Noodles are life.

“I feel like crap on toast.”

That is my favorite quote to describe a really bad hangover. It was originally said by Michelle from the Gilmore Girls (a male character, but he’s French so it doesn’t count).

Dear readers, I have some vital advice for you today. If you have people over, and your roommate brings home a half gallon of Jack Daniels (the greatest of all beverages ever), and someone sets up a bitchin’ game of Guitar Hero, do NOT think, “I will drink this tasty whiskey and be a total bad ass on Guitar Hero, but I will not eat any dinner. WILD STALLIONS!” Especially don’t do this if you have to be awake for your terrible job that literally (and I say this with no hyperbole, a first for this zlog) makes you think about killing yourself every.single.motherfucking.day.

Yeah...I did. I woke up at about 4:30 in the morning (two and a half hours before I had to get up for my stupid shit, soul crushing job) and thought I had died. Not that I was dying, that I had literally died and that being dead hurt a WHOLE FUCKING LOT.

Fortunately, one of my roommates had made noodley stuffs for him and the two other people that were still up. Unfortunately for one of those people, I stole most of their food. Well, stole with consent. They looked at me and said, “Ohhhh, you look sick.” “Uhhh.” I then grabbed the bowl out of his hand and ate it while apologizing. To which he replied, “No problem, you obviously need it more.” I ate about three quarters of it (I am SO FUCKING GENEROUS) and went right back to bed. Those noodles saved my fucking life (something that has happened more than once to me in my time).

So yeah, I spent my day at working wanting to die, for physical on top of just the normal, cubicle related reasons. I would have fucking killed for an opiate. Killed anything, not just a human. If some guy was like, “Kill that elk over there and you can have this handful of oxycontin.” That elk would be going the fuck down. With my hands, because fashioning a weapon would take away oxy time.

So yeah, my message today is: eat. Eat often and well. Don’t eat stupid flavorless shit just because it’s supposedly “good” for you, don’t eat only crap because you think it makes you cool, don’t not eat because you think people actually care what you look like, and definitely don’t refrain from eating because Mr. Jack Daniels (or any other commercial brand) tells you it’ll be totally cool if you don’t. It will not be cool. In fact, you will feel the opposite of “cool.” What’s the opposite of cool? Oh yeah, whatever is happening in my stomach right now.

I'm Cautiously Optimistic You Couldn't Get Any Stupider.

The long awaited haiku results are finally in and the winner is...POONTANG83. Like it was even a competition, he’s named after my favorite food. Princess blah blah blah wasn’t even in the running because she’s a vegan and vegan’s fail at life. Even vegans hate vegans. That’s why they deny themselves meat and dairy. That’s a level of self-loathing I can’t even begin to comprehend. Ok ok, I know what she’s going to say, “But I’m a VEGETARIAN now.” Just because you fail and failure doesn’t make you a success.

Moving on. The economy, am I right? Eh? Eh? Ok, the economy blows, but you know what blows just as much? Everyone writing about the economy. I swear if I read the term “cautiously optimistic” one more time, I’m going to punch a baby in its spine. Every fucking market “expert” is “cautiously optimistic” about their respective industry. “No one can buy houses, but I’m cautiously optimistic 2010 will see gains.” “Lending is frozen, but we’re cautiously optimistic the banks will rebound in the coming months.” “The top car industry executives are cashing in cans and sexual favors to buy food, but I’m cautiously optimistic the new era of the American auto industry is upon us.” “Cautiously optimistic” apparently means “SHIT FUCK BALLS we’re screwed.”

No. The Toastygod is here to translate, YET AGAIN. “Cautiously optimistic” means “it can’t get any worse.” Seriously guys. We don’t need a bunch of fucking MBA douchebags to tell any of us that either the economy is going to get better, or we all better start training for Thunder Dome. It’s either be “cautiously optimistic” that civilization will continue, or start hording water in your underground bunker. And we all know that most business executives are worth less than ball sweat on both the slave labor and sex markets.

And that’s advice you can take to the bank.

Actually, don’t go to the bank. Those places are money death. Money under the mattress FTW!

Iron Poet.

Hey there loyal readers (the loyal ones are the prettiest by the way).  The Toastygod is hungover tired today and so I've decided to host the very first Comment Contest of Cozy Delight.  Today's challenge:   haiku!

Here's how it works:  leave your haikus in the comments and I will pick the one I like best.  The judging criteria is nothing more or less than my arbitrary whim and whatever mood I'm in when I read them.  The winner will get the much coveted Mad Props of the Toastygod (redeemable for praise, admiration, and the divine right to rule small island nations) , a get out of lame free card (perfect for those unfortunate acts of accidental lameness), and a pie.  Unless I don't know you in person or you don't live in my town, in which case you get Props, card, and picture of a pie.  I assure you it will look delicious.

Let Battle Haiku begin!

Allez Cuisine!

Note: To see other submissions, please see the mirror zlog at toastygod.wordpress.com

It's Not a Namesake, It's Blasphemy.

I need to clear something up for everyone. Toast is fucking lame. Toast was sent to the world by the evil forces of frigidity to give my name a bad reputation. It takes something as innocuous as bread and something as pure and right as warmth and transforms them into MOUTH SHREDDING TERROR!

And think about it: toast is just overcooked bread. When someone overcooks chicken everyone is all, “Oh this chicken is overcooked, it’s dry and tasteless. I would prefer not to eat chicken like this again.” But when bread is cooked to the point of being dry and tasteless, everyone is like, “OMG, I think I just came. Let’s eat this EVERY FUCKING MORNING!”

…I hate everyone so very very much.

Did people really think this up on their own? Of course not. It’s a plot, by those that would oppose me. I’m pretty sure dentists had something to do with it. Who wants your mouth to be in blood-soaked agony? Dentists. I hate dentists. One yelled at my little sister (Toasty Mini-Wheats) once and I have to drill out his eyes. True story.

So toast has propagated itself to every corner of the globe. What pisses me off the most is when you get no warning of a toast attack. I’ll sit down at a restaurant or deli and order a tasty sammich. I’m sitting there all thinking, “Oh man, I can’t wait for this sammich. It’s going to taste so good.” Then BAM, they throw down what should be my delicious symphony of meat and cheese (let’s face it, the bread is only there as packaging) and instead it’s a steaming pile of burnt bread. What the fuck are you supposed to do with that? It’s sadistic. You can only stare at the savory sammich insides, trapped in a prison of impenetrable, stone-like bread. You are left with few options:

1) Starve.

2) Take the insides out of the sammich and eat it with a fork, totally defeating the purpose of a sammich. Also, because toast is so fucking dry and selfish, it soaks up a lot of the sauce and juice, leaving shriveled husks where juicy morsels of cholesterol should be.

3) Beat the toast monstrosity against the table, breaking it into pieces small enough to fit in your mouth, which you can then suck on like a piece of hard candy. Bread flavored hard candy. Fucking yum.

4) You can TRY to bite into the thing. That can only end in tears.

Restaurants that ask, “Would you like that toasted?” crack me up because it’s like asking “Would you like me to stab you in the roof of your mouth?” or “Your gums aren’t bleeding, let me help you with that.” Yeah no guys, thanks I’m good, your girlfriends insist I keep my mouth in perfect working order. But at least they ask. Even if it’s on the menu I can lead a preemptive strike of, “Seriously don’t toast that shit.” But when there is no warning at all. This is why, no matter where I go or what I order I tell them, “Not toasted.” “I’d like a PB&J, not toasted.” (Yes I order those at restaurants) “I’ll take a Whopper with Cheese, not toasted.” “Vanilla malt please, not toasted.” Mmmmmm, malts. I haven’t had one of those in forever. It’s the perfect mid-morning snack. Ok, I’ll see you guys at the ice cream parlor. I’ll be the one ordering my milkshake, “Malted, but not toasted.”

Get a Real Job.

So everyone needs to get off my nuts about posting. I’ve been in prison and the internet there was spotty at best. “Prison Toastygod?” Yes, prison. “What for?” Glad you asked. I had to kill a man. I’m not exaggerating, I HAD to kill him. He clearly did not want to live. How do I know?Because he was one of those fucking guys that stands on the street corner trying to get your credit card number to save the whales or trees or children or some other ambiguous group that you will never see and can therefore not validate 1) their existence, 2) their need for your money, or 3) the effect your money is or (more probably) is not having on their plight. Taking this job is tantamount to shoving a gun in your mouth. It’s beyond a cry for help, nothing can help now, it’s a cry for someone to fucking kill you.

I used to just tell these people, “Get a real job.” And when they’d be all, “What do you mean?” I’d break it down for them:

“Real businesses offer goods and services that people want. They market themselves and then interested parties seek them out for said goods and services. Customers come to them, they don’t force themselves on anyone stupid enough to go outside. You try to hock the intangible commodities of ‘good karma’ to people who are at best apathetic to you and your cause and at worst hate you for your intrusion into their lives.You are nothing more than snake oil salesmen mixed with panhandlers. But at least most pan handlers will dance or sing or make a sign or say ‘please’ so they have somehow earned my meager contribution. You earn nothing but my scorn and are a blight on all of society. Your existence shames humanity.”

At this point they are speechless from the ruination I just dealt them so I tip my top hat and walk away with a jaunty spring in my step that says, “I’m so much better than you in every way.” My treatment of them has probably led to many an inevitable suicide (I inspire people with the courage to kill themselves), but, admittedly, I have never had to resort to actual murder before. And this was murder. I didn’t just kill him, I murdered him. Premeditated style.

He would not stop talking to me. I tried to walk away, he blocked my path. I told him to fuck off he said, “I will, just sponsor a child, fish, acre, unicorn first.” Then he did the unthinkable. The sin for which no one escapes my realm unscathed. He hugged me. He was some stupid hippie fuck that thought everyone should just get along. He was all, “Here have a hug for your trouble” and the next thing I know he’s leaning in to FUCKING TOUCH ME.

I don’t know what happened next. I went into blind smiting mode. I woke up in a jail cell covered in blood. They tell me there wasn’t enough of the guy left for the family to bury. They’re going to have to fill the coffin with his black light wall art and Grateful Dead CDs. I said nothing, because everyone knows you never talk to cops. EVER. You hear me loyal readers. Let Toastygod give you this life lesson. NEVER TALK TO COPS. For any reason. They could be behind you in line in the Krispy Kreme, and they’d say, “Nice day isn’t it?” and you’d say “Yeah. Sunny.” And the all of a sudden you’re on the floor, coming to after a taze to the temple. True story.

Ok so now you may be wondering, “Well then how DID you get out of jail?” Why do you have to be all up in my kool aid? But I’ll tell you anyway. I waited until they charged me and I went to court. The judge asked for my plea and I said “Not guilty by reason of that guy was a hippie douchebag with a clipboard who wanted my money and a hug.” And the judge said, “Wait, from Children International?”

“Probably.”

“Case dismissed!”

And now I’m free and back on the streets to spread my even-handed justice and make this world a better, more hippie-free place. You’re welcome.

Star Trek TNG = MARRIAGE

I have recently discovered Hulu. Be glad I post at all. Now that I have almost every TV show imaginable (no Mr. Belvedere WTF?) I have no need for anything else, like food or sunlight or gainful employment. I can watch any Survivorman, in any order, without commercials whenever I want. THAT IS THE TRUE MEANING OF POWER. Survivorman is the cute little Canadian guy that goes out and is all badass on nature. He makes outside his bitch. He's like Mcgyver, but without technology and with something to lose.

Survivorman (aka The Rugged) is not to be mistaken for not-survivorman, Bear Grylls (The Pussy). Just because you name yourself "bear", doesn't mean you're a "top." Notsurvivorman hosts the show "Man vs. Wild" which should be renamed "strolling with an idiot."

Where Survivorman survives 7 days in the harshest environments on the planet, notsurvivorman (no we don't capitalize his name, he hasn't earned capitalization) just kind of strolls around and after about 10 feet he has his crew take him home. Granted, that 10 feet is always straight up. Because apparently if he gets stranded in a survival situation, he wants to die in any manner of the lamest ways possible. Get caught on a mountain or other high elevation? Clearly, you should start climbing. Because all societies build their villages at the tip top of a mountain, where there is no air or resources. Also, climbing is a great use of your energy, as opposed to the much more strenuous controlled falling. Got it. Dick.

Survivorman has an impressive resume of being a badass. His resume literally says, in big letters, BADASS. Not many people have earned that title. Notsuvivorman was a french girl scout, as far as my research can find. He also failed out for pouting and taking his clothes off at completely unnecessary times.

Notsurvivorman show formula:

1) Talk about how, though it may LOOK like he's at a Wolfgang Puck's, the conditions (he assures us) are brutal.

2) Start climbing a mountain for no discernible reason with nothing more than a columbia jacket and a pair of sketchers.

3) Make some big deal about eating something that's only mildly gross. "Oh no, i must eat this earth worm" *face that mimics what one would look like if one had to eat one's own mother's liver that had just been ripped violently from her as one looked on in horror and is 8 years old, cuz seriously, that guy crys like a little bitch* Btw, any kid that went to grade school ate a damn earth worm (willingly or no). YOU'RE NOT COOL!

4) Crew brings sammich from Kraft services.

5) Nakey (swimming in leach invested water, wander around snow covered moor, fish for sharks with his tiny worm penis).

FIN!

Also, he gives TERRIBLE survival advice.

Notsurvivorman: Sometimes you have to drink your own pee. Mmmmmm man pee.

Survivorman (in perfect baritone with burly chest heaving): NEVER DRINK YOUR PEE!!!!!!!

Then Survivorman would show you a way to get the water from your pee using nothing but saran wrap and pure manliness.

Hulu has all of this to offer and more. Including all seven seasons of Star Trek: TNG. If you don't know what this is, or if you haven't seen every episode, then you have not truly lived and society should shun you until you are a real person. I firmly believe that if I ever get roped into marriage, I don't want a wedding ring, I want all 7 seasons (plus extra scenes and commentary) on DVD. A ring is like, "Oh look, there's that ring again, it's kind of shiny." Whereas Star Trek TNG is like, "OMFG! I forgot about the one where Riker bones Troi AND Roe. Mad props to your skills, player." The ring gives like a few random seconds of nostalgic stirrings for what adds up to several minutes of something that approximates joy during your whole life. TNG gives you HOURS AND HOURS OF AWESOME. Personally, I'd want my spouse to associate me with the orgasmic joy and pure awesome TNG offers over the appreciation of slight aesthetic sparkly that a ring has to offer. But maybe that's just me.

Ok, I've been away from Hulu for like an hour now. I'm starting to shake and sweat and the Silver Spoons theme song is softening in my head. SILVER SPOONS WHAT A GREAT IDEA! I'm full of those.

Obligatory Lost Post.

So to have a blog you have to have a certain amount of posts dedicated to the show Lost. Or the blog police come and beat your dog then throw you in a dungeon where you wear an iron mask and have only the moonlight and your desperation for sustenance. I've had my lawyers on it for weeks, but apparently the same rule applies to zlogs. Someone will pay dearly for this.

But until then, I guess I'll write about Lost, or as I have re-named it "Meaningful Glances." This is a much more pertinent name in that approximately 95% of all communication from character to character, character to audience, and character to random shrubbery is through nothing more than meaningful glances. Hear a weird noise? Meaningful glance. See a weird statute? Meaningful glance. Have your heart eaten by a random polar bear? Round of meaningful glances by everyone on the island. I expect that if something truly huge happened (like, I don't know, any plot point gets explained at all) the meaningful glance would be so epic, that it would extend into several generations to come. Every child born of a Lost character would emerge from the womb with a meaningful glance on its face. It would be met by the meaningful glances of its parents and would in turn welcome its children into the world with a meaningful glance, and so on, in perpetuity.

The use of the meaningful glance (perfected by so many a daytime soap) becomes clear when considering the fact that the entirety of Lost dialogue consists of random phrases said (often shouted) emphatically. When you're working with, "You can do it! I believe in you!" as the most profound statement in an episode or the riveting exchange of:

"You got my back?"

"I got your back. You got my back?"

"I got your back."

"Who got back?"

"Baby got back."

A glance may need to fill in the blanks.

And I know that the show is supposed to be full of "mystery" and "intrigue," but the biggest mystery to me is why these people just blindly follow whatever some douchebag tells them.

"Go back to the desolate island you finally escaped from." "Hmmm, I always wanted to die of diphtheria."

"You're special." "That's what my mom always said."

"Don't worry about that whole death thing, just shoot yourself in the damn head." *bang*

Seriously I wish I could find a group of people this gullible. And before someone argues, "But they've been right every time" let me just clear something up. You're an idiot. In what possible way has this all worked out for them? A prominent doctor became a drug addict, a whiney cunt is raising someone else's baby, and everyone else is either dead, dying, wanted by the cops, or just sort of mysteriously disappeared. Yeah every thing's great on magical, fuck-me-in-the-ass-til-it-bleeds-and-i'll-ask-for-more-because-i'm-an-idiot island. I'm just going to tell people to do random, arbitrary shit until I find a group of people that make me their sovereign. "Buy a bucket of salamanders." "Don't use your left foot today." "Slam your head into that wall." Apparently there are people that will do this shit unquestioningly, and they are trapped on a time skipping island. I'm not really sure if that's a good or bad thing.

There are also TOO MANY FUCKING CHARACTERS! I renamed them all (with better and much more badass names) in an attempt to keep them straight and make them suck less. An exhaustive list would take up the entire bandwidth of the internet so I'll just list a few in this post (more later, if you're good):

Jack: Party of Five

Kate: Degrassi (because she always looks like she's about to cry. Seriously, if Sawyer leaves
Juliette for her I swear I will punch the entire writing team in their obviously flaccid penises).

Hurley: Becker. Yes he was on that show. Yes he was. Look it up. Pwned.

Locke (and how completely not subtle is that name. It's a philosopher too, we get it. LAME.): Survivorman (there is no greater honor. Shit, why am I now writing a post on Survivorman right now? Stay tuned).

Michael: Oz

Walt: Little Oz.

Shannon: Soroi-slut

Boone: Jordan Catalano

Ok, that's more than enough for now. You get the point.

I have to say though, for my money, if I was stuck on that island I would totally be sleeping in Becker's (Hurley for those of you that are stupid) tent. He would keep me warm, he's got tons of money for booze and hookers when we get off the island and are inevitable best friends, he looks like a proficient cuddler, and he would make for an excellent shield in case of zombie apocalypse. Because zombies make every thing cooler.