Here's another unexpected side effect of my new work hours: I've been eating less fast food. I used to like going out for lunch, but now that I'm getting to work before everyone else, I've been getting a great parking spot. By the time lunch would roll around for me, everyone has just arrived at work, and if I abandon my parking spot, the chances are great that I will lose it and have to park in fucking Timbuktu upon my return. I would probably need a Sherpa to get me back to the office. As a result of this, I haven't gone out for lunch in three weeks, which has cut down immensely on the amount of fast food I eat.
Still, it's a bit hard to avoid it when I get out of work. I drive by Taco Bell on the way home, and their quesarito always calls out to me. Most times, I remain strong and get home without stopping. Others? Not so much. I'm going to quit fast food again starting Monday. I haven't been juicing for the holidays, so I'm getting back to that on Monday, as well.
So of course McDonald's sees this as the perfect time to release a TRIPLE FUCKING CHEESEBURGER. I only have two days to enjoy this delight? What the fuck?
Showing posts with label quesarito. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quesarito. Show all posts
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Friday, October 17, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #92: BACK IN THE DAY
Remember when you were a teenager, and you had all sorts of inane conversations that you totally thought were meaningful, but looking back, you recognized them for what they really were? Have you ever had one of those conversations as an adult?
Tonight, I did. I got out of work and hung out with a friend at Taco Bell for a bit. Whenever I get a quesarito, I order it with extra cheese . . . both shredded and nacho. You have to be specific, or they'll think you just mean shredded. It takes about three or four bites until you hit that first cheese pocket, and when you do, it's absolute heaven. I made an offhand remark about suddenly believing in God because of the glorious taste of that cheese pocket, and we cracked up laughing. I then went on to curse those stupid assholes who found mere pictures of the Virgin Mary on grilled cheese sandwiches. They were all missing God in the cheese pocket of my quesarito.
And then, for some reason I started examining the burn marks on my quesarito, and I realized there were patterns to be seen. I found a zombie and half of Nosferatu's face. My friend discovered Jason Voorhees on his quesarito. The next thing you know, we're pointing and laughing at various shapes we've found in these patterns. It was like we were a couple of stoners. Or maybe more like kids, seeking out patterns in the clouds above.
No, we didn't think any of this was meaningful. We thought it was funny as all fuck. But still, this was the kind of thing I used to do when I was a teenager. I'm not ordinarily a nostalgic guy, but in that moment, I was transported back to a time when I bought cigarettes for all of my older but underage friends because I looked older than them, and when I used to walk miles to get to a theater for a late night show.
It was an odd moment, but I really enjoyed it. The next time you get a quesarito, you should stop and think about some of the burn patterns you see. You might just surprise yourself.
PS: For some reason, this incident made me think of this Megadeth song, which inspired me to call this post by this particular title. If you like older metal, then you'll get a kick out of this.
Tonight, I did. I got out of work and hung out with a friend at Taco Bell for a bit. Whenever I get a quesarito, I order it with extra cheese . . . both shredded and nacho. You have to be specific, or they'll think you just mean shredded. It takes about three or four bites until you hit that first cheese pocket, and when you do, it's absolute heaven. I made an offhand remark about suddenly believing in God because of the glorious taste of that cheese pocket, and we cracked up laughing. I then went on to curse those stupid assholes who found mere pictures of the Virgin Mary on grilled cheese sandwiches. They were all missing God in the cheese pocket of my quesarito.
And then, for some reason I started examining the burn marks on my quesarito, and I realized there were patterns to be seen. I found a zombie and half of Nosferatu's face. My friend discovered Jason Voorhees on his quesarito. The next thing you know, we're pointing and laughing at various shapes we've found in these patterns. It was like we were a couple of stoners. Or maybe more like kids, seeking out patterns in the clouds above.
No, we didn't think any of this was meaningful. We thought it was funny as all fuck. But still, this was the kind of thing I used to do when I was a teenager. I'm not ordinarily a nostalgic guy, but in that moment, I was transported back to a time when I bought cigarettes for all of my older but underage friends because I looked older than them, and when I used to walk miles to get to a theater for a late night show.
It was an odd moment, but I really enjoyed it. The next time you get a quesarito, you should stop and think about some of the burn patterns you see. You might just surprise yourself.
PS: For some reason, this incident made me think of this Megadeth song, which inspired me to call this post by this particular title. If you like older metal, then you'll get a kick out of this.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #77: AW, FUCK
Goddammit. A bit of a set-back in my battle with the 'Beetus. When I tested my blood sugar after lunch, it was a bit higher than it should have been at 148. Oddly enough, I felt like I was having a low blood sugar incident, which made zero sense.
But . . . I felt something else: withdrawal symptoms. I looked the internet up and down, and there is no history of this drug being habit forming. It felt like when I quit caffeine, except without the pain. Could I really be addicted to these stupid fucking things?
Maybe it's Taco Bell withdrawal. I haven't had a Quesarito since Friday.
No, it's the pill. I took my pill, and the withdrawal symptoms went away almost immediately. Am I the first motherfucker in the world to be addicted to 'Beetus meds? That can't be right. It's got to be my mind fucking with me.
More experiments to come . . .
And I promise, GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS isn't going to be a running tally of my battle with the 'Beetus. It's just this week that's fucking with me. I'll do something different tomorrow.
But . . . I felt something else: withdrawal symptoms. I looked the internet up and down, and there is no history of this drug being habit forming. It felt like when I quit caffeine, except without the pain. Could I really be addicted to these stupid fucking things?
Maybe it's Taco Bell withdrawal. I haven't had a Quesarito since Friday.
No, it's the pill. I took my pill, and the withdrawal symptoms went away almost immediately. Am I the first motherfucker in the world to be addicted to 'Beetus meds? That can't be right. It's got to be my mind fucking with me.
More experiments to come . . .
And I promise, GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS isn't going to be a running tally of my battle with the 'Beetus. It's just this week that's fucking with me. I'll do something different tomorrow.
Monday, August 4, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #28: CHRIS PRATT LOST HOW MUCH WEIGHT?!
I've had problems with my weight for almost as long as I can remember. When I was in elementary school, I remember being pretty skinny, and then I wound up with a terrible McDonald's habit. By the time I graduated high school, I weighted 245 lbs. After I got out of that place, a local public TV station played a taping of my graduation, and I was horrified when I saw myself. I looked like Chris fucking Farley, it was that bad. I vowed to lose weight, and over that summer--a mere three months--I lost a shit-ton of weight, enough to actually look attractive when I got into college.
I did well for a while, but I gained it all back and more--at the tune of 306 lbs. A few years later, I lost it again, down to 220 lbs. Not perfect, but much better. And then? I shot back up to 260 lbs. I'm holding steady at 240 lbs. right now, but I need to get this fat off of me as soon as possible. I would like to be around 200 lbs. If I can pull that off, my doctor will take me off of my meds. That would be very nice.
When I was younger, it was so much easier to lose weight. Now? I'm 36, and it's next to impossible, especially since I've found so many other fast food wonders, like the quesarito at Taco Bell. Sometimes, it's so difficult that I feel a craving, and when I give in to said craving, I spiral out of control. My main thought, and I am fully aware of how flawed it is, is this: "Well, I already fucked up. I might as well continue fucking up because I'm just not suited for this. So fuck my plan, let's get some quesaritos."
I'm getting too old for this shit. I've got to find some way to control myself, especially since I've got all of these health problems.
I saw GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY this weekend, and Chris Pratt is a very attractive man. Imagine my shock when I learned that not too long ago, he weighed 300 lbs. How is that possible? Did you see him with his shirt off in the movie?
Holy shit, right? Recently, someone asked him how he got in shape, and he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that anyone who wants to do this needs to cut the shit out of their diet and get some exercise. Some advice never fails. There are no shortcuts. There's just hard work, and he's right. This is a truth I've always known. I mean, shit. I've lost a lot of weight before. This guy lost a lot of weight in an amazing way.
He weighed 300 lbs. I'm at 240 lbs. Why can't I lose my stupid gut?
Granted, he lost the weight because he knew he had a great paycheck waiting for him. I have no monetary reward waiting for me. However, it would be nice to live past 40. I never expected that, but it would be kind of cool, especially since I have two and a half new books coming out soon. It's not even a matter of making myself more attractive, because shockingly enough, I still got laid at 306 lbs. It's a matter of being successful, I think, and maybe being able to look myself in the mirror without blanching at the flab hanging over my belt.
In fact, fuck Chris Pratt for the moment. I mean, I like the guy. He's attractive and charismatic, but he's Hollywood. Let's turn our attention closer to home: Jon Michael Lennon, creator of PRODUCT OF SOCIETY. I've known the guy for a long time. When I first met him, he was not in good physical shape. Now? He's doing pretty fucking well. He's got this old driver's license, and for the first time since I met him, he actually looks like that old photo. He lost a hundred pounds, or somewhere in that neighborhood.
I don't even need to do that. All I need to do is lose 40 lbs. Once upon a time, I did that and more in one summer. I don't expect that from my 36-year-old body, but maybe, by the time the holidays roll around, it would be nice to be back in shape.
So here it is: time to quit my bad habits again. I say this a lot, but I think this time, I might do it for real. Caffeine is my one true addiction. I've battled it in the past, and recently I defeated it. However, I've been partaking again recently. Not to the point where I'm addicted again, but I'm afraid if I keep doing that, I might backslide and get hooked, just like I used to be. I also need to quit fast food again. I love McDonald's double cheeseburgers and Wendy's Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger and Taco Bell's quesaritos (among other things), but I've got to stop. I really have to.
Also, I should cut back on the booze again. I don't drink much anymore because of my pancreas problems. I usually don't drink enough to get beyond buzzed. Buzzed, for me, is OK. Beyond that is testing the limits. I haven't gotten really drunk recently, except for last night, which was fun but also scary at the same time.
So here's the plan: tomorrow, I'm allowing myself an energy drink in the morning, but that's it. It's late now, and I'm still kind of wired, so I've taken a sleeping pill. Sleeping pills make me feel like shit the next day. If I don't have a Monster, I'll lose my job. If I lose my job, I'll just give up and spiral down into lunacy and depression and don't-give-a-fuck-itis. But after that, no more bad habits until Thursday night, which I've already planned on. It's an unofficial work outing, so I'll indulge my booze-tooth. On Friday, I might allow myself another Monster, and Friday night might involve a couple of drinks. Nothing crazy. But after that? I don't want to plan too far into the future, because my plans tend to fall apart after a week's length. But I'll want to pull back on everything at that point.
Yesterday, I saw Nicole Evans in jail. She co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE with me. She's been behind bars for nine months, and she might be gone for another year in actual prison. The last time she saw me, I had twenty extra pounds on me, so even though I knew I looked like garbage, she said I looked nice.
I bring this up, because the next time I see her will probably be a half-year from now (since the drive to actual prison is about three hours, and there's no way I can make that on a regular basis). Here's my goal: the next time I see her, I want to be in shape. I don't have to be perfect, but I don't want to look like a fucking slob, like I do now. Wish me luck.
Goodnight, you wonderful, wonderful fuckers.
I did well for a while, but I gained it all back and more--at the tune of 306 lbs. A few years later, I lost it again, down to 220 lbs. Not perfect, but much better. And then? I shot back up to 260 lbs. I'm holding steady at 240 lbs. right now, but I need to get this fat off of me as soon as possible. I would like to be around 200 lbs. If I can pull that off, my doctor will take me off of my meds. That would be very nice.
When I was younger, it was so much easier to lose weight. Now? I'm 36, and it's next to impossible, especially since I've found so many other fast food wonders, like the quesarito at Taco Bell. Sometimes, it's so difficult that I feel a craving, and when I give in to said craving, I spiral out of control. My main thought, and I am fully aware of how flawed it is, is this: "Well, I already fucked up. I might as well continue fucking up because I'm just not suited for this. So fuck my plan, let's get some quesaritos."
I'm getting too old for this shit. I've got to find some way to control myself, especially since I've got all of these health problems.
I saw GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY this weekend, and Chris Pratt is a very attractive man. Imagine my shock when I learned that not too long ago, he weighed 300 lbs. How is that possible? Did you see him with his shirt off in the movie?
Holy shit, right? Recently, someone asked him how he got in shape, and he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that anyone who wants to do this needs to cut the shit out of their diet and get some exercise. Some advice never fails. There are no shortcuts. There's just hard work, and he's right. This is a truth I've always known. I mean, shit. I've lost a lot of weight before. This guy lost a lot of weight in an amazing way.
He weighed 300 lbs. I'm at 240 lbs. Why can't I lose my stupid gut?
Granted, he lost the weight because he knew he had a great paycheck waiting for him. I have no monetary reward waiting for me. However, it would be nice to live past 40. I never expected that, but it would be kind of cool, especially since I have two and a half new books coming out soon. It's not even a matter of making myself more attractive, because shockingly enough, I still got laid at 306 lbs. It's a matter of being successful, I think, and maybe being able to look myself in the mirror without blanching at the flab hanging over my belt.
In fact, fuck Chris Pratt for the moment. I mean, I like the guy. He's attractive and charismatic, but he's Hollywood. Let's turn our attention closer to home: Jon Michael Lennon, creator of PRODUCT OF SOCIETY. I've known the guy for a long time. When I first met him, he was not in good physical shape. Now? He's doing pretty fucking well. He's got this old driver's license, and for the first time since I met him, he actually looks like that old photo. He lost a hundred pounds, or somewhere in that neighborhood.
I don't even need to do that. All I need to do is lose 40 lbs. Once upon a time, I did that and more in one summer. I don't expect that from my 36-year-old body, but maybe, by the time the holidays roll around, it would be nice to be back in shape.
So here it is: time to quit my bad habits again. I say this a lot, but I think this time, I might do it for real. Caffeine is my one true addiction. I've battled it in the past, and recently I defeated it. However, I've been partaking again recently. Not to the point where I'm addicted again, but I'm afraid if I keep doing that, I might backslide and get hooked, just like I used to be. I also need to quit fast food again. I love McDonald's double cheeseburgers and Wendy's Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger and Taco Bell's quesaritos (among other things), but I've got to stop. I really have to.
Also, I should cut back on the booze again. I don't drink much anymore because of my pancreas problems. I usually don't drink enough to get beyond buzzed. Buzzed, for me, is OK. Beyond that is testing the limits. I haven't gotten really drunk recently, except for last night, which was fun but also scary at the same time.
So here's the plan: tomorrow, I'm allowing myself an energy drink in the morning, but that's it. It's late now, and I'm still kind of wired, so I've taken a sleeping pill. Sleeping pills make me feel like shit the next day. If I don't have a Monster, I'll lose my job. If I lose my job, I'll just give up and spiral down into lunacy and depression and don't-give-a-fuck-itis. But after that, no more bad habits until Thursday night, which I've already planned on. It's an unofficial work outing, so I'll indulge my booze-tooth. On Friday, I might allow myself another Monster, and Friday night might involve a couple of drinks. Nothing crazy. But after that? I don't want to plan too far into the future, because my plans tend to fall apart after a week's length. But I'll want to pull back on everything at that point.
Yesterday, I saw Nicole Evans in jail. She co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE with me. She's been behind bars for nine months, and she might be gone for another year in actual prison. The last time she saw me, I had twenty extra pounds on me, so even though I knew I looked like garbage, she said I looked nice.
I bring this up, because the next time I see her will probably be a half-year from now (since the drive to actual prison is about three hours, and there's no way I can make that on a regular basis). Here's my goal: the next time I see her, I want to be in shape. I don't have to be perfect, but I don't want to look like a fucking slob, like I do now. Wish me luck.
Goodnight, you wonderful, wonderful fuckers.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #17: DON'T BRING ANYTHING, NOT EVEN CLOTHES
I've found myself in a position in which I'll be visiting someone at the DuPage County Jail. Just to make sure I got all the details, I checked out their website and was surprised by the things I couldn't bring on my visit. Not bringing weapons? I got that. I'm in no mood to bring a cake with a file hidden in it, either. Hell, I even get not bringing cellphones. But some of the other things leave me wondering.
For example, you can't bring books. This baffles the shit out of me. I can't bring the gift of a book to someone who is going to have a lot of reading time on her hands? That's silly. It's not like I wouldn't leave it up for inspection first. Or are they afraid someone would use the book as a weapon? (Although I'm trying to figure out if it's good press or bad press to have someone beat another person to death with a copy of TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE. Hey, it'll get my name out there . . .)
I can't bring food, either? Chow behind bars can't be that great. Maybe she'd like to find out what a Taco Bell Quesarito tastes like, since they didn't exist before she went Inside. (And who wouldn't want one of these wonderful things?) If you're afraid I've hidden a razor blade or drugs in a Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger, then by all means, check it out before I bring it in. For Pete's sake . . .
Sorry ladies, you can't bring your purses. You'll have to leave them in your car . . . in a parking garage . . . where there's a courthouse nearby where a lot of people are on trial, probably for things like stealing purses from cars.
I wonder if they'd take a wheelchair away from someone paralyzed from the neck down. You don't know what you might be able to hide in a wheelchair, after all. Or what if you have any prosthetic limbs? Would they want you to remove them? You might have a gun hidden in your fake arm, right?
Why not just tell us to leave our clothes in our cars? Save everyone the hassle. I'll bet I could figure out a way to get a zip gun in by smuggling pieces of it under my skin. Why let prisoners have visitors at all, then?
*sigh* Why do I get worked up like this before going to bed?
For example, you can't bring books. This baffles the shit out of me. I can't bring the gift of a book to someone who is going to have a lot of reading time on her hands? That's silly. It's not like I wouldn't leave it up for inspection first. Or are they afraid someone would use the book as a weapon? (Although I'm trying to figure out if it's good press or bad press to have someone beat another person to death with a copy of TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE. Hey, it'll get my name out there . . .)
I can't bring food, either? Chow behind bars can't be that great. Maybe she'd like to find out what a Taco Bell Quesarito tastes like, since they didn't exist before she went Inside. (And who wouldn't want one of these wonderful things?) If you're afraid I've hidden a razor blade or drugs in a Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger, then by all means, check it out before I bring it in. For Pete's sake . . .
Sorry ladies, you can't bring your purses. You'll have to leave them in your car . . . in a parking garage . . . where there's a courthouse nearby where a lot of people are on trial, probably for things like stealing purses from cars.
I wonder if they'd take a wheelchair away from someone paralyzed from the neck down. You don't know what you might be able to hide in a wheelchair, after all. Or what if you have any prosthetic limbs? Would they want you to remove them? You might have a gun hidden in your fake arm, right?
Why not just tell us to leave our clothes in our cars? Save everyone the hassle. I'll bet I could figure out a way to get a zip gun in by smuggling pieces of it under my skin. Why let prisoners have visitors at all, then?
*sigh* Why do I get worked up like this before going to bed?
Friday, July 18, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #12: FUCK FAST FOOD
Oh, how I wish I could agree with the title of this one. I've recently discovered that I'm really bad at quitting fast food. I managed to beat my addiction to caffeine, but fast food? Nope. I've been trying for weeks to defeat this one, but I just can't seem to do it.
A part of me blames Taco Bell for introducing the Quesarito, which is perfect if you order it without sour cream but add extra cheese (both shredded and nacho). That same part of me also blames Wendy's for bringing back the Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger, which is fucking amazing. And of course there are always the traditional stand-bys, like McDonald's (anything goes there) and White Castle (home of the Flesh of the Chicken Snake).
The fucked up thing? Most times, when I'm eating these things, I don't really give a fuck about them. I'm eating them because I love the idea of them, and that's so fucking crazy, not even I can reconcile it with the person I want to be. It's like jerking off even though you can't get a rod. You need to blow your load, but you can't get hard. That makes things difficult. You'll succeed, but it won't be as awesome as you think it will be. The orgasm will happen, but it will feel dull and weak, which isn't worth your time.
I need to get down to 235 lbs. for the next time I see my doctor, which is in August. Right now, I'm back up to 245. This is unacceptable. I need to tell fast food to go fuck itself, but that's the hardest thing for me to do, even harder than quitting caffeine (which was really fucking bad). I'm a fat ass who ate McDonald's for six years straight when I was in junior high and high school. I beat it when I graduated, since I managed to go an entire summer without that garbage (and I managed to lose 50 lbs. at the time). Why can't I do that again?
Fuck. Tomorrow, I'm going to try the AM Crunchwrap at Taco Bell. I'm probably going to fall in love with it. I suck at this.
A part of me blames Taco Bell for introducing the Quesarito, which is perfect if you order it without sour cream but add extra cheese (both shredded and nacho). That same part of me also blames Wendy's for bringing back the Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger, which is fucking amazing. And of course there are always the traditional stand-bys, like McDonald's (anything goes there) and White Castle (home of the Flesh of the Chicken Snake).
The fucked up thing? Most times, when I'm eating these things, I don't really give a fuck about them. I'm eating them because I love the idea of them, and that's so fucking crazy, not even I can reconcile it with the person I want to be. It's like jerking off even though you can't get a rod. You need to blow your load, but you can't get hard. That makes things difficult. You'll succeed, but it won't be as awesome as you think it will be. The orgasm will happen, but it will feel dull and weak, which isn't worth your time.
I need to get down to 235 lbs. for the next time I see my doctor, which is in August. Right now, I'm back up to 245. This is unacceptable. I need to tell fast food to go fuck itself, but that's the hardest thing for me to do, even harder than quitting caffeine (which was really fucking bad). I'm a fat ass who ate McDonald's for six years straight when I was in junior high and high school. I beat it when I graduated, since I managed to go an entire summer without that garbage (and I managed to lose 50 lbs. at the time). Why can't I do that again?
Fuck. Tomorrow, I'm going to try the AM Crunchwrap at Taco Bell. I'm probably going to fall in love with it. I suck at this.
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