Like many Americans Nick works a standard 9-5 office job during the weekdays. Also, like many Americans Nick eats too much fast food on his lunch breaks. “Things I Put in My Mouth” will be a re-occurring blog in which Nick documents and reviews new or interesting offerings from his favorite and least favorite fast food chains.
The other day I was the dangerous combination of both hungry and poor and found myself in the Taco Bell drive through line. Say what you will about the quality of food from Taco Bell (you should say it‘s terrible) but $5.00 at Taco Bell feels like the same spending power as $50 at Wendy’s. For this reason I ordered the Quesorito Big Box, which features the eponymous Quesorito, a Doritos Locos Nacho Cheese Taco, a regular taco, and a medium drink.
The Quesorito is a new(er) item on the Taco Bell menu, so let’s check out what the Taco Bell website has to say about the Quesorito for those of you who have both the sense and dignity never to eat at Taco Bell.
“[It’s] the best of a quesadilla and burrito rolled into one! It’s filled with seasoned beef, premium Latin rice, Chipotle sauce, reduced-fat sour cream, and then wrapped up in a grilled quesadilla loaded with melted cheeses.”
If you look at the picture on the website, it actually looks, dare I say, not terrible. Beef, rice, a little chipotle sauce for a zesty kick, some sour
cream, and a thin amount of cheese. I concede, in no way is it healthy for me, but if I wanted toasted salmon over baby arugula I wouldn’t be eating my meal out of a goddamn box. And so it is I pay for my cardboard intestinal disaster waiting to happen and return to my office desk to dig in and experience the joys of the Quesorito.
I will say this right away: there are few times in my life I can recall when I have been hungry and then after taking, without exaggeration, one single bite of food I immediately stopped being hungry. The Quesorito was so shockingly disgusting I didn’t just become not hungry anymore. I became negative hungry. I loss the will to eat for the rest of the day, and perhaps the rest of my life.
Where to begin? The cheese, oh god the cheese. It’s shittiness is omnipresent and unyielding. The denseness and sheer volume of cheese which coats your mouth upon biting into the Quesorito is like having a giant spoonful of peanut butter, but replace the peanut butter with neon stadium nacho cheese and then add some more cheese.
And don’t think for a moment that there’s anything to break up that cheese taste. With the exception of the thinnest black pepper-looking sprinkle of ground beef, there was no discernible taste or texture to my Quesorito. Judging by the color there was probably chipotle sauce applied at some point in the Quesoritio creation process (perhaps before they cranked it through the roof on a gurney during a lighting storm and shouted “LIVE! LIVE DAMN YOU!”) but again, the punch-to-the-face cheese taste virtually eliminates the chance you’ll ever taste anything resembling a chipotle.
Once I used one-fourth of my horse trough sized Dr. Pepper to try and wash out the taste of rapidly coagulating neon cheese from my mouth and throat I decided (foolishly) to try another bite. Perhaps, I thought, it was simply an error in cheese distribution. Perhaps like on an airline flight, cargo had shifted during travel and all the cheese had somehow migrated to the front of the Quesorito during the 2-minute drive back to my office.
But no, I was wrong. My second bite was just as bad as the first. I’m not even sure if they put rice in my Quesorito, or if they did perhaps the cheese had annexed it like a cruel orange dictator imposing its will on the sad proletariat rice. I no longer cared to know. I had another gulp of Dr. Pepper and summarily rounded up my big box and threw it into the big dumpster behind my work.The pangs of my hunger until dinner that day were nothing I fear in comparison to the sheer terror my stomach would have experienced had I forced my brain, teeth, and my throat to collude into carpet bombing my stomach with an entire Quesorito. Anyone who has listened to the podcast knows I’m not a perfect man, but today and for the rest of my life I can hold my head up high and smile radiantly as I proudly tell the world I have never eaten an entire Quesorito.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve noticed people posting their Myers-Briggs test results on Facebook. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It seems like herpes where it flares up every so often. Can we develop a Valtrex for stupid Facebook shit?
Just for the record, posting your Myers-Briggs score is about the same as posting your astrological sign reading for the day. Those little blurbs they give you at the end of the test, “You are [blah blah] but also [blah blah] and sometimes you [blah blah] but also like to [blah blah]“ are written so vaguely they could apply to most everyone. I bet if I deleted all the INTJENFP letters off the top of the page, you couldn’t tell me which is which.
And that’s not even taking into account the criticisms of Myers-Briggs from actual scientists and psychologists who call the test “psychologically weak” and note the test doesn’t hold up under statistical scrutiny. Also, because it’s a self reporting test subjects often feel the need to answer the way they “should” rather than the way they actually feel, making its results dubious at best.
The Myers-Briggs test is a fun little plaything if you’ve got a few minutes and want to learn something very general about yourself (assuming you answer truthfully) but it’s amazing to me how many very serious and rational friends I have on Facebook who would never ascribe to bullshit like numerology or astrology who post the results of their Myers-Briggs score as if it matters. I suspect part of it has to do with the correlated number of my introverted friends who use the test to bolster their claim of introvertedness. “See guys! This Very Official Test™ agrees with me!”
Ultimately, I suppose, for most Facebook users the Myers-Briggs results are a harmless blip on their lunch break at work and only used, like hundreds other Facebook quizzes, memes, and photos to drown out the mind numbing monotony and unyielding tedium of the modern American workday, but for those few who take the Myers-Briggs seriously I would like to point out you don’t have to take a test to learn something about yourself. Learning about yourself involves getting out of your comfort zone, trying that new restaurant, traveling to that place you‘ve always talked about, meeting new kinds of people and experiencing life authentically and outside of the way you’ve diagnosed yourself–and that applies no matter whether you’re an ISTJ, ENFP, or anything in between.
“It’s the glamour that kills.” Yeah, ok so it’s a quote from post-hardcore, emo, Christian band He Is Legend. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. What’s happening to us? I suppose the truth is that this has been a long time coming.
What I’m talking about here is what has become our obsession with every moment needing to be the BEST ONE EVER!!! I’m the not the first one to tap into this cultural atrocity. Aziz Ansari has touched upon this idea before with his “Best Night Of Your Life” bit. It’s awesome becomes because it’s apt. I’m talking about things like YOLO, which I suppose was originally about living life to the fullest. However, judging by hash tag trends it seems to be about how you’re experiencing the most crazy fun time ever. If that seems off base, look to the vicious cycle of Facebook. So much of the social media experience has become about posting pictures of yourself having the most BADASS time at the club or in Europe or whatever it is you feel you need to show people to validate you’re “BEST NIGHT EVER” life. (more…)
Even at the site of a computer, I can feel the primal forces drive me to adjust myself in the sudden tightness of my jeans. I want to think of nothing but work and productivity. I mean, I have things to do. “The problem is,” I think as I break a sweat, “it all has to happen in the same place.” It’s a mixture of both work and pleasure.
As I seat myself, my face boils over. Quaky hands rest their fingers on the keys. The tak tak tak of the typing resonates, my fingers the hammer sounding the bell. It begins. I hear it. The inconvenient burden of my masculinity. The yelping of the dog eager to go outside and play. My work will only keep my hands busy for so long. My rational side tells me I can beat this, but my limbic impulses tell me I’ve already made the decision. I race for a stick of chewing gum attempting to trade one fixation for another.
Regardless of the job you hate, despite your life going in a direction antithetical to your aspirations, and although you’ve become disappointingly stagnant, there are still some joys in being an adult. One in particular is being able to laugh at children, especially if you’re taking advantage of their naiveté and gullibility. The great thing about the juvenile population is that they’re still trying to figure out the world and they rely on adult guidance. Too bad it’ll be years before they realize that their parents were probably wrong more times than not and that grown ups are incredibly flawed. However, if an adult has to put up with any child’s bullshit, there has got to be some compensation in return. Schadenfreude makes a good payment and anyone with a sense of humor will except it as legal tender.
I for one am not a parent, so the list of internet cruelty I’ve compiled is really just a sadistic queue of child exploitation in which a nice doobie makes for an excellent companion during a slack filled Friday evening. Personally, I was fucked with a lot as a child. As I would play in the den, my mother would dress as a stranger, sneak out of her bedroom window, and slam on the sliding glass door near the living room as if she was trying to break in. On many occassions she would slip a VHS of Pee Wee’s Big Adventure into the VCR during Saturday morning cartoons. The movie would begin playing just before Large Marge did her car wreck face and it would scare the shit out of me. The list of pranks goes on, but you know what? I’d give anything to see a tape of my dumb fuck face as I wailed in terror. You know why? Because it’s funny. It’s funny to scare people. Even more than that, it’s funny to scare dumb shits who really buy into the fear you’re selling. And besides scaring people, it’s also funny to watch people get hurt. Little, clumsy shits with dillettante motor skills learning that life entails more failure and suffering than pleasure and success is a hilarious romp. So roll yourself a fat one and check out this list of savagery I’ve compiled for our macabre, comedic sensibilities.
There’s the expression “One foot in the grave” idiomatically signifying that someone is close to dying and it’s primarily directed towards the elderly or the ailing. However, I don’t think it would sufficiently cover someone a step or two close to killing themselves. I can’t think of what a phrase like that could be. Perhaps, “Time to pop my top” or “Ready to color your wrists red.”
Whatever that colloquialism is, that’s exactly who this video is for. Whoever needs buy this DVD is the exact paragon for which the phrase would be meant to pigeon hole that gloomy kid whose hope is running on empty, but still seeks some desperate placebo that might change it all around. Kind of like when God spoke to Lot in Genesis asking, “Give me one fucking reason not to burn this whole place to the ground.” Except in our case, it’s a person grasping at straws in the nihilistically bleak universe, not seeing a reason to put in more quarters and give life a round two… unless of course someone could tell me, “Without me, the puzzle is incomplete.” Paradoxically, and somewhat conveniently, it may also serve as an affirmation exercise to move forward with your suicide. You know, in case you realize the nadir you’ve reached by even buying the disc. Boy, that’s a moment of clarity.
You know what, maybe the expression can be “Cheers to You.”
On the rare occasion I find myself on Facebook, I like to check out Mr. Bob Jones’ wall to see what sort of internet curio he has managed to stumble upon. I recently came across this link, which has become the crux of this rant article. So basically you have Christopher in strong pursuit, and Kitty seemingly putting him in his place. Yeah, it’s pretty funny. But being the over thinker I am, I started to feel bad for Christopher because he was hit with an unequivocal brunt force that was seemingly uncalled for based on the actual level of his transgressions. I’m not defending the guy so much as I’m laying out a reasonable argument that he could actually be the victim here.
The truth is that there’s an argument for both. This scenario comes down to two issues: (1) Women have to deal with men hitting on them strongly or frequently (2) The changing mores of our gender dynamics creates a strong dissonance in our dating culture. While I’d like to lay out an argument in favor of Kitty, I’m pretty sure you can guess what Chris did wrong. I mean, he starts with fedora and trench coat and it all goes south from there. Most of you have already deduced he’s a touch pushy, he comes off strong, and he’s throwing some heavy shit down with a line like “I’ll worship you.” So on Kitty’s note, I’ll state the obvious: Women are quite often approached by men and sometimes they like it and sometimes it’s a nuisance….and other times it’s harassment to the point where she might fear for her safety. Was that really the case here? Nah, if anything Christopher was just pestering her. (more…)