and give wrong directions to strangers. For actual children this takes decades to experience. With my baby bread twins though, it was all happening in a matter of 17 minutes.

We took the twins out, cut out the first piece and tried it. The outside was as crispy as chitlins, the inside was warm and dense like a temper pedic pillow, and the taste was the exact opposite of the holocaust. It brought with it new life for all of us in the kitchen, a new found hope that this wasn't a complete waste of time. That this starter had promise to make amazing bread and make a lot of people happy.

Now, I wonder how the starter feels. Hopefully as good as us.

September 15, 2010

Bread Making - End of week 1

It has been an interesting week for the starving little fucker. His (and yes I am gonna call it a "he" to favor my own gender) hungry ass was on point with his needs, sitting in the cooler not waiting patiently to be replenished with expensive flour and non-tap water. The thought that he could possibly go a day without tender, love, and undying affection was silly at best. He was always there, squatting, watching, judging. I came to terms with his condition, and followed his tight training camp type rules with grave attention and even more detail.

That is, until I forgot to feed him the second day.

Yes, the second day. That wasn't a typo. I completely neglected to realize that this being "may" have been hungry, and went about my business of simply "being busy." Luckily, the boss was anticipating such stupidity from yours truly, fed the little fuckface, and followed with this:

"Now, I know this is hard for you, remembering something I told you less than 24 hours ago. This is your one 'get out of feeding' pass that you're going to get for the rest of your life. Some people wait until a very important event comes up to ask a huge favor of someone to take time out of their important day and feed this "thing." But you, you're a special cat. You get after it right away and live on the edge. Have fun with this "thing" controlling you for the rest of your days, FRIEND. Your welcome for me being a genius."

I took the news well, figuring that my idiocy was due to not caring. But now I have no choice. Forget that dog grooming seminar next week, that grand opening for the chapstick factory in New Brunswick, the 3 hours I allocated next Thursday for clipping nails, and the Sunday I dedicated to searching for the perfect Halloween costume for my puppy. My life is over. It will be constantly interrupted by this little fucker. Oh well. I guess we can get acquainted in a more intimate manner and get to know eachother.

I started to examine the innards of my little guy and came up with several observations/conclusions:

1) This pail smells like a bag full of damp armpits

2) When you stick your hand in to mix it, all I can think about is that scene in Trainspotting when the guy takes a huge dump, realizes his drugs were in his butthole while taking said dump, and reaches into the "worst toilet in Scotland" to retrieve them. Yep, it feels like that

3) What smells like damp armpits now? My damn hand

4) When I'm deciding how to discard the innards and add fresh ones, a server waltzes up and asks what I'm doing. I explain that I'm making bread from scratch, that it's a very good skill to have, and that it's a fun and exciting learning process. I follow with a "would you like me to teach you a thing or two about it?"

They always answer, "No, I have more important things to worry about than your stupid 7th grade science project. I was just hoping there was extra food to eat back here. There's obviously not. Thanks for nothing."

It may not be word for word with each server, but it's damn close

5) THIS. SUCKS.

I will admit that once I'm done with the feeding, I feel like I accomplished something. An accomplishment that only a breadmaker could feel. The reward of marking off another day, like smokers quitting or those keeping track of consecutive days without showering. I also noticed that the little bastard is coming into his own, developing imaginary arms and legs and conjuring up a plan to defeat me one day. His personality is developing, and will hopefully start talking soon. I hope his first words are, "I smell."

Continue to read. I'll continue to feed. I talk in rhyme all the time.

September 7, 2010

Bread Making Day 1

I was always intrigued by the art of making bread from scratch. The balance of chemicals to make warm, delicious carbs that give no feelings of regret like hot fudge or deep fried tentacles may give. The fact that someone completely insane was dedicated to feeding a starter everyday for almost 200 years. Well, it wasn't the same guy, obviously.

Oh you thought it was? You just may be the reason why I haven't blogged in 3 months. Moron.

My boss at the restaurant was kind enough to share his vast knowledge of breadmaking with me, and also offered to help me get started. He made it abundantly clear that this was not a fun project. It was nothing like building a F-16 fighter jet model, scraping gum from underneath bar tables, or soaking your feet in dead flesh eating fish water. He referred to it as "raising a child that never leaves the adolescence stage." Once you get this bad boy rolling, there is no end. No light at the end of the beer bong, and no dignity in quitting. It's like if you had made an investment in the movie "Gigli." You wanted the celebrity statue of the two stars to make the movie great but it failed like Apollo 13. The fact that you invested all your money into it doesn't mean you hang the poster in your front hallway. But, shamefully, because of the waste your life has become because of this poor, poor investment, you hang the framed poster for all to see the enormity of your non-success. Breadmaking is quite similar.

The process starts with the right flour and bottled water. The flour has to be rye, and whole grain if all possible. The natural enzymes from the environment are what help the starter to get it's initial growth. Now this is what the boss was telling me, but this is what I heard:

'You feed this fucking thing everyday, whether you like it or not. You're going to hate me for even agreeing to show you this nightmare of a project. If you do kill me, have some respect to bury me with a loaf from one of the batches."

We combined the rye flour with the King Arthur all purpose flour with an equal amount of water. We proceeded to hand mix the starter, ending with a look of semi dry cement from the "up and coming" neighborhood. All of sudden I had this urge to pour the mixture on the floor and step on it to see what it would be like to have cement shoes like I've seen so many times on the movies. i wanted to wait until it dried up so I could kick people in the crotch and watch them look at me like I was insane. They would scream, "For God's sake man, get a new pair of shoes! My steel toes don't have shit on your sidewalk kickers!"

Next we covered the mixture with a towel and I was told to leave it at room temp for 3 days. My initial thought was, "Phew! Don't have to feed it for three days. Cool!"

No such luck. Fuck.

What is feeding you ask? Well, I suppose I can tell you. The starter is referred to as a starving little fucker, needing to be fed the same amount of flour and water each day. Say you put 4 cups of flour total and 4 cups of water total as the starter. The next day, and each fucking day after, you discard half of the mixture and add the same amount of the remaining mixture to what's left. So basically you're doubling what's left, so 2 cups flour and 2 cups water. Doesn't seem hard, right?

I'll let you know over the course of the next 30 days since that's how long it takes to get a starter really good for a first batch.

Oh don't you worry. You'll get every grainy detail. Grainy? Like the whole grain flour we used? Wordplay!

May 7, 2010

Zebra Earrings by GoodWoodNYC

Zoberstein - So what do you think, Zeeby? What are the chances we will make it down this hill?

Zeeby - I'm not too sure, Zoberstein, it looks pretty steep and my hindquarters have been killing me today. It has nothing to do with my late night rendevue with Sir Zebadiah last night, so don't even ask.

Zoberstein - I wasn't gonna ask. I was going to congratulate you for being the brave one to meet with him. We all know how he likes to "Evaluate" stripes and all. I have seen some Zeebs come out that shank with uncombed fur and feathered tails. It's not pretty.

Zeeby - Well, we did no such thing. There was no "evaluating" as you would say, only some tall grass appetizers and filtered well water. Intelligent conversations on grazing technique and who's the new hot galloper in town. He spoke of me being the Hoof's pajamas, but I didn't know what that meant.

Zoberstein - ...

Zeeby - What? Say something! You are in the gossip herd officially as of yesterday so fess up, tongue monger!

Zoberstein - First of all, those tongues were free to eat, so don't go hating on my steez because you didn't have the zebreashoes to plow in their and take what you wanted. I was famished and wanted to fill myself so I wouldn't have to go down to the Savanna with the rest of the crooked teeth nose breathers that eat dirt because it's "fun". Fuck that shit. I'm gonna get mine, son. Step off my mohawk manes.

Zeeby - Ok ok. Our monophyletic origins tend to have greed involved, so I can see how you were out to win. Say, where did you get those zebra earrings at?

Zoberstein - Oh, you like them? They were a gift from Sir Zebediah! Aren't they great? He got them all the way from NYC, where his travellers usually pick up the Shrub-Tree Fusion food from. Amazing.

Zetard - EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNHHHHHHHHH!

Zoberstein - Quiet Zetard, we are trying to converse here.

Zoberstein - Well Zeeby what about this hill....AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Zetard - EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Zeeby - Serves you right, tongue greedy fucker. I'll be eating yo tongue now, sucka. Get off my earrings too, bitch. These are my joints that I'm gonna take off your striped carcass ass. I'll eat yo kids too, hater.

Zetard - EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEONNNNNNNNNNNNNHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Zeeby - Zetard, you better check yo self. I'm about to bust a stripe in yo big ass. Hillside, mothafucka. Recognize.

April 30, 2010

Beef

We have reached the pinnacle of the meats portion of class: Beef. The all infamous, super tasty delicious, always referenced in phallic situations, impossible to digest, red appearance like the devil, slap on your bruised face incredible beef. There are 100's of different cuts that come from a cow, and it depends on what you want to spend and how much quality you want for your belly. For me, there isn't really a bad beef per say, just some are better than others. Kinda like when smell your farts in comparison to someone else's. A fart is a fart, but for some reason, your own is always more tolerable than anyone else's. It almost smells good. Actually, it does smell good. You're laying in bed by yourself and lay a gas chamber egg under the covers, creating your own personal Dutch oven. You trap it for a while, seeing if the smell will seep up into your nostrils naturally, indicating to you that it was a quality product. After the examination period, you lift the covers and release the scent of a job well done. But your partner does that to you, I guarantee it's not the same. You know I'm right. I'm simply the guy with no shame that is willing to say it.

Butchering beef is always something that is entertaining to watch and do. When someone else is doing it, it's amazing to look at the expressions on people's faces while witnessing the neanderthal act. The awe in their deep concentration is the same as when people watch 'Minute To Win It', or any other prime lame time television program. The look of "is this really happening? While I'm standing here?" Give me a fricking break. These are the fartfaces that say, "Oh my word. That used to be a living creature." I am willing to bet my set aside stripper money for this month that they are the same pricks that say, "You know that girl grinding on the pole up there? That's someone's daughter." Would be kinda fascinating to see a cow grinding up and down a pole to stay out of the inevitable 'grazing grave" that all their buddies are at. You don't think people would come out to see that shit? It's one of those things that you don't want to see yet uncontrollably drawn to like gravity. Throw a nice leopard outfit on her, don't cover any of the four nipples, slap a little grade C stripper perfume on and you've got a star my friends.

When you're the one butchering, you have to maintain focus and not concentrate on the people looking on you as the dark angel of meat boning. Talk about your day, maybe allude slightly to what you are actually doing, then go back to talking about hockey or Dutch oven techniques. The rollercoaster of topics will keep them enthralled and bored at the same time. For example, when I am in class, I tend to pay attention when it is something that has nothing to do with the class. It's drone sounds mostly, but when the teach starts a story like, "So I had my tongue in this chick's ass last night..." , then I perk up and ask him to repeat the story AGAIN. AND AGAIN. AND AGAIN.

There is no need to explain how to cook beef, because if I have to explain, then I might go into the whole 'HOT BEEF INJECTION" thing and trust me, you don't want that.

Ok fine. Here's a summary. But only because you asked.

Basically the hot beef injection is what I also refer to as the hibbity jibbity, the horizontal mambo, the hide the salami game, etc. Women and unconfident boys in the kitchen don't like beef week, knowing that at 4 points or another that they will be victim to a beef joke of some sorts. Watch what you say when working with beef. The possibility of this scenario is highly likely:

Dish Boy - What are we making today, big muscly chefs?

Chef - Beef, boy. Hot Corned beef. HOT.

Dish Boy - Ooooh! I love hot beef!

Chef - I bet you do, Clay Aiken. Come over here and I'll show you some hot beef.

Dish Boy - Great! Here I come!

Chef - Yeeeeeeeaaaah Buddy.

Don't let this happen to you. Unless you want it to happen. If so, follow the previous scenario and adjust accordingly. Good luck, beefsuckerassfacehole.

April 23, 2010

The Emergency Conference Call

I just can't seem to get off the hot subject of the old numero dos. It seems that there are facets of the subject that go ignored all the time, or strategies and skills that people may have that they do not share with anyone. I find this to be selfish and unteamlike. If you have talents in the ways of making pooping a more pleasurable experience, then why not share your wisdom with the rest of the world? We all go through situations where we need to critically analyze an occurrence and have to make decisions on the spot. One of them happens to be getting a phone call while on your way to an emergency meeting, or getting an important call while currently in said emergency meeting. I know that your time on the throne is supposed to be sacred, a time of deep meditation and relaxation. A confessional of bad food you ate and the deposits of brown textured prayers that follow. Your faith remains strong, praising the lord of the brown bears and sacrificing your dignity for the sake of those creatures that are unable to enjoy a magazine or an underground indie flick while, and I quote my doctor, "doing the deed."

Yet again, there is a list of rules to follow when you receive these important phone calls. It may be that job you had lined up, that hooker you met the night before that you convinced to get out of the business, the high school you volunteer at calling to tell you you've been suspended for flooding the bathroom with water and "brown seaweed" overflow from one of the stalls and then fleeing the seen, or the police saying they found your underwear on a flagpole in boy's town. Whatever the case may be, you need to answer that call. Whether on route to the sinister throne or unloading Rambo's ammo beneath you, YOU MUST ANSWER THAT CALL. No if's, and's, or buts. Well, maybe a few butts. BIG ONES!

1) Wear headphones that have a mic - This way you can answer the call without having to hold it awkwardly to your ear and also you can listen to music while making your deposit. Don't have a phone capable of supporting said heaphones? Consider getting rid of your Saved By The Bell phone, Zack Morris. Join the rest of us in 2010, you non-emailing prick. That's right, those that have the world's first cell phone refuse to learn anything about modern technology. Including email. Did you hear me? INCLUDING EMAIL. I know. It's sad.

2) When answering, make any last minute contributions the beef stew pool - Push it out one last time before commencing human conversation. It will allow you to temporarily relieve yourself beforehand, and when you do answer you will be so relaxed that it'll sound like you just got done fucking. Well, you just fucked the bathroom out of fresh air for the next visitor so I guess it's almost the same thing.

3) If the brown bears need to exit, ask an open ended question - "So how was your day?" usually works for me. Or "What are you doing tonight?" and " Tell me more about that rash you have." Once you ask these questions that require about a 10-20 second response, hit the mute button and let the shit avalanche loose. You're still listening to what they're saying, unless you're wrath explosion is so euphoric that it takes you into a vegetable state, which is highly likely after taco day at the office.

4) Take your time - The person on the other end is none the wiser, so focus on your itinerary of being awesome in the world of dirty tile and all things flushable. They're interrupting YOUR important meeting, your time to conduct business and set the standard for the rest of the day. Relax. Do your thing.

5) Upon completion, mute and flush - You're all done, but roomie needs to make his contribution as well. What do you do? Ask another open ended question, mute, flush, wash hands, and run out of bathroom while hitting mute because it'll probably be your turn to respond by then. I say run out because you don't want them to hear the flushing sound or the sound of a sink and have them interrogate you on what you were doing. Then if they do hear the faint sound of your goods flushing into the secret mist of shitdome, make up a story about how you were walking by the bathroom and your roomie didn't think you were home and decided to shit with the door open just because he '"felt like it." Go on by saying you're scarred for life by seeing his pasty white legs pressed against the same comfort seat that you visit at least 3 times daily. Your energy has decreased, and now have a fear of that toilet that you had grown so close to over the last 11 months. If you tell them this, I assure you that sympathy from your co-converesationer will follow. You won't necessarily get window love, but more phone love.

There it is. The last lesson in the poop dualogy. You now have all the keys to a successful experience.

"I'm setting the example. What I've done is going to be puzzled over and studied and followed... forever." - Kevin Spacey in Seven

'Yeah, what Kevin Spacey said in Seven. I did that shit too. With shit." - Jimmy Cababa

April 16, 2010

The Emergency Meeting

There are times, when in fact, you have to use the bathroom. I mean IMMEDIATELY. The dance in front of the door when some jerkface is taking his sweet time washing his hands and singing the National Anthem, the mini farts that squirt out of your backside uncontrollably, the contractions that you have while en route to the porcelain place of worship, and the deep meditation you go through to think about anything else than what's going to explode out of your pants and onto the floor if you don't get on that throne pronto.

Once inside, there are certain things to remember while on the Hershey highway. These are rules of the brown game that many of you are aware of, some you may do unconsciously, and others that will improve your overall experience. Now pay attention and you can either make your appointment as awkward as possible for everyone else in the restroom, or as pleasant as possible for yourself and still awkward for everyone else. So no matter what, you win.

1) Hang you coat - Nothing worse than shitting on the back inside of your coat from splash tremors. This one should've been obvious, but important to point out nonetheless.

2) Cover the toilet seat - The liners that they give you always have a middle portion attached, and can be confusing as to whether you keep it attached for a poop landslide or detach it and hang on to it until the birth process is over. The solution: use strips of toilet paper. I found it to work best because it stays put better. Just remember to check the back of your pants before you walk out to make sure a strip didn't get tucked into your pants by accident. Now THAT is not attractive.

3) Use the Camo-Cough - I know you have all done it. Right at the point of release, the O.P.P. (Optimal Poop Point), give a nice fake cough to cover the boulder splashing sound that will be coming from your stall. Although others may still hear it, it will be somewhat muffled, like a teacher in lecture when your listening to your ipod in the back of class. This is more for courtesy, but if you want to defecate in peace then by all means let loose in stereo surround sound.

4) Listen to music - When you have music blaring in your ear, the sound of burrito shaped dongs doing swan dives beneath you will be buried behind the sounds of your expert music selection. My suggestion would be 'Smooth Operator' by Sade. It is so melodic when on the pooper.

5) Grunt, but only in private - No one likes the grunter in the public bathroom, especially if he or she is grunting to the point where you contemplate asking if they're all right. Only make Sharapova sounds if absolutely necessary, like if it's the 'Dump of the week', which needs no explanation. Otherwise, act as if your trying not to fart in the elevator full of people, unless you know it will be silent and deadly. Then the pointing with eyes blame game happens, and you can just smile and point to the guy next to you. Love that game.

6) Have reading material - Catch up on it. You have time. Relax a bit. This is your hour of power. Your time in the limelight. The only superstar is you. Take all the credit because it's due to you. Make it rain, or, in this case, hail, sleet, snow, and tornado.

7) When flushing, have door open ready to escape - You never know what that toilet is going to do. It may thank you for a job well done and swirl down into the fate of all feces and disappear forever. Or, in worse cases, may come up towards you without warning and flood your ankles with brown, sandy water (Yes, in fact this has happened to me). So, keep the door open, have all your possessions, flush with your foot (only your foot please. If you do it with your hand you might get a mud mask with the worst possible type of mud), and sprint out. If an overflow occurs, you're already halfway to your next destination. Not. Your. Problem. Anymore.

8) Carry yourself proud upon exit - You did it! You've made it to the stall without sharting and exiting without any brown mess on your person. It's a great feeling that we all take for granted, and it's nice to appreciate the bigger things in life instead of focusing on small, unimportant stuff all the time, like your salary or what kind of car you want to buy. Peanuts compared to the gratitude you owe yourself after the accomplishment of not shitting on yourself.

"Follow these rules and you'll have mad bread to break up. If not, 24 years, on the wake up" - Biggie Smalls

"Follow these rules and you'll have mad doose to wake up. If not, 24 dongs, from your leg up" - Jimmy Cababa