Fuckin' Food Blog

Livin’ hard ain’t painless, but dammit, welcome to fucking reality, assholes. It hasn’t been easy, lots of things have gone horrifically wrong in my life  the past couple weeks. But whatever, I’ve managed, perhaps thrived, with the aid of a few key products. Don’t tell Mommy.

1. 

Jesus. I occasionally consider sending a personal thank-you to the manufacturers of Gatorade (prolly Pepsi or some other shitty fascist corporation) for saving my life. After a lung-searing, liver-raping, vag-numbing night of debauchery, this is really the only cure. Specifically the grape kind, because it tastes the least, uh, sporty (most like codeine). The second coming of Christ is nearing and FUCK ME if he doesn’t endorse this low calorie ish for breakin’ Him outta his tomb. 

2.  

Similarly, this is another secret lil’ antidote. Not to get too personal (HAHA) but my “job” requires me to be at least 45% on the qui vive and hell if this cheap-ass witchcraft doesn’t lock you on GAME. Sold for like, $1.19 at any trucker’s mall, Jet-Alert is the poor man/dumb kid’s Adderall. 

3. 

Sometimes you just feel like torturing yourself. You think “Wow, my life is going so well!! I need to take it down a few notches, reel it in, sink the bar back down to the bottom of the jizz pit that I typically reside in” and lo and fucking behold, HERE IS YOUR ANSWER. I make this when I need a reality check. Scoop it straight from the can, like the near-homeless tragedy you are. It tastes like a rimjob, envision your tongue circling Lemmy’s dehydrated, pimpled rectum and dinner is served, baby.

4. 

I don’t really know what this is. Initially attracted to it by name alone, “HANKY PANKY” by the illustrious “TOAD-ALLY SNAX” tastes like some sort of shameful chocolate-coated redemption. If you’re into a.) public ostracism b.) inadvertent bulimia c.) county fair carnies d.) all of the above (me), hop aboard the HANKY PANKY express and NEVER LOOK BACK AS WE NEAR THE PROMISED LAND, motherfucker.

5. ANY KIND OF WHISKEY. It is here that we find ourselves lost without a compass on the cruel tundra of adulthood: 

Thanks to the aforementioned job (not rim), the obvious emotional turmoil and my general lifestyle, I have a new best friend!! I signed Whiskey’s yearbook on the last day of school “Hey babe, please stop following me around! You make my piss radioactive and I really don’t have enough money for the amount of Plan B I’ve had to buy since we met! HAGS, Seabrook~”. :( But on the real, any bottle of this devil juice that costs more than $10 feels like vitamins and Christmas and the company credit card and sex on a private jet bound for Belize and everyone should drink it, always. NAMASTE. 

That last post was fake, like most of my actions (ask anyone I’ve ever dated ;) heh). In truth I’ve been very busy (“really depressed”). Uh, but anyway the holidays are upon us and hopefully everyone’s pubes trees are trimmed, you’ve baptized your Thanksgiving baby in holy toilet water and your usual whorin’ corner isn’t too crowded with indebted Black Friday over-spenders. 

The Three Wise Men bestowed upon the infant Christ gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. This winter, I ask for you to mimic that holy gesture with an offering of equal significance. Number one on my Christmas list is a submission from you. Yes, YOU! Give me something to talk about and I’ll do ya dirty.

Anonymous asked: Where do you get off making fun of people with serious health problems?

Yo, what? Hold up, anonymous. Where have I done this? You must be misinterpreting me as some kinda holy health mercenary (LOL). Read further. But you know what they say, survival of the fittest, BITCH.