Tour Guidin': My Refrigerator
More depressing than those ASPCA sadness-porn commercials? Teeming with enough bacteria to technically qualify it as "a hot zone?" A repository for loose ketchups and ice-cold human misery? Yes, yes, and oh god I'm so alone. My refrigerator is that of a bachelor, a man living alone and thus unconcerned with having food of any discernible quality at his disposal. Remember that scene in Ghostbusters when Sigourney Weaver finds the Devil Dog in her fridge? My fridge is exactly like that in terms of scariness, but replace the inter-dimensional demons with an abundance of forgotten tacos and mushy tumors that once, long ago, were some sort of fruit (the exact variety has been lost to the sands of time).
Oh, before you ask, that IS a bag from Pier 1 Imports in my fridge. I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say that sometimes, wicker needs to be shown who's boss.
Tour Stop #1 - A Cool Whip Container Full of Homemade Gravy
There is no foodstuff on the planet that looks more like congealed barf than a nice, chunky gravy made with tender, loving care that has been left to solidify, fester, and gain partial sentience in a fridge since Thanksgiving. When I go for a beer, it tries to tell me refrigerator-based gossip (the sticks of butter are slutting it up with the hot sauce). Once, it tried to bum a smoke, then became enraged when I told it that I don't partake in that particular vice. Ever seen enraged gravy? It will chill you to the bone, man. I live in fear of the day that I accidentally knock the gravy off its shelf, letting it loose into the fridge's interior. Then it's only a matter of time before I have a new roommate... a gravy roommate. Sure, I could throw it away, but what if it tries to rob a convenience store? Then I'm to blame. No, best that I keep it in my fridge; that way I can keep an eye on it. (and it can keep an eye on me)
Tour Stop #2 - A 24oz Can of Steel Reserve Malt Liquor
"A large can of immensely crappy beer in your fridge? Excuse me if I don't pass the fuck out on my Victorian fainting couch from the total lack of shock."
I know, I know... and, hey, no need for the sarcasm (nice couch, though; looks comfy). What's significant about this particular sort of beer is that it's the exact same size and brand that I used to drink every night when I was dead-broke and living in the ghetto-iest ghetto in Brooklyn. They were two for $3 back then and, as Steel Reserve has roughly the same alcohol content as a stiff pour of off-brand weed killer, they were my go-to libation of choice just about every night for a good stretch of 2005-2006. What I'm trying to say is, NOTHING HAS CHANGED!!! Even in another city in a state far from the mean streets of Bed-Stuy, I'm STILL drinking cheaply and shittily. And I'm nearly thirty years old!!! Growth is for pussies that doubt their choices, I say.
On an I'm sure completely unrelated note, I'm coughing up blood!
Tour Stop #3 - Batter Blaster!!!
Goddamn right, Batter Blaster!!! It's pancakes in an aerosol can, motherfuckers, can you wrap your hands around that hot, throbbing concept? You just go SPRLUUUURCH into a buttered pan and BLAMMO, you've got so many pancakes to shove in your maw, it's like a three-way with Mrs. Butterworth (three words: maple-flavored lube).
Plus, you can do batter whippets.
Seriously, though, these are totally delicious and easy to make when you're gooned out of your mind on nitrous oxide and and malt liquor and just want some greasy carbs to stick into your face.
Batter Blaster!!! Also an excellent name for your penis!!!
Final Stop - A Mysterious Bag of Meat
DON'T LOOK IN MY FREEZER!