BK and the FBI

So I am sure many of you are sick of my lack of content lately, but no one is more upset than me. Seriously, I have been ridiculously busy lately but I will patch you in on a few humorous quips that have happened to me lately.

Early last week, the FBI wanted to stage a practice raid on an old abandoned house that belongs to the company that I work for. Naturally, I wanted to see our nation’s elite crime fighting unit in action, so my buddy at work and I made the property management team ask the FBI if they would let us watch them stage their raid. They had to do background checks on the both of us before they allowed viewing permission, which came back negative for the both of us. Or is clean the word I am looking for here?

In any case, you can bet I breathed a HUGE sigh of relief that they didn’t have any evidence of that time I accidentally caught a whiff of smoke from a marijuana cigarette that was passed to me my freshmen year in college. Whew.

The practice raid was set for dawn so I figured since I’d be on a stakeout so early in the morning, I was probably going to need some BK. And BK has that new dollar breakfast menu so the day was off to a good start, right? Wrong.

I was hoping the croissan’wich was going to make the dollar breakfast roster, but unfortunately, it did not make the cut. But they did have something called a Hamlette, and being the adventurous soul that I am, I got two of those and a large coffee, the perfect combination of saturated fat and caffeine to help me fight the imaginary criminal element in the town of Middleton, Wisconsin.

Little did I know that when I arrived at my destination, waiting for the G-Men to come and save the day, I would be un-wrapping what can only be called the sorriest excuse for a McGriddle that I have ever seen.

If you think it’s impossible to screw up ham, eggs, and cheese, well, my friend, you would be wrong. First of all, the thing is served on a Whopper Jr. bun. Like they are really saving a bunch of dough by not using biscuit batter, pun intended. Second, and I am not making this up, the goddamn thing is drenched in syrup. Gross. I can only imagine the BK executive decision to green light this monstrosity.

I imagine a bunch of nerdy guys in white lab coats, squeamishly trying to explain their dilemma to a boardroom full of suits.

“Sir, we’ve tried EVERYTHING, but we just CAN’T figure out they got those little pockets of syrup into the pancake bun. It can’t be replicated, it just can’t be done.”

The CEO then throws a bunch of pens in the air and buries his head in his arms in sheer frustration, emerging a few moments later in a clear state of resignation.

“Fine. Let’s just throw the shit in between a whopper Jr. bun, pour some fuckin’ syrup on the cocksucker, and call it a day. Gentlemen, I’ll be on the golf course for the rest of the afternoon if you need me. Good riddance.”

Heads are going to roll for this debacle. I could barely finish the second one, that’s how bad they are. For now on, I ONLY eat McGriddles. Even though they cost twice as much, you just can’t put a price on quality.

To finish up, the training mission was a success, despite the disastrous breakfast affair. Oh, and the special agent in charge let me hold his sniper rifle. It was awesome.


Nothing says wholesome like a pancake pun with pockets of syrup and a big arch stamped on it. It's what mother nature always intended when She gave us grains.

Hercules Has No Friends

Sometimes I wish the dog that lives with me would get a life. Seriously, the dog has ZERO friends and no prospects on the horizon. His popularity is waning every day. I’ve been charting his popularity since his inception and the results are clear: Hercules has no friends.



I guess it is unfair to compare Hercules faltering popularity to my sky rocketing popularity but these are the only popularity charts I’ve been keeping tabs on since October 2005. Note: The friends mentioned in the above chart are of the take a bullet in the chest variety, not of the happy-go-lucky, I only added you as a friend to boost my social stature online via facebook and/or myspace variety.

To break down the analysis, you’ll notice Hercules made steady progress making chums as an adorable puppy, but his shtick wore thin as he grew older. His habit of constantly biting people’s feet, pooping in my bedroom, and dropping silent but deadly farts all over the house has brought his popularity to an all time low. Two friends to be exact. And those people own him so they have to like him by default.

Another reason why Hercules has no friends: He is a sexual deviant. I have conclusive photographic evidence to prove my point:





The face humping is NOT cool. Why can’t he just do it missionary style like the rest of us? He is showing no respect for Dexter in any of the above pictures.



Hercules and Dexter in some kind of erotic embrace.



I took this photograph sitting in a shadowy corner with my legs crossed, smoking a cigarette. Apparently Hercules enjoys a little voyeurism as well.



I am not even entirely sure if Dexter is a willing participant in these wild unbridled trysts. At least half of these photos look like Dexter is under some kind of duress.



You’ll also notice that Dexter is a MALE, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Well Hercules is moving out soon so hopefully he’ll get his act together. He’s going to be living in a big apartment complex, so he’ll have lots of opportunities to make some new pals. It wouldn’t hurt if he tried to salvage some of the relationships he has now but I’m not going to hold my breath.

Hercles, if you are reading this, I have six words for you: Bee Bop Bop. Bop. Bee Bop. (It’s an inside joke.)

Vegas Part Deux

I think it would be hilarious to be playing craps and then on your turn to roll, while shaking the real dice in your right hand, quickly throw a set of dungeons and dragons die across the table with your left hand. The reaction of the pit boss would be priceless. Since you’re going to get kicked out of the casino for pulling this stunt, you might as well go down in style. Instead of calling out something cliché like, “c’mon, baby needs a new pair of diamond earrings!” (or my case, “baby needs a Playstation 3!”), yell something like “Slay that dragon!” or “Vanquish that elf wizard!” I guarantee you would be the talk of the strip for years to come.

Someday…

If you have the means, I highly suggest getting your ass a plane ticket to the Disney World for twenty-somethings, a little town called Las Vegas. It is hands down the most fun you can pack into 72 hour period of time. I recommend you don’t go longer than that because I assure you, you’ll be running on fumes around day two from the sensory overload. But right around that time is also when things will start getting goofy and your mind will start playing tricks on you. You’ll start dropping things and bumping into stuff for no apparent reason and entire trains of thought will get completely derailed, sometimes in mid-sentence. Being aloof is fun.

I wish I had some amazing stories to tell but they would only be interesting to my posse of friends that went on the trip so I’ll just offer a little piece of advice that you might find helpful if you are ever in Sin City.

Wait, I do have one story that’s pretty good. On our last night out, we went to Body English, the club at the Hard Rock hotel and casino. Lines to get in were horrendous but a $100 tip to the doorman ensured we got in right away. This club is decked to the nines with a phenomenal DJ and some of the most gorgeous women you’ll ever see in your life. Paris Hilton was there and she sang one of her crappy songs from her crappy album to give you a picture of how la-ti-da this place is.

Anyways, my three buddies and I were out on the dance floor when all of a sudden a dance circle formed, just like in the movies. A couple of chicks started grinding in the middle but they weren’t doing much to get things hopping. Then my buddy jumps in the center and starts doing his thing, but the crowd was definitely not having any of the moves he was throwing out there. But then he pulled the greatest dance move I have ever seen.

First he did this fake sulking-off-the-dance-floor thing, like the club got the best of him so now it was time to drown his sorrows in booze kind of sulking, but right when you thought he was done for the night, he pulls the old “Marty McFly at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance” which entailed him grabbing his leg and playing guitar riffs with it while hopping around on the other foot. Textbook. The crowd went wild. I expect to see Paris Hilton pulling this maneuver in her next music video.

My piece of advice though is this: respect the force that is luck. Luck exists and you can make it out of nothing, and I’m not talking in a Billy Zane Titantic “Real men make their own luck” corny way but in a practical objective way. It doesn’t matter what game you are playing, all you have to do is be as loud as possible, laugh at everything, give high-fives to every around you, tip the dealers well, make a spectacle out of every turn of the card or the roll of the dice, and most importantly, never forget that at this very moment, you are living it up in Las Vegas, Nevada. I promise you the Gods of fortune will smile upon you if you do all these things. It’s weird but true.

Another good piece of advice: avoid the rides on the top of the Stratosphere. They are absolutely terrifying. They’re not terrifying in a FUN terrifying kind of way but in a TERRIFYING terrifying kind of way. Getting left out to dangle 108 stories above God’s green earth is not as cool as advertised.