Wax did not hurt me.
Duchess enjoyed smooth outcome.
But, hair now ingrown.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Weekly Wager Starring R Von D: Update
I would like to update you in regards to my first wager through the majesty of Haiku:
Wax did not hurt me.
Duchess enjoyed smooth outcome.
But, hair now ingrown.
Wax did not hurt me.
Duchess enjoyed smooth outcome.
But, hair now ingrown.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Weekly Wager Starring R Von D: Week 2
First, from Wikipedia:
Water intoxication (also known as hyperhydration or water poisoning) is a potentially fatal disturbance in brain functions that results when the normal balance of electrolytes in the body is pushed outside of safe limits by over-consumption of water.[1] Normal, healthy (both physically and nutritionally) individuals have little to worry about accidentally consuming too much water. Nearly all deaths related to water intoxication in normal individuals have resulted either from water drinking contests, in which individuals attempt to consume more than 10 liters (2.2 imp gal; 2.6 U.S. gal) of water over the course of just a few minutes, or long bouts of intensive exercise during which electrolytes are not properly replenished, yet massive amounts of fluid are still consumed.
The Challenge:
Drink two gallons of water in two hours.
The Payoff:
$20.00
Now, you'd think this is easy enough right? You'd think this would be a no-brainer for me, right? Well you're wrong, and without giving too much away I will tell you that this is the first challenge in recent memory that did not come to fruition. Yes, ladies and gentleman. I, who at one point, drank entire pint glasses of hot sauce, have eaten a soy sauce and sour skittle sandwich, and have scarfed live sea urchin to impress an ex-girlfriends father, have come undone. What is the arrow that struck the Achilles Heel of R Von D...fucking water.
As we were sitting at home one night, Fussy Joe brings this challenge to me after a night out with Mr. Guy. If he hasn't been mentioned yet in this blog, you should know that about six months ago, on my 27th birthday, I met Mr. Guy. All I can tell you about this person is that he loves betting money and in terms of his psyche, he is clinging to the last essence of what it is to be a human being. Think of that person in high school that convinced you to do stupid shit and made it sound like the coolest thing you've ever done. Now picture that person with a limitless supply of alcohol and smokeless tobacco and there you have Mr. Guy, the man who offered me five thousand dollars to be on the receiving end of a Viagra-infused phallus...dead serious.
Anyway, Joe comes home and tells me of this water concoction that he and Mr. Guy have come up with. The original idea was to have me tape two gallons to my hands until they were gone. But me being the bet enthusiast that I am, I decided that the Edward (Insert Beverage)Hands was cliche. We also didn't have any tape...so me holding them would have to do. I sat down at 10:55pm and had until roughly 1:00am to finish the jugs (that's what she said). I decided that pacing myself was the best option, as prior milk challenges have gone south for me in regards to the alternative.
Skip ahead 45 minutes and my stomach is cramping so badly that I have to stand up and take the first of my many pisses that night. Truth be told, I woke up every hour that night and had to do the "dick dance" all the way to the bathroom as to not pee myself. You know the dick dance right? The one you used to do when you were 3 when you were getting yelled at or just got a new Nintendo cartridge.
(ed. note: I just felt like saying the word cartridge, and have a deep personal feeling that our economy is as bad as it is today because more things aren't offered in cartridge form)
So there I am, stomach cramping, girlfriend glaring at me, and Fussy Joe wearing that ear-to-ear shit-eating grin of his, and I decide to call it a night. Several things were running through my head in that instant, and I will share them with you in order of importance.
1. I drank so much beer and ate so much Chinese food on New Year's Eve the week before that I almost threw up on Duchess Von D. A repeat performance would almost certainly seal my fate into the world where my only means of gratification would be watching late-night Cinemax.
2. I had just consumed a bottle of wine, garlic and spinach pizza, and some carrots and hummus earlier that day, none of which would feel good about seeing again on both physical and psychological levels.
3. I surmised while watching her on my television, that Angelina's Jolie's lips must feel like two fleshy pillows filled with sunshine dust and rainbows. We were watching "Wanted" at the time...good flick.
4. I heard about this lady who died from Water Intoxication (See Above) in a "Hold your Wee for a Wii) contest. Maybe I should stop...
So to sum up, I gave in, and so-the-fuck-what? Twenty bucks wasn't worth the puke nor the the effort of self-gratification to Bikini Carwash 8. I'm too old for that and sadly I wasn't getting a new video game console for my effort. So until next week, this is R Von D reminding you that money makes the world go 'round and I'm broke as shit.
Urinatingly Yours,
Ron Von Don
Monday, January 5, 2009
2009: The Year of Von D
So I quit my job.
There that is. As you may or may not know I left my teaching position to come to Boston (Waltham) in search of money and women. The latter is taken care of, the former is very much not. And so, I have taken another position in the world of personal finance, vowing never again to venture into the world of retail advertising sales. Sure, that sounds really cool, and sure I got some free dinners out of that job, but at the end of the day, everybody in that profession stinks.
I've also gotten fat.
There has been much said in this blog about my height and weight. So much so that it has finally vaulted me into action. No longer will I take heat from my friends as they reminisce about what I used to look like, how I used to be active, and how I used to be able to beat people up. I will contest the third thing until the day I die (probably in a fist fight with a close friend), but you have to wonder about two out of three of those things.
It is also a new year. And since my pathetic planets seem to be in complete alignment, it is now time to act: 2009 is officially the year of Von D. Now what that means for you, dear reader is that you now have a front row seat to the greatest transformation of all time, slightly edging out the first time Optimus Prime was on screen in "Transformers." I have taken the necessary steps to get myself into better positions financially, physically, and emotionally so it's time for me to rock and roll.
I will not share with you my income, for that is rude and dumb, but I will share with you with as much specificity as possible, my weight fluctuation during this entire 90 day endeavor. Why 90 days you ask? Well, because the Duchess was good enough to burn me copies of P90X, and true to it's name, it takes 90 days...retard. I will also be keeping a food log the entire time, so I can tell you what I eat during the week. Overkill? Maybe. Self-indulgent? Definitely. But this is my blog and I do what I want with it. And I'm on a "Weekly Update" kick these days, so just be happy that this thing is still getting updated as The Fridge, K-Rock, Dana Complaina, and the C have much better things to do...so they say.
Starting Weight/Current Weight: 237 lbs
Target Weight: 195 lbs
Now, I would say that 99% of the people who read this know me and think that there is about a snowball's chance in hell that I will complete this task. But think about what has happened in the past couple of months: We have our first black president of the United States, my beloved Bruins are in first place, the 11-5 Patriots did NOT make the playoffs, and the list could go on...stranger shit has in fact happened.
I'll see you all on the other side. God help us all.
Still fat,
R Von D
There that is. As you may or may not know I left my teaching position to come to Boston (Waltham) in search of money and women. The latter is taken care of, the former is very much not. And so, I have taken another position in the world of personal finance, vowing never again to venture into the world of retail advertising sales. Sure, that sounds really cool, and sure I got some free dinners out of that job, but at the end of the day, everybody in that profession stinks.
I've also gotten fat.
There has been much said in this blog about my height and weight. So much so that it has finally vaulted me into action. No longer will I take heat from my friends as they reminisce about what I used to look like, how I used to be active, and how I used to be able to beat people up. I will contest the third thing until the day I die (probably in a fist fight with a close friend), but you have to wonder about two out of three of those things.
It is also a new year. And since my pathetic planets seem to be in complete alignment, it is now time to act: 2009 is officially the year of Von D. Now what that means for you, dear reader is that you now have a front row seat to the greatest transformation of all time, slightly edging out the first time Optimus Prime was on screen in "Transformers." I have taken the necessary steps to get myself into better positions financially, physically, and emotionally so it's time for me to rock and roll.
I will not share with you my income, for that is rude and dumb, but I will share with you with as much specificity as possible, my weight fluctuation during this entire 90 day endeavor. Why 90 days you ask? Well, because the Duchess was good enough to burn me copies of P90X, and true to it's name, it takes 90 days...retard. I will also be keeping a food log the entire time, so I can tell you what I eat during the week. Overkill? Maybe. Self-indulgent? Definitely. But this is my blog and I do what I want with it. And I'm on a "Weekly Update" kick these days, so just be happy that this thing is still getting updated as The Fridge, K-Rock, Dana Complaina, and the C have much better things to do...so they say.
Starting Weight/Current Weight: 237 lbs
Target Weight: 195 lbs
Now, I would say that 99% of the people who read this know me and think that there is about a snowball's chance in hell that I will complete this task. But think about what has happened in the past couple of months: We have our first black president of the United States, my beloved Bruins are in first place, the 11-5 Patriots did NOT make the playoffs, and the list could go on...stranger shit has in fact happened.
I'll see you all on the other side. God help us all.
Still fat,
R Von D
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Weekly Wager Starring R Von D
Okay so after a lot of positive feedback from the food eating wager, which I apologize for not finishing by the way, the Pen15 Family has decided to make it our regular thing.
And so, we've decided as a house to start the R Von D weekly wager. The rules are simple, the results are hopefully pleasurable for our readers. So without further adieu, our first bet.
For those of you who aren't aware of it, I've had a tough history throughout my life of not being able to turn down money or bets. Remember in "Back to the Future" when somebody would call Marty McFly a chicken and he'd lose his mind and inevitably do something dumb? Well, I'm kinda like that minus the cool Nikes and the Parkinsons. So Fussy Joe and I are sitting around the house one day and up comes the converstation regarding body waxing and personal male house keeping. Fuss then asks me how much it would cost me to get a full brazillian wax. Ever the one to High-ball myself, I tell him that a mere forty dollars and the cost of the wax would be sufficient funds for me to sport the "immaculate canvas" so to speak.
So weeks go by and nothing is said until Fussy decides it would be a good idea to start dating a cosmetolegist who actually does waxing and whatever the hell those people do. He then tells her of our little wager and the meager means it would take for me to complete this task. She, of course, tells me I'm out of my mind and it would hurt more than anything I've ever experienced in my life. Really, when are you people going to realize that telling me I can't do something only strengthens my resolve. So, I decide that on that day, not only am I going to take this bet and win it, but I'm also going to do it for every man in the world who gets told by a woman that he couldn't handle a "manzilian." Seriously if I heard once more that a woman's pain threshold far surpassed a man's, I think I would have burned somebody alive. I mean come on, men play football and drive monster trucks. Women cook dinner and sew. I win. Now, since we were in the middle of a snowstorm, and a Rite Aid was within striking distance, not only was I going to get a wax done, but I was going to do it myself. How's that for pain threshold you buch of pussies.
So there I am in Fussy Joe's barthroom stark naked save for a pair of socks, one foot up on the toilet about to make some money. The details are what you would typically imagine. Yes it hurt, yes I bled a little bit, yes I started to sweat and breathe heavy towards the end. But, was I crying like people said? Fuck no. Was that the worst thing I've ever felt? Abso-fucking-lutely not. Was it the easiest forty dollars I've ever made? You bet your ass. I even went a step further and did a large portion of my arm for another five spot. Not only that, but The Duchess was quite impressed with the job I did. So much so that I might make this a regular thing. I will say though that I will never wax my chest. I enjoy my nipple-spinach too much to get rid of it, and it is also the source of my virility...much like Samson.
And so, we've decided as a house to start the R Von D weekly wager. The rules are simple, the results are hopefully pleasurable for our readers. So without further adieu, our first bet.
For those of you who aren't aware of it, I've had a tough history throughout my life of not being able to turn down money or bets. Remember in "Back to the Future" when somebody would call Marty McFly a chicken and he'd lose his mind and inevitably do something dumb? Well, I'm kinda like that minus the cool Nikes and the Parkinsons. So Fussy Joe and I are sitting around the house one day and up comes the converstation regarding body waxing and personal male house keeping. Fuss then asks me how much it would cost me to get a full brazillian wax. Ever the one to High-ball myself, I tell him that a mere forty dollars and the cost of the wax would be sufficient funds for me to sport the "immaculate canvas" so to speak.
So weeks go by and nothing is said until Fussy decides it would be a good idea to start dating a cosmetolegist who actually does waxing and whatever the hell those people do. He then tells her of our little wager and the meager means it would take for me to complete this task. She, of course, tells me I'm out of my mind and it would hurt more than anything I've ever experienced in my life. Really, when are you people going to realize that telling me I can't do something only strengthens my resolve. So, I decide that on that day, not only am I going to take this bet and win it, but I'm also going to do it for every man in the world who gets told by a woman that he couldn't handle a "manzilian." Seriously if I heard once more that a woman's pain threshold far surpassed a man's, I think I would have burned somebody alive. I mean come on, men play football and drive monster trucks. Women cook dinner and sew. I win. Now, since we were in the middle of a snowstorm, and a Rite Aid was within striking distance, not only was I going to get a wax done, but I was going to do it myself. How's that for pain threshold you buch of pussies.
So there I am in Fussy Joe's barthroom stark naked save for a pair of socks, one foot up on the toilet about to make some money. The details are what you would typically imagine. Yes it hurt, yes I bled a little bit, yes I started to sweat and breathe heavy towards the end. But, was I crying like people said? Fuck no. Was that the worst thing I've ever felt? Abso-fucking-lutely not. Was it the easiest forty dollars I've ever made? You bet your ass. I even went a step further and did a large portion of my arm for another five spot. Not only that, but The Duchess was quite impressed with the job I did. So much so that I might make this a regular thing. I will say though that I will never wax my chest. I enjoy my nipple-spinach too much to get rid of it, and it is also the source of my virility...much like Samson.
Monday, October 6, 2008
THE GREATEST THING IN THE HISTORY OF ANYTHING
What you're about to see is the greatest internet video of all time.
In my mind this is the type of thing the internet was invented for; nearly 34 minutes of people hurting themselves, shit blowing up, and anything else that is awesome. The only thing that could make this better would be if they put a picture of my privates on this video. Because believe you me, my thing is worth all the tea in China. Nevertheless, ENJOY!
In my mind this is the type of thing the internet was invented for; nearly 34 minutes of people hurting themselves, shit blowing up, and anything else that is awesome. The only thing that could make this better would be if they put a picture of my privates on this video. Because believe you me, my thing is worth all the tea in China. Nevertheless, ENJOY!
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The Hangover Cure: An American Necessity
Sitting here on "The greatest Sunday in the history of Sundays," RvD and I have had a little discussion on hangovers. Most notably, the fact that I have not had one either of the past two Sundays. As the weather has become more "Big-Bob Friendly" according to Fussy Joe, I've noticed my enjoyment of drinking increasing. Last Saturday was the end of Josephest, and I started drinking delicious Busch Lights at around 1:30. I watched Demolition Man, Talladega Nights and played about three hours of Rock Band....all before the sun went down. We went to a karaoke bar in the evening, and around approximately hour 15 of drinking a new karaoke experience was born. My evil twin, Joe's buddy Orlando, apparently has the same taste for Budweiser fueled singing in front of a room of strange folks. R Von D, Fridge and Orlando karaoke will henceforth be known as DFO Speedwagon. RVD and I did several shots to celebrate how good we were at singing. I drank for about 12.5 hours and really thought I was doomed on Sunday morning. Woke up around 10AM and felt like $1,000,001. I actually felt GOOD.
Anywho, yesterday I walked to a local BBQ celebrating the end of my work's softball team season. I brought a 12 pack with me, figuring this would be an easy kind of night that I would only need 12 beers for and then I'd come home around midnight. Instead, I finished my backpack of beers by 10 and started drinking from the keg. I convinced 3 of my coworker pals that it would be a good idea to sneak out of the party and head down to a local watering hole. At this point I had consumed around 16 beers total, I believe. Once arriving at the Skellig, we ran into RvD and Fussy Joe. RVD and I had a heated exchange with some personal insults being hurled towards one another. (He forgot to take his crazy pills and I was being hurtful and intoxicated.) He pushed me and I accidentally bumped into a woman of small stature.
Bouncer (to Ryan): "You need to go now."
Baron Von D (to Bouncer): "I know."
Joe and I had a good chuckle at Von D's expense and thought about how much he must have been fuming on that lonely walk home. We did a celebratory shot. This put me at (best estimate) 18 beers and 2 shots as my total consumption for the evening. I took a cab to my ladyfriend's house after leaving The Skellig and slept there (I'm sure she was thrilled with my decision to show up at 1:30am smelling like stale beer and bbq food.) I didn't want Ron Von Don smothering me in my sleep. I woke up at 8:30 this morning without even a hint of a headache. I was as amazed as you are, loyal reader. I had two orange cream popsicles for breakfast and had ladyfriend stop at Starbucks so I could get some caffeine into my system.
The moral of these stories is that I for some reason have recently become completely immune to hangovers. Everybody has their own! I generally don't value anyone's opinion but my own. Today, we'll be exploring some of my close pals' own personal hangover cures.
1. MKenn
-1/2 tin of Grizzly Straight
-Rye and Ginger
-The Outdoors
-Black People Music
2. R von D
-Gatorade
-Video Games
-Anna's Taqueria
-Acute Anxiety Medication
-Being left alone
3. Duchess von D
-Pizza
-Advil
4. Gregoire
-5 mile run or 25 mile bike ride
5. Ladyfriend
-As much ice cold non-fat milk as humanly possible
6. Fussy Joe
-"The Grease"
For the longest time, I was the hangover king of the world. I used to feel so horrible after an evening of tough drinking that I would make the people around me suffer too. Even if they were strangers that I walked by in a gas station. My hangover cures used to depend on the situation I was in. If I was on a long car ride home from Connecticut or Plymouth I would usually get at least one Monster Energy Drink and put my window down regardless of the weather. Fresh air was the key component. I would rather freeze my tits off and end up with a chapped face than be overhung when I got home to my parents house and had to face their disappointment, disgust, and shame. Back in those good old days when I used to get hangovers and I didn't have a long drive ahead of me, I used to retreat to my bedroom, watch at least 2 Star Wars movies, drink gallons of water and try to overdose on multi-vitamins.
Bottom line is that we all clearly are borderline problem drinkers in that we've had enough opportunities to develop our own personal cures for hangovers. I suggest you all either copy my lifestyle exactly so that you no longer have those rough mornings or enroll in "the program" to get your life straight.
Dig,
Fridge III, Esq
Anywho, yesterday I walked to a local BBQ celebrating the end of my work's softball team season. I brought a 12 pack with me, figuring this would be an easy kind of night that I would only need 12 beers for and then I'd come home around midnight. Instead, I finished my backpack of beers by 10 and started drinking from the keg. I convinced 3 of my coworker pals that it would be a good idea to sneak out of the party and head down to a local watering hole. At this point I had consumed around 16 beers total, I believe. Once arriving at the Skellig, we ran into RvD and Fussy Joe. RVD and I had a heated exchange with some personal insults being hurled towards one another. (He forgot to take his crazy pills and I was being hurtful and intoxicated.) He pushed me and I accidentally bumped into a woman of small stature.
Bouncer (to Ryan): "You need to go now."
Baron Von D (to Bouncer): "I know."
Joe and I had a good chuckle at Von D's expense and thought about how much he must have been fuming on that lonely walk home. We did a celebratory shot. This put me at (best estimate) 18 beers and 2 shots as my total consumption for the evening. I took a cab to my ladyfriend's house after leaving The Skellig and slept there (I'm sure she was thrilled with my decision to show up at 1:30am smelling like stale beer and bbq food.) I didn't want Ron Von Don smothering me in my sleep. I woke up at 8:30 this morning without even a hint of a headache. I was as amazed as you are, loyal reader. I had two orange cream popsicles for breakfast and had ladyfriend stop at Starbucks so I could get some caffeine into my system.
The moral of these stories is that I for some reason have recently become completely immune to hangovers. Everybody has their own! I generally don't value anyone's opinion but my own. Today, we'll be exploring some of my close pals' own personal hangover cures.
1. MKenn
-1/2 tin of Grizzly Straight
-Rye and Ginger
-The Outdoors
-Black People Music
2. R von D
-Gatorade
-Video Games
-Anna's Taqueria
-Acute Anxiety Medication
-Being left alone
3. Duchess von D
-Pizza
-Advil
4. Gregoire
-5 mile run or 25 mile bike ride
5. Ladyfriend
-As much ice cold non-fat milk as humanly possible
6. Fussy Joe
-"The Grease"
For the longest time, I was the hangover king of the world. I used to feel so horrible after an evening of tough drinking that I would make the people around me suffer too. Even if they were strangers that I walked by in a gas station. My hangover cures used to depend on the situation I was in. If I was on a long car ride home from Connecticut or Plymouth I would usually get at least one Monster Energy Drink and put my window down regardless of the weather. Fresh air was the key component. I would rather freeze my tits off and end up with a chapped face than be overhung when I got home to my parents house and had to face their disappointment, disgust, and shame. Back in those good old days when I used to get hangovers and I didn't have a long drive ahead of me, I used to retreat to my bedroom, watch at least 2 Star Wars movies, drink gallons of water and try to overdose on multi-vitamins.
Bottom line is that we all clearly are borderline problem drinkers in that we've had enough opportunities to develop our own personal cures for hangovers. I suggest you all either copy my lifestyle exactly so that you no longer have those rough mornings or enroll in "the program" to get your life straight.
Dig,
Fridge III, Esq
Thursday, October 2, 2008
My Roommates Are Trying To Kill Me: Day 3
We pick up where we left off.
I got up yesterday morning to a very feminine knock on my door. I opened the door, eyes half open to see Fussy Joe standing at my door. He was smiling. Naturally I inquired as to why he was looking at me the way he was, and he then pointed to my feet where I saw a 3/4 full bottle of Pepsi with something white on the top of the dark liquid.
"Is that grated cheese?" I asked.
"Why yes, yes it is," The Fussy One said with a smile "it's got some jelly in there too."
So that was my breakfast. A bottle of Pepsi, grape jelly, grated Parmesan cheese, and just for a little kick, nine whole packets of sugar waiting for me at the bottom of the bottle. Little did this Lilliputian turd know that I have the ability to chug just about anything, so I poured the Pepsi into a pint glass and took the whole thing down like a champ. Hey, at least they turned the volume up, so to speak, and got away from the bags of sour skittles.
The rest of my day was uneventful, I almost fell asleep at my desk, walked around JP prospecting new clients, and bought two new DVDs at the Best Buy down the block. Upon returning home, I found the Fridge in the kitchen making what I consider to be the best dinner I have ever seen. He was cooking chef trimmed, low-fat breasts of chicken with mixed vegetables over white rice. Little did he know that I was gazing around for something to stab him with so I could steal his dinner, but I stayed my hand and opted for some cold pizza as an appetizer to what was to come later on.
So Fussy Joe comes home with the same squinty-eyed shit eating grin on his face. I was playing Call of Duty on XBox Live when I hear Fussy's infamous "ENJOY!" coming from the kitchen. Placed in front of me where two slices of bread, I didn't know what was inside, and to be honest, I really shouldn't have looked, but the sandwich contained the following:
Two pieces of multi-grain bread
Two pieces of sliced chicken
Mayonnaise
Soy Sauce
Grape Jelly
Salt
Hot Cocoa Powder
Marshmallows
Spit (probably)
I took several quick bites of the sandwich and knew that I was in trouble. It was so salty that my throat closed the second it was inside my mouth (that's what she said). I hated it so hard, but I was not going to let that little midget a-hole get the better of R Von D...so I endeavored to persevere. I got the brilliant idea to make the sandwich into two open-faced halves with the chicken, hot cocoa, and jelly on one side and everything else on the other. Looking back, I should have eaten the salty half first because the chicken and jelly went down no problem. It actually wasn't as bad as I had originally made it out to be. The soy sauce, salt, and mayo side proved to be a bit of a challenge. Maybe it was too salty. Maybe it made me gag. MAYBE I had to get up and dash for the trash can. MAYBE I didn't make it in time. MAYBE I threw up on my pants thirty seconds before my girlfriend walked in the door and I had to run around the house cleaning myself up before I said hello to her. Things happened too fast to recall in such detail, but she had no idea what had just happened until Fussy Joe told her about it hours later when he came home from his Gay Pride night at Margaritas.
After that, I sat on the couch with my steady gal, drank three shots of Pepto, and watched "Forgetting Sarah Marshall." Nothing better than a pleasant evening with a good movie and good company. Then Fussy Pants came home and ruined everything. He kept going on and on about how the rest of the week is going to be torture and asking me if I wanted any dessert. I calmly explained to him that for a little pup he does a lot of barking but not a whole lot of biting. Of course, he took offense to such a comment and went in the kitchen to make me a shake. The shake was:
Milk
Soy Sauce (his new go-to)
Mustard
Mayo
Piss (probably)
I got a whiff of this stuff and knew right away I wasn't going to get it down. However, in a bit of psychological warfare, I added about a shot and a half of Johnnie Walker to the drink. He thought I was doing it to look tough, but I was actually doing it to take away some of the mustard and soy sauce smell. Funny thing about milk and mustard is, when combined, they tend to have an adverse effect on each other, and the milk curdles instantly. Nothing like mustard and sour milk to get your stomach going. Seconds later, I was bent over the sink, throwing up the entirety of the shake. BUT, I did manage to get the whole thing down, so it still counted.
The good news is, I was actually able to sleep last night and the Sox won, so the night wasn't a total loss I guess. I must admit though that my confidence in my abilities is a little rocked after last night, but I have only a day and a half to go, and the stupid retards didn't make my breakfast today so I got another freebie. Also, I lamented last night to my special lady that I really am starting to miss vegetables. Like, really. The little fat guy is really starting to miss his greens.
And then there was evening, and then morning. The Third Day.
I got up yesterday morning to a very feminine knock on my door. I opened the door, eyes half open to see Fussy Joe standing at my door. He was smiling. Naturally I inquired as to why he was looking at me the way he was, and he then pointed to my feet where I saw a 3/4 full bottle of Pepsi with something white on the top of the dark liquid.
"Is that grated cheese?" I asked.
"Why yes, yes it is," The Fussy One said with a smile "it's got some jelly in there too."
So that was my breakfast. A bottle of Pepsi, grape jelly, grated Parmesan cheese, and just for a little kick, nine whole packets of sugar waiting for me at the bottom of the bottle. Little did this Lilliputian turd know that I have the ability to chug just about anything, so I poured the Pepsi into a pint glass and took the whole thing down like a champ. Hey, at least they turned the volume up, so to speak, and got away from the bags of sour skittles.
The rest of my day was uneventful, I almost fell asleep at my desk, walked around JP prospecting new clients, and bought two new DVDs at the Best Buy down the block. Upon returning home, I found the Fridge in the kitchen making what I consider to be the best dinner I have ever seen. He was cooking chef trimmed, low-fat breasts of chicken with mixed vegetables over white rice. Little did he know that I was gazing around for something to stab him with so I could steal his dinner, but I stayed my hand and opted for some cold pizza as an appetizer to what was to come later on.
So Fussy Joe comes home with the same squinty-eyed shit eating grin on his face. I was playing Call of Duty on XBox Live when I hear Fussy's infamous "ENJOY!" coming from the kitchen. Placed in front of me where two slices of bread, I didn't know what was inside, and to be honest, I really shouldn't have looked, but the sandwich contained the following:
Two pieces of multi-grain bread
Two pieces of sliced chicken
Mayonnaise
Soy Sauce
Grape Jelly
Salt
Hot Cocoa Powder
Marshmallows
Spit (probably)
I took several quick bites of the sandwich and knew that I was in trouble. It was so salty that my throat closed the second it was inside my mouth (that's what she said). I hated it so hard, but I was not going to let that little midget a-hole get the better of R Von D...so I endeavored to persevere. I got the brilliant idea to make the sandwich into two open-faced halves with the chicken, hot cocoa, and jelly on one side and everything else on the other. Looking back, I should have eaten the salty half first because the chicken and jelly went down no problem. It actually wasn't as bad as I had originally made it out to be. The soy sauce, salt, and mayo side proved to be a bit of a challenge. Maybe it was too salty. Maybe it made me gag. MAYBE I had to get up and dash for the trash can. MAYBE I didn't make it in time. MAYBE I threw up on my pants thirty seconds before my girlfriend walked in the door and I had to run around the house cleaning myself up before I said hello to her. Things happened too fast to recall in such detail, but she had no idea what had just happened until Fussy Joe told her about it hours later when he came home from his Gay Pride night at Margaritas.
After that, I sat on the couch with my steady gal, drank three shots of Pepto, and watched "Forgetting Sarah Marshall." Nothing better than a pleasant evening with a good movie and good company. Then Fussy Pants came home and ruined everything. He kept going on and on about how the rest of the week is going to be torture and asking me if I wanted any dessert. I calmly explained to him that for a little pup he does a lot of barking but not a whole lot of biting. Of course, he took offense to such a comment and went in the kitchen to make me a shake. The shake was:
Milk
Soy Sauce (his new go-to)
Mustard
Mayo
Piss (probably)
I got a whiff of this stuff and knew right away I wasn't going to get it down. However, in a bit of psychological warfare, I added about a shot and a half of Johnnie Walker to the drink. He thought I was doing it to look tough, but I was actually doing it to take away some of the mustard and soy sauce smell. Funny thing about milk and mustard is, when combined, they tend to have an adverse effect on each other, and the milk curdles instantly. Nothing like mustard and sour milk to get your stomach going. Seconds later, I was bent over the sink, throwing up the entirety of the shake. BUT, I did manage to get the whole thing down, so it still counted.
The good news is, I was actually able to sleep last night and the Sox won, so the night wasn't a total loss I guess. I must admit though that my confidence in my abilities is a little rocked after last night, but I have only a day and a half to go, and the stupid retards didn't make my breakfast today so I got another freebie. Also, I lamented last night to my special lady that I really am starting to miss vegetables. Like, really. The little fat guy is really starting to miss his greens.
And then there was evening, and then morning. The Third Day.
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