Rambling about stuff I know nothing about
More from the encyclopedia of half-truths and filth
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Interior Design- I’ve always struggled with interior design and decoration. For inspiration, I like to go to the Ikea bedroom section and spent time in their full-sized sample bedrooms. I make sure to masturbate in the bed, just to be absolutely certain that the mood and vibe of the room are what I am looking for. It turns out the energy of the room is often pretty aligned with my childhood bedroom, as— much like what happened there many times—somebody usually walks in on me during this process. I’m able to gather enough intel about the layout of the room to recreate it at home before I’m kicked out and told never to return again unless I want to face serious jail time. I log all the key components: the rocket ship shaped bed, the NASA logo duvet cover, the stepping stool fashioned after a moon rock, the astronaut piggy bank on the bedside table—you get the point, all pretty sick shit. “Mommy, don’t you think it was weird that there was man going for a really bumpy ride into outer space on the rocket ship bed?” “Oh, him? Don’t worry son, he was just working on his interior design”
Irish Coffee- Whiskey, coffee, sugar, cream, an alcoholic’s morning-wood-inducing dream. Let’s not beat around the bush here, this is just a dressed-up way of extending last night’s drunk into today’s morning and beyond. My excuse for ordering one or two or three of these on weekend mornings is that the Premier League is on. And my excuse for splintering the leg off a barstool and jabbing it into the carotid artery of a Manchester United supporter is, well, the Irish Coffee running through my bloodstream. Also, he was running his mouth about Paul Scholes being a better midfielder than Steven Gerrard, which is just objectively incorrect. “Bartender, I just threw up last night’s kebabs into your bathroom sink, I’ll take an Irish Coffee if you’ve got it.”
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Kilimanjaro- Climbing Kilimanjaro is cool. That is, it’s cool if you’re too much of a pussy to climb Everest! I type as I lean back on the couch and eat an entire chocolate hazelnut babka. An avalanche of black and brown crumbs tumbles down onto my bare chest and green tartan print pajama pants. “I could probably climb Kilimanjaro if it really came down to it” I grumble through a mouthful of babka at the documentary on my television screen. Honestly, jokes on anyone who climbs Kilimanjaro, because once you’ve reached the peak, it’s like, what now? You’re still in Africa, it’s not exactly like you’re going to be celebrating at The Capital Grille when you get down from the hill. All you get out of it is a Facebook post that reads as a cry for attention (“Look how skinny I am and oh look, I also wear toe-shoes but am somehow not self-conscious about it”) and a story to bore people to death with at every social gathering for the next few decades. So that settles it, I won’t be attempting to climb Kilimanjaro, as there’s no payoff. “Honey, look, there’s the nerd who climbed Kilimanjaro last month! Look at the poor bastard locked into a conversation with him, he looks miserable.”
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Monopoly- If Monopoly has taught me one thing, it’s that no matter how much land you own, or houses you build, or number of hours spent playing the (seemingly never-ending) game, you will never be able to counteract the devastating damage done to both your reputation and your job prospects when you made that joke that goes, “Let’s play black monopoly, every space says go to jail!” to try to bring some levity to a panel discussion on the war on drugs at your local community college.
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Peyote- An Ancient Native American psychedelic used to contact the spirits of the desert in order to heal members of the community. Indigenous peoples still use peyote in this manner, while white people desperately try to mimic the conditions that make the peyote ceremony so transcendent and powerful. However, since they lack access to the rituals, sacred objects, and trained shamans that are all key components of the ceremony, their best attempts look something like sitting in a circle around a cigar store Indian in a tent in the backyard, blasting instrumental Hermanos Gutiérrez albums as Eric smokes a Marlboro and calls out to the spirits of the forest, “Oh elder oak of the Iroquois’ Valley, please bestow upon us a winning lacrosse season this autumn. May your rough, wise hands grip my shaft and cradle my balls with the ancient techniques of the woods!” “Amen!”