The Things I Am Too Chickenshit To Say on Facebook

I admit, I’ve been checking out on Facebook recently. For a lot of reasons. Life is more than looking at your phone. (Wow, that sounds philosophical coming from a twit like me.) I’ve just found myself generally getting annoyed and wasting vast amounts of time. I know I’ve missed a lot of birthdays, and I really don’t care if people miss mine. Which just happens to be this month, BTW. My theory is if you don’t have a present for me, just don’t say anything at all, it’s cool.

So as I lurked through FB recently, one of the reasons why I have been ditching it became apparent; a lot of my FB friends have become annoying. And someone needs to say something.

Ugh, this shit again.

Now, I have no problem speaking my mind, as my five longtime readers of this here blog are well aware of. But the thing about the written word is it can be taken so many different ways. At times it’s become a cop out. It has become so much easier to text people on the phone than actually use the damn phone for it’s original intent and talk to someone.

Hey! This is my secret, too!

I now see it as my duty to help straighten some of you guys out. However, the truth hurts. This week I’ve been going through Post Secret: Confessions on Life, Death and God. (If you are not familiar with the Post Secret website, do yourself a favor.)
It became clear to me the best way to call youze out on some of your shit without all the resulting butthurt is to do it anonymously. Remember, I am only doing this out of love. Or spite. OK, mostly spite. Finally, a post all about YOU!

Your children are ugly. Maybe your friends don’t want to tell you, but it’s apparent. So how about less pictures, eh?

Your boobs are great, and I wish you would show them off more.

No one cares what movie you are watching.

You can post all the hippy trippy, karma, new age-y, Buddha, Hindu and Dalai Lama quotes, pictures and memes you want. I see through that bullshit and know you’re still the same judgmental cocksucker you always have been.

You’re pro Trump. WE GET IT!

You’re anti Trump. WE GET IT!

You're a winner!

I admire that you are so socially and politically aware. But, GD, I really do miss your funny posts.

I would totally bang your wife.

And yours.

And your girlfriend.

And yours.

Is your full time job just posting vapid shit on Facebook 20 times a day? Because that’s all you seem to do.

You don’t have to take every survey you see. No one cares what 70’s sitcom character you are.

I dropped you from my feed. The only reason I haven’t unfriended you is because when I am feeling down about myself, I lurk your page and think, “Thank God, I am not this flaming dipshit.” Thank you for making me feel better about myself, friend. (And I know I can’t be the only one that hangs on to some FB friends like this, right?)

No, I will NOT play freaking Candy Crush Saga with you, so knock it off with the requests.

I had the BIGGEST crush on you in high school, but I never had the balls to tell you.

I think you’re not on FB very much because you do a real good job of just going out and living your life.

The entertainment value in your self indulgent, proselytizing posts is only surpassed by your constant misspelling of common words.

Dude, not everything is a conspiracy theory, OK?

Or is that just what I want you to think?

You’re way too old to be posting shitty pop music lyrics. It’s getting kinda creepy now.

I think some of your best one liners are copied from someone else, and as a “writer” it pisses me off you don’t give them the credit.

Every time you post a picture, I get an alert and I don’t know how to make it stop.

“Oh, look, another picture of the wing from inside the plane.”

Posting pictures of an unknown beer in an unmarked glass has been deemed lame.

No more than three hashtags in a single post is the agreed upon limit. Look it up.

A picture of a plate of food serves no purpose. Just because you’re not eating at Red Robin for a change doesn’t make a damn of difference.

And BTW, checking in from Red Robin is gauche.

You are too old to be taking selfies in public bathrooms.

Can I just designate only one of you to post the Trump bits from SNL?

Your love for shitty 90s rock bands is getting more embarrassing.

I know what you did last summer.

Boobs.

All this so called “drama” you proclaim to be so against is all of your own making, bonehead.

You claim to be “family first” but I know for a fact, you never have been. And more and more people are seeing that, too.

Just because I don’t update my status every 17 seconds for the latest cause de celebre, doesn’t mean I am a bad person. It just means I am spending time in the real world and don’t have time to read your constant nonsense.

Facebook is not your PR firm, so knock it off.

Why in bloody hell do you keep watching a show that makes you cry? How is that even fun?

If you're "checking in" at the gym, just a FYI this doesn't count as "working out."

God, this is worse than Crossfit.

You really are gullible, aren't you?

I guess I have to bring this up again, but God is not on Facebook. 

I feel like there could be more. There probably is more. But I hear the pizza guy at the door and someone has to eat the two pizzas and wings I ordered.

The Best Super Bowl 51 Jokes

Wait a minute, your night ain't over, Champ. Sure, The Big Game is over, but the jokes aren't. Instead of posting all these beauts on social media, and them getting lost, I put 'em all here! In one place! So grab that Gatorade. Since I believe your recollection of the game to be "foggy at best" after all those beers, wings, nachos, poppers and secret shots you swiped from your hosts' liquor cabinet. I even have these chronologically, so it's like watching the Game all over again with your funniest, sharpest, smartest friend!  And here we go!

"I got the 0 and 0 block in the pool! Woot woot!"

PREGAME

Y’all should be protesting Budwesier because it’s a shitty beer is all I’m sayin’.

That's actually going IN to his mouth.

Instead of plowing down nachos and wings at every commercial break, I’ll be doing 10 pushups and 10 burpees. (This is how #AlternateFacts works, right?)

At halftime, the Patriots are leading and somehow the Browns are losing.

Hate on Joe Buck all you want, he could be worse. He could say, “Any now let’s got to Tony Siragusa.

"They're really hitting hard down here, guys."

The conspiracy theorist in me suspects the Super Bowl is just a front for the chicken wing barons.

Hmm, Eli Manning is at the game. Tom Brady seem mumbling, "ohhh shittt" under his breath.

I wonder if Tom Brady wore his "recovery sleepwear" last night? A true steal at a hundred frigging dollars!?! I don't think I could sleep if I knew I blew a Franklin on a shirt that was supposed to help me sleep in the first place. And why in the blue hell would you want to sleep next to freaking Giselle Bundchen??

"You spent how much on what??"

I appreciate that Spike is countering the Super Bowl with an all night marathon of Cops, then Jail. They just might as well do live shows from Boston and Atlanta tonight.

I wish Ving Rhames would narrate a day at my job.

Let's take a live look into what Buffalo fans are doing...

Aw, snap! You crazy Buffalo kids never change.

I don't know who Luke Bryan is, but I'm gonna hazard a guess he is everything that is wrong with country music and that's the first time he's sung without wearing a nasty ass old ball cap.

Is there any big budget movie where the world DOESN'T get blown up?

George Bush flipping a coin to make a decision is probably not the first President to do so.

FIRST QUARTER

Seeing as how I won a Fantasy league this year, I can imagine what these guys are feeling right now.

I am pretty sure that fly by was taped earlier. How would you know? 

Natty Ice better have some back end deal with Matt Ryan if he wins.

Maybe if they put as much work into commercials the rest of the year, they would sell more products?

Pretty sure today is Day 3 of a four day weekend in Atlanta and Boston.

Anyone else believe Arnold Schwa...Swart....Arnold has never played Mobile Strike in his life?

That's Julian Edelman's wife. No joke here. That's his wife.

0-0 at the end of one. BORING! Is there a hockey game on? I am sure all the Canadian teams are playing against each other.

SECOND QUARTER

Justin Bieber and Terrel Owens should not be on the same commercial together. I would think there's some sort of rule about how much "suck" can be in one commercial.

Freeman is the first player to score a TD. His jersey number? 24. That's some shrewd cross promotion there, Fox.

How late am I staying up tonight?

That is not the first time a good strip had lead to a solid score, ifyaknowwhatImean.

This game has been so bad, I'm actually peeing when Brady has the ball.Thank god this Dorito bag is empty.

After three holding penalties in a row, they really just call the next 3rd down "third and a hold."

Atlanta runs back a pick 6. Brady seen throwing a flag he had hidden in his jersey, looking for another holding call.

Did I miss the memo that said, "No funny commercials" this year. WTF? I can't do all the heavy lifting here.

"My eyes are up here."

This is apparently Danny Amendola's girlfriend. No wonder he usually has good hands.

At the end of the half it's Atl 21 NE 3. I wonder if that's the same score at the White House.

At the half, somehow the Browns are losing, too.

HALFTIME

Read my Gaga review. I swear, I don't know with the kids and their music these days. I guess Whitesnake and Marilyn Manson are passe these days. And I would damn sure check the field. A certain team could hide certain items to adjust the pressure of certain things in a certain way. But I can't be certain.

THIRD QUARTER

Sexy Mr. Clean will haunt my dreams tonight. What happened to the sickeningly skinny girls eating the calorie bomb Carl's Jr burgers for some eye bleach?

That's what I'm talkin' about. Quick trivia about these commercials; apparently there are hamburgers in them! I will have to watch again.

Atlanta scores another 7. It's not 28-3. Boston is ready to burn, Fox is ready to start 24 early.

Somewhere in a Kansas City Cracker Barrel, Andy Reid is going, "I like Belichick's play calling here."

Speaking of, Eagles fans are so desperate for a championship, they are now claiming Matt Ryan since he was born near Philly. No, dipshits, that's not how it works.

It only takes 43 minutes for the Patriots to score. AAANNDDDD Gost misses the kick.

Suddenly, Ryan's helmet stops working, he's sacked on the very next play. Hmmm....

FOURTH QUARTER

This game is just not good. It's not exciting, it's quite boring and the commercials suck. I guess this is what it's like to watch the World Series.

Pretty sure it was Dan Quinn who out Belichicked Belichick by flying Eli in first class.

Eli Manning; New York Giants Walter Payton Man of The Year recipient.

Eli Manning: Atlanta Falcons Walton Payton Man of The Year recipient.

8:24 to go and Atlanta turns it over for the first time in the playoffs. Brady sacked on following play. Drunks in Boston and Atlanta start to brown back in now. Amendola scores, Pats direct snap the two point conversion. We have a game, world still hates Pats fans, sky is blue, water is wet.

If I'm Dan Quinn (the Atlanta coach, please tell me you know that by now), I'm telling Ryan (you know who he is, right?) audible "OMAHA!" every play. Even runs.

Here is where the game will be won. If Atlanta plays to win, they will win. If they play to not lose, they will lose.

3:30 to go, Pats with the ball, down by 8. 2 plays and no flags against the Falcons. Pats convert the following 3rd and 10. The amounts of people calling out of work in Atlanta and Boston sky rockets.

Edelman makes awesome catch to keep drive alive. Anti Pats fans-you know, like everybody- groans like they've been here before.

This-no

This- yes

A million times, yes. And, oh yea, Patriots score, blah blah blah. Tie ball game.

The Atl back up QB bears a more than passing resemblance to Eli Manning.

And this is the first OT Super Bowl game. I'm glad I don't have any money on this game. Because I lost it all on the Puppy Bowl.

The heartbreak one team will suffer will only be made worse by the inevitable, hilarious memes that will soon follow.

The Boston Creme Pie Challenge

Suddenly finding yourself with a wealth of free time, yet lacking a wealth of money, one tends to look for new ways to pass the time. As I try to get the writing thing off the ground again, any new sort of inspiration or challenge is quite welcome fodder for KT. And, today, I have a very unique challenge. Something I have always thought about but never thought about doing until now. Because, let's face it, this is a perfect time to discover more about myself. Today, I have a real bull in a china shop challenge.

Today, I will eat an entire pie in one sitting.

Glutenous, glorious, guilt, shame, full-I am bracing myself to feel a wealth of emotion. I might need counseling when I am finished. First, a little back story.

I don't really consider myself as having a sweet tooth. Sure, I have the occasional cravings just like anybody else, and from time to time I scarf down anything chocolate. Growing up, whenever it was my birthday, I had the dinner and desert of my choosing. And it was always pepperoni pizza and the most glorious, decadent sweet on the face of the planet; Boston Creme Pie.

(And, OK, let's get the cream pie jokes out of the way here. Yes, probably ever male reader knows what I am talking about, but in case you're one of my surprisingly many readers in Ireland, in street lingo, a cream pie is this. NSFW, obviously. OK, we all got that out of our system now?)

In the past, I have been all responsible, and made the BCP last as long as possible. It might take me 3-4 days to finish it, and no, I don't share. But it hit me to see if I could wolf the whole thing down in one sitting. My initial guess is a clear, “FUCK YES!” After all, it has been a struggle to hold myself to just one piece, when I easily feel I could go for a few more.

In fact, I don't expect this to be a challenge at all. The only thing I see stopping me is just the massive overload of sugar and delicious yet empty calories. Which leads me to a decision; do I just choke it all down before I get that “full” sensation? Or do I slow down a little bit so I can truly enjoy every morsel of God's sweet ambrosia? Decisions, decisions. If only I could somehow put this on my resume.

Seek and destroy.

For the record, the BCP is approx 3” high and 6 ½ “ across. For some actual research, I decided to try to track down the nutritional “value” of an entire BCP. Shockingly, there is no easily available data on housing an entire BCP. Logic then tells me no one has ever eaten a whole pie, so a call into the Guinness people is in order. I do find that a 1/6 slice (please, who only takes a sixth of a slice?) is actually not overtly horrible. 232 calories, 8G saturated fat, 132 mg salt. The killer here is a whopping 33 g sugar. Wow, this might disrupt my daily 3-5PM nap routine.

My On Demand yoga instructor will NOT be happy about any of this.

My first instinct is to cut a slice out that is about a quarter of the BCP; aka my usual piece. I am saddened how excited I am about doing this experiment. There's a sticker that says its made with real whip cream. And that appears to be a real cherry on top, so no one can tell me this is totally not healthy.

For the discerning pie eater, we always prefer real ingredients.

I'm using a stop watch as well to just get a basic idea of how much of my life this is going to take me; for writing purposes, of course.

Upon first bite, it occurs to me this just might be my best idea ever. In case you are curious about downing a massive calorie bomb, I can tell you, some preparation was done for this historic event. Last night I played 2 ½ hours of street hockey which works out to about 3 1/2-4 miles of interval running. Then, this morning, I dragged my sore body to the gym to get yet another workout in, to at least proactively control the massive amount of calories I will take in. And I am wearing pajama pants, so there won't be any issues there.

Slice two is just about half of the pie left. Sugar sweats are starting to kick in, and it may be time to take off this hoodie.

SUGAR RUSH!!!

Halfway done. I'm starting to feel like my parents caught me smoking and are now forcing me to smoke the rest of the pack. Slice three, about 2/3rds of the way down. Body is starting to revolt and asking where all the NutriBullets and protein are.

Boston strong.

16 minutes in. I've heard the stomach starts to get that full sensation after about 20 minutes, so I am up against a wall. Literally-as my expanding belly has pushed my chair that far out from the dining room table. From my seat I can see about 3 months of unread Men's Fitness staring back at me from my mail. Fucking irony.

22 minutes, and fatigue has set in. So has shame, to be honest. My plate looks like a murder scene. 2/3rds of the pie is staring back at me, mocking me, calling me names. Or maybe it's just the sugar crash. This is harder than I thought. How do those chicken wing Mfers do it?

26 minutes in, and it's a staring contest. The BCP is clearly wounded, but standing (relatively) firm. My gut is a wreck, but my belches taste like BCP, so it's not a total loss. Sugar rush is quickly disappearing, as bloat takes it's place.

Well, this is turning into a bit of a pissah.

30 minutes and it's time. I have given up, thrown in the towel, which is about the most physical activity I can muster at this point. 2/3rds done in a half hour is the record. At this point the thought of eating anything is enough to make me want to barf.

I just walked down and up six steps to let the dog in, as I didn't want him to witness this mess. He immediately greets me with a look like, “what have you done?” To try to psychologically wash away the shame, I immediately brush my teeth and three fall out.

It was a valiant struggle, but, alas, it is over. All this time I thought I could easily house a BCP has been a lie, a life shattering lie. What's next, being unable to down a 40 in 20 minutes? No more six plates of crab legs at an all you can eat?

In order to try to start to burn off the approximately 700 empty calories I have consumed, I stand to grab the leash to walk the dog, but am immediately greeted by a headrush when standing. He looks back at me like, “It's OK, bro, we can let this go.”

The BCP goes back in the fridge, where it will serve to mock me in 10 hours, which will also be the exact amount of time I should get hungry again.

Home Cooking

I have a personal chef. His name is George, George Foreman. Me and George get along well, real well. George will cook for me a few times a week. He understands me. He knows I am not a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I am a meat guy. Seriously, I can eat nothing but meat for a meal and be more than happy. I am not a vegetable guy. At all. I can honestly tell you I cannot remember the last time I ate a vegetable. I know they are good for me, but I just don’t like them.

I am a fairly clean, boring eater. I can eat tons of boring stuff and not complain. Fruit, nuts, chicken breast, fish, cottage cheese, tuna. I am fairly versed in the use of spice. Although my favorite was Ginger Spice from all those years ago.

I also make what I affectionately call Glop. Glop comes in many forms. At night, Glop contains a scoop of protein, oatmeal, cottage cheese, and maybe some raisins or peanut butter. Glop can also contain meat; like say diced chicken breast, crushed nacho chips, some cheese, maybe a dressing of some sort. Throw in a bowl, mix it around, nuke for 45 seconds and chow down. I have made some truly disgusting Glops that are actually pretty good. Even the dog looks at me like, “That’s disgusting.” And that’s saying something, because I am pretty sure he eats his own poop. At least I hope it’s his own poop. I am not a chef in the traditional way. Like, you know, what goes with what. I am intrinsic. I use whatever hits me at the time. I have no need for measuring cups or tea spoons. That’s what pussies use.

As it is in most relationships, my wife is the total opposite. Food Channel or whatever dafuck it’s called is her favorite channel. She can watch for hours. After watching a whole episode about cooking dish X, I will ask her if she will make it now, and she answers “no”. So then, what’s the point? She’s all into recipes and stuff. She takes an Oriental cooking class, and endures all my stereotypical jokes about how she’s cooking cats and gophers. There are things in the cabinets that only have Japanese written on them. And that scares me. How the hell are you supposed to know what’s really in them? How do you know it’s not a ploy to get dipshit Americans to eat foul stuff? Some say the war never ended….

T is also taking a night class. The class was asked when the last time some one did something nice for them was. The class-mostly broads, surprise-all said their husbands make them dinner. T seemed to be making a subconscious point when she came home to tell me this. I may be unemployed, but I ain’t stupid. It’s her gentle way of telling me she wants me to make her a dinner. For the record, I have made breakfast and lunch and dinner for her many times in the past. I think you can see that we do have differing tastes and definitions when it comes to dinner. I will gladly spice up extra chicken breasts and throw them on the grill so she can eat/use them whenever. I will always make extra turkey burgers, salmon, etc so she can mix them in a salad or take to work, etc.

My idea of ‘cooking’ involves the Foreman grill and that’s it. However, T will use these things called ‘pots’, ‘pans’, ‘stoves’ and ‘ovens’ in her cooking. That seems a tad too much for me. I am a one cooking device kinda guy. Anything more and you might as well alert the fire department. A gauntlet has been thrown down; make her dinner. Fear is struck into my heart. I mean, it’s only fair, she’s made me tons of good dinners over the years. I still refuse to eat her ‘broiled cat” or “stir fry squirrel”. Mama didn’t raise no fool.

On a Sunday while she has class, I head to Google to search for a recipe for the catfish I have. Protip when searching for recipes here, fellas; ALWAYS include the word “easy”. That will make your life so much easier. I cross reference the recipe to make sure we have everything we need in the house. Turns out I am missing 2 fucking things. It’s hard to hold onto your man card in Acme when you’re in the spice aisle.

It’s minimal work. All you do is throw the spices in a bowl, dip the catfish in and cook in the oven. OK, it was pretty smooth sailing after I figured out where the oven is. So I present her with the fish like a cat presenting a dead mouse. Ya know, “edible” is an oft under rated word. To be honest, it was fair, no Legionnaires at all. I probably fucked up correctly mixing the spices. I mean, is it my fault I don’t know the difference between what a teaspoon is and what a tablespoon is? It didn’t really taste Cajun or have a kick, but, still it was good, and there were no ensuing vomit session.

She’s been working long days lately. Plus, she’s been letting me borrow her car while mine was going into the shop. It occurred to me to give this making dinner another shot after she had a long day. She can bring home the bacon, at least I guess I can try to fry it up in the pan. Again, Google and easy lead me to a yummy sounding garlic crusted chicken. The degree is raised a bit, as I have to use the range and the oven. Dial 9 and 1 on the phone and keep it nearby.

I essentially melt butter in a pan, dip the chicken strips in, then coat them in a bowl of spices I have mixed. It’s about halfway through I realize I made a key mistake. In my haste, I have put the garlic in the bowl, not in the pan of butter as directed. Fuck! I fucked it up and it’s gonna be all garlic-y. Too late now. I even tried to figure out if there was a way to counter act the garlic by mixing something else in. I reassure myself that doing that would just make a garlic-y situation worse. I throw the sheet of chicken in the oven and hope for the best.

T came home and went right for a nap. She was wakened by the smell of garlic chicken floating through the house. Which is far better than the expected smell of charred drywall and burnt plastic. I take the chicken out and it actually looks pretty damn good. I load up our plates. I gentlemanly let her eat first. OK, that’s bullshit, I wanted her to go first to see how bad it was. Again, mama didn’t raise no cook and she certainly didn’t raise no fool. I watch her serene face turn to that of…pleasant surprise. She keeps chewing! Damn, this is a good sign. It has been decreed; I have made “damn good chicken”.

I bite in, and am also pleasantly surprised. No overwhelming garlic taste. T is genuinely impressed. She’s such a trooper, she tells me she was dreading eating this. But I have surpassed her expectations. For once, Kev done good. So now I know how to make two things good: garlic crusted chicken and rum and coke. Now, that’s a dinner. And I see it’s after 5…