Editors note: a representative from Butcher Box reached out to me directly and explained that the extra shipping time was because of the 4th of July, I just got another box, completely frozen. I will be assembling the meat into one giant log and consuming it with a pint of Red Stag, Kid Rock’s cherry flavored whiskey.
Butcher Box is advertised as a local butcher’s hand selected meats shipped conveniently to your door, which would absolutely be true if the local butcher’s shop kept their meat in a deflating baby pool of old bath water behind an abandoned Cracker Barrel and the butcher himself was a Ted Nugent impersonator fucked out of his mind on acid who seemed indifferent as to whether or not you lived or died.
In some ways I would have preferred that to my experience, at least an Instagram with the right filter applied, playing in a pool of festering meat would have garnered a modest amount of likes from fellow beef enthusiasts. The prospect of dying at the hands of a fully nude Ted Nugent impersonator would make a hell of obituary as well.
Instead I waited an inexplicable three weeks to receive a box of sustainably sourced, barely cooled meat which I responsibly and soul crushingly tossed in the trash can. Farm to dumpster. A pasture in the heart of the Pacific Northwest trash vortex. An iconic celebration of goddamn waste. The chicken could have been used in a super soaker at a summer cookout.
The type of waste that is truly heartbreaking.
It was certainly an honor to flippantly throw away an entire box of animals and I’m sure they were just as grateful to give their lives for the sake of burdening someone with immediately discarding their corpses. I got a refund which is a plus, but goddamnit this is a Mickey Mouse operation.
Chicago, IL-The founders of the Pink Taco have done it again. Created a restaurant concept based exclusively off of a nickname for genitalia given by a guy who once gave Dane Cook a high five at a Fuddruckers in rural Illinois. Beige Log is set to open next month and will be located adjacent to Pink Taco, giving this city the food based sexual innuendo it needed to legitimize itself in the restaurant world.
Much like Pink Taco, Beige Log will serve up unmemorable food to the hordes of Chicago residents with no discernible personality, interests, or ability to recognize themselves as fucking losers.
The restaurant will be khaki forward, in the sense that everything served there must be of taupe origin and must be brutally minced into a grotesque log by the executive chef which happens to be a Bobby Flay sex doll. The first sex doll executive chef in history. We have progress people!
The flesh colored logs come in all sizes, each as boring and tasteless as the person consuming it. Slather up your whistle with a few $9 Michelob Ultras before making a boomerang of yourself suffering down the restaurant’s signature dish “The Dog Log.” And be sure to ask for extra knee caps!
This restaurant proves that no gender should be left out in choosing a horrific restaurant name, though it will still likely have a racially charged dress code. Because if you’re not wearing a pair of crotchless Lululemons, you certainly don’t have the social status to eat at the truly divine Beige Log.
The key to world peace doesn’t lie in virtuous diplomats, global economies, or disbandment of military entities. World peace requires something greater, something capable of transcending centuries of misunderstanding and animosity. Something to act as an adhesive to every race, religion and person no matter how small. The key to world peace lies in the perspiring, swollen, sausage link fingers of celebrity chef, Guy Fieri.
In a time where even the most benign outlook on any topic will get you crucified, one realm of belief remains unburdened by any judgement. That being the universal distaste of mountain troll turned television chef, Guy Fieri. Achieving a state of universal revulsion is a rare feat, and not enviable for that matter, though through this achievement the savior of humanity is born. A paunchy, bloated savior swaddled in Ed Hardy. This messiah shall breach the fetid oil of a neglected deep fryer and use his malnourished fluorescent hair to bind nations.
Imagine if the rampant hatred consuming this world was instead consumed by the eager mouth of Guy Fieri. Inhaled like a bucket of gut busting TNT wings smothered in maple syrup. Races and religions finding a single commonality to bond over…to laugh over…to cry over…to loath. That feeling of having to stop eating mid-meal while Guy accumulates enough drool to slither a triple decker pulled pork sandwich into his cram hole is infallible…it is felt concurrently by everyone and everything.
These types of universal feelings could be powerful enough to neutralize the horrible state the world is currently in. So let the flames on his XXL Harley Davidson bowling shirt wash over you and embrace a sentiment held by both your best friend, your worst enemy and anything in between.
It was 20 full seconds before I realized I had been scrutinizing the last, oddly abused looking, box of Doritos loaded at the 7-11 on Milwaukee Ave. It sat there quiet, in meditation as it soaked in the radiation from the heat lamps above. The lamps function flawlessly in terms of keeping food slightly under room temperature at full blast. “Have these been selling well?” I found myself sheepishly asking, shifting my weight from side to side. Small talk stalling. Waiting for the perfect moment where my inhibitions and embarrassment had diminished enough to make the courageous purchase. I imagine the feeling is similar to when the entire store would stare at whoever emerged from the hastily covered (usually by a beaded door curtain) adults only section at Blockbuster. “What do you think?” she responded in a surly manner bordering on complete fury. “Good?” I wearily responded. “What’s better than a big ass, motherfucking buttery ass, cheese filled Dorito, now you tell me.” It was a convincing enough endorsement and I purchased the final box in silence.
The texture of the orange triangle was otherworldly. Somehow both moist and granular, firm and wet. Aggressively lukewarm, though no fault of its own. The orange dust on them appeared infinite and in constant conflict. Astronomers could study these occurrences for a better understanding of Jupiter’s Red Eye. No less than 10 layers of this dust were shed onto my hands, staining them for the rest of the day. An unmistakable mark announcing to the world I had eaten the dust of the gods.
The texture of it in my mouth was somehow even more alien than in between my fingers. There were notes of an undetermined white fish. The aroma from the hot dogs spinning below had also found a home on the chalky surface. Inexplicably gamey and slightly sinewy. As the alien food continued to probe my mouth, it was apparent that the texture closely resembled a bathroom sponge that had been used to scrub a Comet filled bathtub several weeks prior. Or the amorphous blob of leftover dishwasher soap. If you can somehow get over the texture and the oddities contained in certain bites this salt ridden, deep fried cheese log has a certain Midwestern charm that reminds me of home.
The glistening bacon sprawled gently on top of a considerable pile of orange chicken, resembling a slight but noticeable dew gathering on the grass blades of a freshly cut lawn on a spring morning in mid-April. Despite its damp exterior the pieces seemed weightless. Several drifting vessels sailing slowly but purposefully across a sea of orange. As my fork neared the sleeping beast, there was a certain reverence, an understanding of the damage that it was about to afflict on me. Eating a double order of Bacon Orange Chicken from Panda Express was spiritual and life affirming. A fast food vision quest.
The instantaneous runny nose was anticipated, it remains a standard and manageable side effect to eating at Panda Express. The supernatural richness and saltiness of the bacon however brought on a fresh onslaught of head-spinning consequences. About halfway through the disorientation set in. Beginning first with euphoria, I sat, laughing fully and uncontrollably at nothing in particular. Next was a slipping plastic fork, a tingling sensation signaling the loss of feeling in my left arm. This was a pretty unfamiliar feeling, I couldn’t tell if it was the orange sauce playing tricks on me or if I was about to have the big one. I sat wondering who had turned up the thermostat and hoped it was the former. Maybe someone wasn’t at the thermostat at all, in fact I’m not sure our building has one. I was on another plane of existence.
Through this feral state there was an unquenchable thirst that had awakened. The sodium had depleted every ounce of moisture my body had held. Cracked knuckles and dander had all but developed in the half hour of eating. Make sure to have plenty of moisturizer and anti-dandruff shampoo if you decide to embark on this journey. I drank about 100 oz’s of water throughout the meal and my mouth was still a sandbox the rest of the day. Also little known fact that once digested the combination of orange chicken and bacon creates cement. Or if not cement an unstoppable adhesive. After the fever finally broke I felt like a new man, both physically and spiritually cleansed.
The dim red glow was about as welcoming as it gets. That and the infinitely deep stare from the panda silhouette on the front of the building. The second “S” in the neon sign had a hypnotic flicker, it made the establishment feel dingy and cozy. A scent from a mysterious, and time old Chinese recipe wafted out of the doors through the cold and into my welcoming nose. This is what fueled Sun Tzu’s army. This is what turned Kanye completely mad. Double orange, half chow, half fried rice.
The paste that cradled the chicken could have been used as the adhesive to build The Great Wall. It’s sticky synthetic tasting goodness enveloped me making me momentarily full and happy. Lively conversations swirled about, politics, illuminati, love lost and the afterlife. The atmosphere was a catalyst for all things intellectual. The next president of the United States was eating a Panda bowl in the booth adjacent to mine. These are the building blocks of life. There are trace amounts of Orange chicken sauce on the Constitution.
After the last piece was devoured I felt an immense tiredness. I seemed glue to my seat, my arms glued to the table. I was talking to my friend though I can’t recall what about. I think it was a rather concrete plan to end world hunger, but I can’t be certain. I promptly stood up and staggered to the door. I walked dizzily back to my office and wrestled with heavy eyelids for the remainder of the day.