Criticize Italians all you want (they’re lazy, infidelitous and incapable of paying their employees on time), but the one thing they’re always good for is food. Except, of course, when they’re merely only “of the descent.” You know, Long Islanders, Staten Islanders–in short, Eastern Seaboard Italians. Their willingness to compromise on the quality of the core of what makes pasta delizioso–sauce—is not only a desecration to their heritage, but also to food itself.
Worst than even using Prego or Bertoli is when they don’t bother mixing the sauce together, just pile it on in the center like one massive pile of shite. I don’t know if something in the dilution of their blood from pure Italian to bastard one twelve generations removed is what causes this compromise in the grade of product they choose to use, or if it’s that they, as “men,” simply expect a woman to do the cooking and therefore can’t be required to be left to their own devices. Whatever their reason, you won’t catch me over at an Italian American “man’s” house for dinner anytime soon.
There are few things in this world that can save an alcoholic from a hangover. One of those things is Checkers, a rare and precious find in New York City. More than just a “fast food” chain, Checkers offers the kind of food item solace that no other establishment can, least of all mothafukkin McDonald’s.
A “man” who should be experiencing more than mild joy over the consumption of Checkers
It isn’t just that its later founding in 1999 makes it better understand the plight of the modern drunk (why else would they have invented the Baconzilla Fries?), it’s that their employees are the most non-judgmental ilk you will ever come across. They’ve seen it all, and nothing fazes them anymore. There’s even a Facebook page called I Love Julissa at Checkers off the Marcy Stop (granted, that I created) that proves how magical Checkers is as a place to curb drunkenness without the the injudicious opinions of another intervening in your meal.
The chicken sandwich is best for the not too far gone drunk
And so for a woman to have to beg a “man” to come into the Checkers right by the train to cap off an evening of revelry and embarrassing instances is indicative of a larger issue: 1) his appetite is lesser than yours and that will never do 2) he thinks he’s too good for Checkers, in which case, he’s missing a dick. Do not let your blotto state be affected by the poor decisions of this “man;” he is the one who will suffer the next morning as a result of not coating his stomach with fully loaded fries.
Not only does a “Food & Drink Museum” conjure images of like old ass moldy epicurean non-delights, it also screams pretension. Can’t you just eat instead of looking at your food and trying to “inspire day-to-day curiosity about what we eat and why.” We eat because we’re fucking hungry, bottom line. Or in some dickless “men’s” case, to find refuge in something that makes us forget we don’t have a dick. Maybe this is why most of the board of trustees for the museum are “men.” But one supposes it’s better than a Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding Museum.
Admittedly, there’s something sexy about a “man” who can cook. What’s not sexy, however, is when he tries to Mrs. Doubtfire it by passing something he didn’t really make off as his own. That’s where Blue Apron, a meal delivery service that’s bougier than Fresh Direct, comes in.
The type of “man” who uses Blue Apron
Designed to make “cooking easy” by giving “men” of the Williamsburg demographic simple, gourmet (two words that don’t go together) recipes that are healthy and effortless to create–whatever that means (all good food should take a certain amount of effort), Blue Apron is one of the many deaths of dick. If you, as a “man” can’t cook, just own it. Don’t try to intensify your dicklessness by using a gimmick as smoke and mirrors to hide your defect. It would be the harder thing to do to admit your imperfection, but at least it would mean you’re capable of a hard-on.
I get it, Thanksgiving is an emotionally stressful time during which we’re all looking for some sort of release. However, “men” who feel that this release should come from hitting on the female family members of their friends are, quite simply, skeevy. As if the scent of desperation wafting off of you wasn’t enough to prevent anyone from actually inserting your non-existent dick into them, then surely that hideous sweater you’re wearing will.
And don’t think you’ll get lucky with someone’s sister at a bar afterward either
Granted, women can be pretty vulnerable at this time of year, especially if they’re single or recently broken up and dealing with the pressure of familial judgment. But capitalizing on that susceptibility doesn’t increase your odds for getting sex, merely your odds for having to listen to her talk about her problems while she dangles her pussy before you with no real intention of actually handing it over. And that makes you something of a eunuch stranger to her who she just happens to be frenzied enough to share her plight with–certainly not fuck material. So give it up, go back to the table and content yourself with having to wait until you return to Williamsburg to troll for someone.