Posts Tagged ‘Frustration’

An Experiment Gone Awry

Posted: February 15, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , , ,

By now, I’m sure you all have heard about or read about or sensed coming out of the dark aether that lies between this world and that of the nether realms the existence of Jack in the Box’s new “delicacy” (read: affront to God, man, and the natural order of things) – their bacon milkshake. Yes, you read that right. A milkshake, also known as ‘What the hell, give me Type 2 Diabetes already’ In A Cup, with what I can only assume to be either hard, salty chunks of fried pig or, worse, pork drippin’s mixed in with the vanilla or, God forbid, chocolate or strawberry ice cream. While the potential to create a geek nexus around it by marketing it with zombies emblazoned on the cups and ‘gamer girls’ awkwardly fiddling with Xbox 360 controllers in commercials is yet to be untapped, the fact is that this abomination does actually exist.

But what is one to do if there is no Jack in the Box nearby that does not exist in the heart of the ghetto (or barrio or whatever unsafe area exists in your town)? Or if the prospect of actually paying a restaurant for them to kill you sounds like a sick German fetish rather than indulging in an ostensible “drink”?

It’s a very simple solution: create your own.

Well, simple in theory. In actuality, it is about as big a clusterfuck as a men’s rugby team playing tennis against a women’s volleyball team. Blindfolded. And naked. With a bowling ball.

We attempted just such a “simple” activity a couple days ago when we were bored and apparently wanted to experience what true despair and frustration feels like…without masturbating. For once. What follows are the (abortive) attempts that we made at creating our own version of this helltreat. Enjoy.

Attempt #1: This should be pretty easy. I don’t see why we’re making such a fuss about this. Just some vanilla bean ice cream, milk, a rasher of bacon…simple. Put all of that in a blender and hit ‘puree’. Easy.

Result #1: Forgot. The fucking. Lid. This is an ominous portent. It’s probably for the best anyway. I mean, not for the kitchen. The cabinets just got a nice coat of “sticky cream and raw bacon”. That’s going to be a bastard to clean up. No, it’s for the best for, you know, our bodies. Also, cook the goddamn bacon before putting it in the shake. Come on. That’s bush league.

Attempt #2: Okay. Materials? Check. Bacon COOKED? Check and check. Maybe a little too crispy. Should be okay though. Everyone loves crispy bacon. Well, except for vegans but the day I give a crap about how crispy they like their bacon, I’ll french kiss a live outlet. Where was I? Oh yeah. Blender? Filled to the brim with stuff so that works. LID? Triple damn check. Okay. Let’s do this again.

Result #2: Um…unappetizing is a good word to describe this try. We clearly used too little ice cream or too much milk and probably too much bacon because it looks like a porn star’s dick exploded in this thing. It’s just kind of this watery, chunky mix. Pass.

Attempt #3: This is a little disheartening, but nothing delicious was ever easy. Well…except in a couple cases. Regardless, we soldier on. Less milk, more ice cream, less bacon, and let’s throw some damn butter in with it to try to thicken it up some.

Result #3: Well, there are good and bad aspects of it. The good is that the thickness is about what we want in a milkshake. The bad is that everything else is not. The butter added a weird yellow tint to it and didn’t break up too well (probably should have unfrozen it first) so there are butter chunks floating next to bacon chunks and, really, whichever you bite into isn’t going to make your mouth happy. This is starting to blow.

Attempt #4: Okay. Gonna try something different with this. I’m going to take a shot of tequila and then a second shot of tequila and then we’re going to take the butter out and try cream cheese. Why cream cheese? Because who fucking cares by this point? Maybe it’ll be good!

Result #4: Cream cheese was a poor choice. I think we’re getting further away from the ultimate goal here. Time to reduce.

Attempt #5: Two more shots of tequila down the hatch. The edges of my eyes are a little fuzzy. Rad. Milk, vanilla bean ice cream, cooked bacon chunks. Let’s do it.

Result #5: PIECE OF SHIT LID. I’m not cleaning this shit sober again.

Attempt #6: Two more tequilas. Tequila. Ta-key-lah. That would be a pretty name for a baby. Oh, right. Some sort of milkshake. Milk, ice, cream, bacon. Easy. Just push play.

Result #6: …that was like a bacon margarita except violence in the mouth instead of liquor. Who’s the asshole that put ice and cream so close together? I thought they had a comma. I guess not.

Attempt #7: Hadda drink a beer to get that taste outta my mouth. Does your face feel hot? My face feels hot. Just like my DICK. Ho ho ho, bitches. What? What do you mean I’ve had enough? You’re an enough! Let’s blend some shit already!

Result #7: WELL! That’s what happens when you let a drunk guy handle appliances. Someone is going to get creamy stuff all over because he forgets to put the lid on again.

Final Attempt: Okay. That looks good. That looks like the right amounts. Can I press the button? No? Okay. You do it.

Final Result: Huh. That’s it? I guess you want me to review it? Fine. *ahem* It tastes like a stupid vanilla milkshake except for when you get a chunk of bacon. Then it tastes like a salty vanilla nightmare. Happy?
In conclusion, the fact that the bacon milkshake actually exists is a stain upon the good name of American production everywhere. That it is actually being sold and marketed by a company is a shameful result of not using that hot blonde woman in their ads anymore. For shame, Jack in the Box.

Wait, Double Downs still exist?

…shit, count me in then.

Although those of us at Dan Eats Cat (tell your friends, whore us out, bring us love!) are nearly omnipotent and thus unable to physically experience the trauma of making mistakes, we understand that mortals can have problems sometimes with life. And, of course, the demographic most desperately in need of our aid to prevent them from becoming drooling, crying, chest-slapping retards is simple: teenagers. Yes, we too were teenagers at one point, although we experience time differently from you. Be that as it may, we have deigned to bless your basic lives with some knowledge and advice that hopefully will turn the horror of adolescence into something marginally productive in society. As always, it must be assumed that this advice is being given to legal 18-year olds. Covering our asses.
Let’s be frank, here. Teenage love is the strangest, strongest and most damaging of all love, save perhaps anal. Thus, it requires the most help in understanding and navigating the non-Euclidean geometric waters. That’s an H.P. Lovecraft joke for you, by the way. It’s messy, confusing, frustrating, great and terrible all at the same time, kind of like a really difficult bowel movement except with more potential for ejaculation. And it’s not like it’s going to matter anyways. You little bastards never listen to any good advice from those who have gone before because we’re, like, old and can’t possibly understand all the intricacies of teenage dating. Ungrateful little punks. All the same, let’s help you out.

Girls, do you think you love him? Well…you’re right! Get pregnant so he can never leave you.

Boys, if she won’t sexually pleasure you, dump her. Right around the corner will be another girl, probably not as good-looking, but she’s willing to put your dick in her mouth and that is something that you can’t discount.

Girls, if there are aspects of your boy that you don’t like, nag and berate and harass him until he either leaves or changes. If he won’t change everything about himself to suit your ever-fluctuating whims, he doesn’t love you.

Boys, refuse to acknowledge any flaws that you may have in the relationship. You’re the almost-man and that means that you’re always right.

Girls, it’s not out of line or immature to scream at the top of your lungs, including that female banshee shriek teenage girls can achieve, at your boyfriend in the middle of the hallway during lunch because you totally saw him checking out that slut Lindsay’s ass, that fucking jerk.

Boys, that Lindsay has a nice ass, huh?

Girls, yes, it is absolutely rational to never want to see that asshole again because how dare he go to (insert new teenage shit movie here) with his family when he promised you that he would see it with you first when you were holding hands in your car after school.

Boys, erections are perfectly healthy and you should not be ashamed of them. Unless, of course, you get one in the locker room as you’re showering after football practice. Then you might have some other things to worry about beyond a simple erection.

Girls, it’s so heartbreaking when a relationship ends. You absolutely should go and give his big brother a handjob in the backyard when you’re drunk on wine coolers at Brad’s graduation party. That’ll show him.

Boys, you will be able to put it in her butt if you buy her a really nice meal at that Italian place down the road, manage to steal some champagne from your parents’ liquor cabinet (or get them to buy it, if they’re cool) and lie to her about other people doing it. It will be mediocre because she’ll be scared and tense up, which means it’ll hurt her so she’ll cry and you’ll have to abandon it halfway through and just cuddle the rest of the night. It will set a tone for the rest of your dating life.

Girls, is your relationship starting to break apart? There’s a simple solution. Have a baby. Introducing a baby into the mix never creates anything but a stronger love. Note: this is similar to the earlier piece of advice because it’s such a good idea.

Boys, just remember this: if you blow your load in her mouth or on her tits or, God forbid, in her butt, she can’t create a crotch spawn. Pray she’s too stupid to remember that.

Girls, you can totally get pregnant by taking a shot in the mouth or on your tits or in your butt. The whole body is connected! Your heart pumps blood throughout your entire body, right? Why can’t it do that with baby batter, huh?

Boys, it doesn’t technically count as cheating if you fuck her sister or cousin because, hey, you’re keeping it in the family. Also it doesn’t count if she never finds out so…that’s a plus too.

Girls, expecting that your boyfriend or crush will act like Edward Cullen is not realistic. He’s totally more of a Jacob Black. OMGZ!

Boys, if you find out your girlfriend is either reading the Twilight “books” or watching the “movies”, either dump her or distract her and burn her copies. Or burn her body and dump it in the copies. Maybe not that last one.

Girls, if you’re starting to get bitchy, go get a tampon so you don’t period all over your boyfriend.

Boys, if she’s bleeding, run for the hills for the structural integrity of your relationship is in grave danger. Do not come back until the passing of the full moon.

Girls, if your boyfriend hurts you – and he will hurt you – just go ahead and declare all men the sworn enemy of your sovereign vagina. Because clearly every man in the world is a stupid asshole who broke your heart.

Boys, be aware of one fact: no matter how fun it is to be a jerk, no matter how fun it is to snap bra straps or piss off girlfriends, no matter how fun it is to fuck around and sleep with everyone you can…your genitals are outside your body and hanging targets. Be warned. Nah, just kidding. Angry girls won’t go for the balls, no matter how mad they are. They understand the pain they provide and won’t take advantage of it. Teenage girls aren’t psychopaths at ALL, as you know.

And finally, for both genders, the love that you experience in high school is forever. No relationships past high school will ever mean as much or feel as strong as the ones you experience then. It’s all downhill. So be sure to get all your loving in during high school or you’ll miss out!
(You really hate teenagers, don’t you? – ed.)

Hate? No. Loathe? No. Respect? No.

(I…hm. – ed.)


As it is St. Patrick’s Day, I will…still not be writing this article in an Irish brogue because that is one of the most overdone journalistic/Internet website article attempts at being “fun” that exists. It’s not fun, it’s not cute and it’s not original. Instead, I’ll just listen to Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly and the Real McKenzies and drink Guinness. A lot of Guinness. Like, a six pack to this point in the night. And a Harp lager. I think that’s a reasonable compromise, yes? Let’s get to this.
After the massages, we were told to drink plenty of water to flush all the toxins out – and not “that kind of water” which my masseuse made a point to mention, to which I just grinned. So what then did we do? Went back to our room and drink most of a bottle of not-great white wine. Yes, we is smarterest brothers. Soon enough after that, though, we suited up and got ready to head to dinner. I will say with no hyperbole that we looked fantastic. Superfly was in his black suit with a pink-striped white shirt and I borrowed his light gray suit and wore my red shirt underneath. Yes, you would be correct to label us “hot bitches” in that moment. Downstairs, we snagged a cab with a crazy-ass Asian driver who whipped us around on back roads to get us to The Venetian, bitching about traffic and throwing out some incomprehensible diatribe about Osama bin Laden. No, I am not kidding. But it was hilarious.

In The Venetian, up an elevator, was our restaurant, Bouchon. It’s a fancy French place and it was, to say the least, awesome. We were attended to almost as soon as we sat down by our waiter who, hand to God, looked like Chris Kattan but sounded like Aziz Ansari. He was great. He talked with us, made us feel welcome and make sure we were taken care of. Hell, he even managed to slip us a free appetizer of some really good salmon mix. Superfly got the lamb and I got some fantastic braised short ribs to go with some solid wine. Of course, the meal can never be completely free of mistakes. Next to us for the last half of the meal were sitting a really hot MILF-ish lady and her nerd douche husband or boyfriend. Yes, there is a difference between douche and nerd douche. Regular douche are those idiots walking around with popped collars, calling each other ‘bra’ and drinking Natty Light. Nerd douches are the stuck-up, bespectacled jackasses with an unearned sense of superiority. Anyways, near the end of our meal, there was a crash and wine splattered our table, miraculously missing my pants leg. Seems Nerdouche was playing around with his glass and used the extent of his physical strength to snap the glass stem, hurtling his wine to the floor. We left soon after when another guy, clearly blacked out, at the table behind us spilled his beer and fell out of his chair. Still, great meal and Superfly left the waiter a very good tip. He honestly earned it.

Our next move was to trot on over to The Wynn to gamble a little and hop into Tryst, one of the newer clubs located there. Just a warning, The Wynn has some really shitty slot machines and winning there is just…it doesn’t happen much, if at all. One might actually call the casino the “Loss”…if one was a terrible pun-maker, of course. Anyways, due to my bro buying this big VIP package, we were in possession of VIP line passes complete with no cover. Yes. It’s just as awesome as you think it is. There’s not a whole lot more that’s more gratifying (especially in Vegas where money talks) than hearing some whiny fat bastard bitch and moan about not being let in even though he “has a table” and “will be calling the owner”, coming up in front of him, flashing the passes, having the bouncer nod and let us in and then walk past a good 350 people on our way straight into the club. The shocked and offended glares are wonderful.

Anyways, Tryst was…alright. We snuck in right near the beginning so there wasn’t a whole lot of traffic in the club yet. That made it easy to hit the bar, snag our Patron and Sprites (the official Viking Blood drink of Las Vegas), gawk at the dancing girls who really didn’t look into it at all and find a phenomenal spot outdoors. See, Tryst is half open-air with a huge, gorgeous waterfall and beautiful blue pool to hang out by. Which we did. It was mostly a pretty quiet stay, even though we helped out some Australian cougars by taking their pictures and having them take ours, those few pics basically the only time that we look presentable and/or not drunk. No, we didn’t tag the kitties, but they weren’t all THAT hot anyway. Soon enough, we got bored with Tryst and decided to take our talents to Tao, in The Palazzo, one of – what I have been informed – the hottest clubs in Vegas and maybe the world. Bitchin’.

Tao was…well, it’s one of the hottest for a reason. It’s awesome. It’s multi-level with a ton of rooms and lower lighting that, according to Superfly, made me look like Gordon Gekko. Now, here is where things go all weird for us. You see, as I’ve previously mentioned, money talks in Vegas. Vegas sluts are drawn like moths to flame to the wallets of rich dickheads. Regular dudes like Superfly and me have about as much chance of dipping our wicks in Vegas crotch wax as we would of…doing…something impossible. Shut up. Anyway, we were waiting in a quite long line to grab our (at this point) third go-round of Patron and Sprites when two things happened in the course of a few minutes.

First, a couple girls behind us started to fall on my brother. In an incredible act of bravado, we struck up a conversation with them and I whispered to my bro to get them to join us outside on the patio (a quieter area to talk). About this time, I felt someone run their hand down my arm. I turned to find a second pair of girls looking at me. One was…well, my brother’s later description was “wildebeest” but the other was very cute and for God knows what reason, interested in talking to me. Now, Superfly and I to this day disagree on whether or not she was Asian (I maintain she was, he insists she wasn’t), but she was definitely attractive enough to be puzzling. Apparently, she really liked my color scheme. Yes, that’s right, bitches. I can match colors very well. Anyways, I invited them outside as well and wanted to wait for them but Superfly hustled us out there to hang out for a while. I don’t think he actually knew what he was doing because, long story short, we left the club without seeing them again. My dick is still angry at me for leaving him out to dry like that.

Anyhow, our next stop was Pure in Caesar’s Palace. Honestly? It sucks. Well, maybe not sucks but both times we’ve gone, we’ve left within twenty minutes because it just doesn’t work. Not the best place at all. I mean, $10 for a damn Bud Light? That’s pretty shitty expensive, even for Las Vegas. By that point, our feet had really started to hurt, so we hitched another ride back to the Cosmo for a little more gambling. There, I proceeded to get fucked six ways from Sunday with a lousy-ass lying slot machine that sucked twenty bucks from me faster and with less impact than a drunk hooker. I’m still mad about it, actually. From there, it was off to bed since we were exhausted. Want to know why?

BECAUSE FUCKING DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME STARTED THAT NIGHT. Yes, at some point during the night, we lost yet another hour of sleep. We only realized this the next day when it dawned on us that we had gotten back to our room around 5AM. Long night, but honestly a really fun one.
With that, “Sunday” begins tomorrow for you lovely readers. Yes, this is going to be an almost-series for a few days while I try to recap this behemoth of a trip. You better enjoy it.

With the onset of Tennessee’s Spring Break, two things came into play: the homecoming of my brother, Superfly, and our subsequent return to Sin City, The Home of Devastating Hangovers…Las Vegas. Here, as per tradition, is my recounting of the trip in as much detail as I can remember. For the record, about half of the notes that I created were written in a state of drunk so profound that I have had to invest in the services of Egyptian hieroglyphic experts simply in order to decipher them. And you think I’m kidding about that. Anyways, today I will cover Saturday. We may or may not get through the entire day. I won’t really know until I’m done. So with blessed cold water next to me and L.T.D.s “(Every Time I Turn Around) Back In Love Again” blaring from my Bose speakers, I begin anon.
3 A-fucking-M in the 3 A-fucking-morning. That’s when Superfly and I had to wake up. At 4 A-fucking-M, we had a car coming to pick us up so alarms had to be set an hour early so that we’d be ready. God rest the bastard who created the “missile silo self-destruct sequence activated” alarm for iPhone because he will surely BURN IN HELL. The car reached the house right at 4 and, after a brief panic in which I could not find my damn sunglasses, we were off. On the way to the airport (in a blacked-out Caddy, it must be said), we had a lively discussion with our driver about the BYU scandal bullshit (note for future readings: Michael Davies was kicked off the team because he got his girlfriend pregnant, a violation of the BYU honor code that demands strict adherance to basically denying yourself any form of pleasure), among other things. Soon enough, we were at the airport.

After a quick trip through security – complete with full body scanner (quick note: those things are seriously like Star Wars-level crap, if Star Wars was now and wanted to sneak a peek at my boys and piller) – it was time to board. The flight to Atlanta was uneventful, for the most part. No world-class hotties to gawk at, but plenty of douchebags to make up for it. At the time and right now, I had a feeling that would be par for the course and I wasn’t wrong. Also, I heard some lady behind me say that the only thing that was small about her was her Eustachian tubes. Gross. Also, I just looked that up while writing this at home and it’s still gross but not as gross as I thought it was going to be. Anyways. Oh yeah, and we broke through clouds to see a gorgeous sunrise, although it could have been a nuclear corona for all I knew. Sleep deprivation – lousy three-hour night – was not my friend.

We touched down and then swung by a sub-par Mexican restaurant (On The Border) for a not bad but MSG-d up the ass breakfast. Around the time we finished, the call of nature was ever-present so we retreated to the men’s room. I was able to find a little joy beyond the basic pee in fighting off the urge to sing “Africa” whilst pissing. You see, the urinal was made by a company known as Toto and I make logical connections. I’m not proud. Okay. I actually am. “Shocking” bullshit news soon reached us, however, as Delta suddenly decided to shit the bed and bump our flight to 11 AM instead of 9:50. Bastards! And after a little while, they decided to bump it again to noon. Pissed off does not begin to cover it. Fortunately, Superfly saw my ire and led me to a bar and Stella Artois. I have a good brother. Once that was done, we waited in line yet again, playing “Dibs” (our default boredom game). We generally have varying degrees of success, with the one that had been losing usually becoming more focused and surging ahead. We also saw a dude in a fanny-pack, leading to “I’m fannypackin’ it” as the first inside joke of the trip, followed quickly by “planeahol” and “plooze”. Finally, mercifully, we boarded.

There’s a very big difference between 767s and tiny-ass planes. That main difference, aside from the nicer seats, is that the TV monitors play a safety video. I’m not going to lie. The lady in the video is…well, let’s come out with it. I would fuck her to the point that we could only just lie on our backs, breathing heavily and staring weakly at the ceiling, our bodies completely drained of all sexual fluid. Natural redhead with DSLs? Mmmm-good. Boba Fett was riding on half a jetpack before you could yell “Get your penis off the monitor!” Can you tell that my general hasn’t seen a whole lot of combat duty lately? Just hours and hours of training. And yes, that means exactly what you think it means.

Four damn hours later, complete with off-and-on sleeping and a pee near-catastrophe, we touched down in Las Vegas. As per all airports, the wait for the luggage was far too long and rife with the fear of it somehow being rerouted to Tijuana or some shit like that but soon enough, we were on our way, riding in the shuttle. Accompanying us was what had to be a bachelorette party from Mississippi, complete with mother complaining over her ‘sunshades’. To go on a digression for a second, why the hell is it that mothers are invited to bachelorette things? Seriously, that makes no sense to me. Dads don’t go to bachelor parties for good reason. The presence of an authority figure is counter to the very notion of that party. Those parties are meant to be the absolute apex of excess and “holy shit that was bad”. Why would you bring A FUCKING PARENT? Women are crazy. Anyway, suffice to say, they were wired and thus annoying as hell. They were dropped at The Bellagio though, so it was alright.

The first step inside the Cosmopolitan – our hotel – was intense. It’s got a totally different feel than the other casino/hotels. It’s less…gaudy. I mean, it IS gaudy but less so. We had our first (and what would be one of only a few) stroke of good news when we went to check in: we were told that we were actually taken care of in the VIP Lounge. Score. We chatted with the cute girl at the desk for a minute and then went to our room. Up on the 40th floor, they did us right, that’s for sure. Our room had a perfect view overlooking the Bellagio Fountains. Double score. We got all set up then, realizing we had not eaten since like eight in the morning, went down to Holstein’s, a burger place.

Before I can continue, I have to comment. For a mid-20s, sexually frustrated male, Las Vegas is basically like putting a starving tiger into a cage that is surrounding on the outside by sleeping, fattened and crippled monkeys. It wants what it sees more than anything in the world but is unable to have it. I swear to God, I should just have neutered myself before I got to Las Vegas and that thought would be repeated dozens of times throughout the trip. Just…nnnnnnrg. I say this due to what comes next.

Okay. Holstein’s. Beyond what comes next, it’s still a pretty awesome place, actually. The atmosphere is nice and friendly…and then there’s the staff. Dear sweet ass. I Tweeted about this at the moment but it bears repeating. The girl that took care of us (no, not like that – if it had been like that, I would have died happy right there) was so incandescently hot that my life up to that point is now a little grayer in retrospect. Stunning green eyes, chocolate brown hair, a face that would make Helen of Troy look like Janet Reno, perfect tits and an ass that Michelangelo could not have sculpted without achieving a hard-on. I won’t say that it was love at first sight but there’s no way I couldn’t at least for a moment picture what our babies would look like. That thought coming, of course, on the heels of actually picturing the act of making said babies. Aside from her supernova-level hot, though, it was a great meal. Both Adam and I got fantastic beers and great burgers. It was the Rising Sun burger with kobe beef, soy sauce, spicy mayo, tempura avocado, and a few other things. Unreal.

After the meal, we decided to hit the sportsbook and drop some cashola on a few games. Following that, it was down to the floor to test out our luck on a few slots. Almost immediately, I won $125 on one machine. While that was awesome, it was also the best I did the entire weekend, so maybe winning right away is not a good thing. A bit more gambling to up and down success and then it was massage time. Yes. Massage time.

It was awesome. The most relaxing thing ever. We walked in and paid and were led to the men’s side. We tossed our clothes into lockers and were outfitted with comfy sandals and amazing hybrid bathrobe/towels that made me feel like a boxer. It even had the neat little hood. We just waited and chilled on couches, watching sports and soon we were ushered into a different room and met by two attractive women who would be our masseuses. Down a little hallway was my room and fifty minutes of killing a good deal of the tension in my body. I’m not going to go through it but it was incredible. I was so relaxed and loose afterwards. No, I did not erect. Apparently, though, Superfly did, bragging about Mr. Roundtree’s – his nom de guerre for his genitals – turgidness. A quick hop in the sauna, mist room and hot tub and we were finished. The next stop, after showering and changing of course? Dinner time.
That’ll be it for today’s recounting of our Vegas trip. Tomorrow’s will be the second half of Saturday. Don’t worry, faithful readers. We’re just getting warmed up.

Happy New Year, DECFers! That’s pronounced “deck-furs” except with maybe a little bit more flourish to it. How about this? Pretend you’re German and are trying to stifle a sneeze. There. Now you have it most of the way. I suppose you’re all wondering where we’ve been. Or maybe you haven’t been wondering at all, content to just go about your daily life without our wisdom. To that I said, fuck off! You need our wit and charm to help you make it through another day. Without us, you would just be…

(Okay, I actually know BOTH of the jokes you were going to go with there and I’m going to say no to both of them. They would both piss a LOT of people off and may lose us friends. So knock it off. – ed.)

Aw, shoot me like a sitting representative.

(KAOS! Goddamnit, man. – ed.)

Ladies and gentlemen (although let’s face it, if you frequent this site, you are clearly neither – not saying you’re a tranny, mind you, but you’re not anyone that any reasonable human being would want to take to any place more fancy than a Waffle House off the interstate either), your 2011 Dan Eats Cat Food!

Oh, yeah. An article. Well, we can’t really think of much so here’s yet a fifth recap of search results that have led to this site.
“is guitar hero dead?”: If you have to ask, the answer is yes. It’s deader than…well, you know.

“prizes in childrens cereal”: Not really sure why you would want to know this. Are you trying to put razor blades in there?

“drugged dan sex”: This is not EVER anything we EVER want to know about. Seriously. Too far, random Internet search term.

“pussy raptorsaurus”: Pretty sure you might wanna retract that, dude, or Ruffles will eat your ass with fucking Hollandaise sauce.

“dummy food text”: You need to qualify what ‘dummy food’ is first. Like…are we talking about fake food and packaging or what?

“drunken irishman comics”: Methinks we may need to diversify our ‘drunker than’ analogies a bit more from this point on.

“using the internet to masturbate”: It would be much more pleasureable, I think, if you would use your hand. Or a woman.

“best photo ever velociraptor”: I don’t know what this photo is. I don’t know if it exists. But damn it, I really want to see it now.

“raptorsaurus robot”: Okay, fuck the photo. I want THIS. Can we make this happen? Scientists? Stop working on an AIDS cure and do THIS. It’s so much more important in the long run.

“baseball sexual metaphor”: Which one? There are so many.

“albert sousa horses”: WHY ARE WE GETTING THIS STILL? It’s not the horse meat one but it’s pretty close! WHO IS THIS DUDE?

“far too awesome”: Finally! A search result that is MEANT to link to this site. Not just a peripheral one that’s vaguely creepy.

“what to see in internet for masturbating”: I would say ‘pornography’, actually. Naked photos or videos of your gender of choice. But what the hell? Maybe Mr. Met does it for you. Maybe the Phillie Phanatic. In that case, will serve all your weird, mascot-fetishistic needs.

“does rufalin work on men?”: No. You may be surprised to learn this but roofies actually make men more awake and sexually voracious. Might not want to spike that water bottle anymore, ladies, lest you have a desire to have your panties physically ripped from your crotch and hurled INTO THE SUN.

“bdsm snuff “sawed””: …the fuck? Does this actually…you know what, no. Don’t wanna know. You won’t find that here and I hope the FBI’s “Carnivore” system takes you out.

“sucking on adrienne barbeau’s tits”: Knew that joke about Escape From New York would bite me in the ass someday. Oh God. Just watch. “Biting ass” is going to be in the next iteration of this. Damn it.

“awkward prom photo”: Why would you ever find something like that here? Prom holds no sway over our mighty, mid-20s crotches!

“how to ruff it up masturbating”: Sandpaper, a power drill and a diamond cutter. And now my penis has retracted into my body in fear. Awesome.

“a woman get pissy fucking”: A…what? Just…okay then.

“0who is the antichrist”: Either Obama or Bush, depending on your political ideology. Personally I’d pick someone less obvious. Maybe Eva Longoria. She’s FAR too hot to be of this world after all.

“boy’s guide to masturbating”: Step One: Remove your cock from your pants. Step Two: Place your hand on it. Step Three: Shake Weight it!

“movie where boy eats cat food”: If this is a movie, it’s either an odd porn or a depressing documentary. Pass either way.

“sexy esttail”: I would have more to say about this if I knew what an “esttail” was. Is it some kind of flounder?

“how to rough masturbate”: We JUST covered this. Is your dick still not covered in blisters yet?

“scat lauraino peidano”: Don’t know who Lauraino Peidano is but I bet she’s REAL pissed off that this is being searched.

“masturbating without portn”: Portn? Portn. Portn! Portn…

“dan drugged”: Why do you people want to see Pred3000 coked up with his pants around his ankles? That’s not anything that you might want.

“attack of the killer totamtos and vegetarianism”: I’m not sure what worries me the most about this term. The oddly specific nature of it, maybe. Maybe it’s the actual correct spelling of ‘vegetarianism’. Or maybe it’s the fact that ‘Totamtos’ sounds like a fucking Pokemon. Maybe all three.

“james harrison flexing biceps after hit”: Let me be clear. The Steelers can use the Terrible Towel to wipe the NFL’s NUTSACK.

“albert sousa horse rescue”: WHAT IS THIS?! WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?!

“boysfood masterbating encouraging”: I’m starting to sense a trend of what word brings people to this site.

“gulla gulla porn”: …ah fuck me. We brought this on ourselves.

“”: Is this real? Seriously? I want to go check but I’m afraid it’d just lead right back here. All the same, there is NOTHING about that URL that can be anything other than mindblowingly amazing.

“lobster tube sex bbw women video .com”: I’m just going to let the utter absurdity of this just speak for itself. It’s like Ionesco and Stoppard had a fetal alcohol kid, fed it LSD and Viagra and hooked it up to the Internet.

“how much money will be needed to make a b movie?”: Well, enough to afford a camera, props, actors and a little hole to put your sanity in.

“ radio transcript”: Again, I’m kind of stunned and confused as to whether this is real. A lot less awesome than the monkeys one though. This is less Instant Monkeys and more “child trafficking across the Mexican border”.

“bugs inside honey bunches of oats””: And now we’re in their system. Crap.

“fictional websites that are real”: Buh…huh…what? WHAT? Fictional websites ARE NOT REAL. Do you understand what fiction means?

“+scat +food +porn”: Basically, if you remove the plus signs from this search term, that is the nexus of all search terms for this site.

“younger tits cats seeking”: Moving right along…

“”get a blowjob” future-mother-in-law”: Okay, actually moving right along made things worse. Our readers are freaks.

“where does the feed exist in our world”: The Feed? What is The Feed? Is that some sort of sci-fi thing? Actually, fuck you. I’m taking it. Copyright, bitches!

“kitty frrrt comic”: Did they just ask if we linked to a comic where a cat audibly farts? Did I say our readers are freaks already?

“bafunny cupids”: Bafunny sounds like an ancient Toltec god of insanity. Cupid sounds like a little prick who should be roasted alive.

“tomorrow urinal worried surreptitious frightening lyrics”: …I think is this what it’s like to see in 5-D. Total mental collapse.

“2nd base passionately video perv”: And yes, once more, our readers are freaks.
(I’m still pissed off at that joke, KT. – ed.)

Be pissed if you want. Ain’t my deal!

(That…what? – ed.)

Deuces, my douches!

(*sigh* – ed.)

In this modern world, we as human beings – and we here at DECF especially as comedy writers – thrive and almost depend on ready, waiting and infinite Internet at our fingertips. We all subsist on a constant, steady diet of social networking, time-wasting websites, email programs, sports game updates, webcomics, game cheat sites, YouTube videos, online dating and, of course, mass quantities of pornography, almost always free and/or easily downloadable. It becomes as much a part of our daily routine – indeed, our LIFE – as eating, sleeping, having sex or consuming pornography. So what, then, happens when that access, that lifeblood becomes severed? Becomes removed and unavailable? If you were to go without eating, you would lose weight and eventually turn into Lindsay Lohan. If you were to go without sleeping, you would become pale and sickly and exhausted and eventually turn into Lindsay Lohan. If you were to go without sex, you would have your testes swell to near-gargatuan proportions and then explode and eventually turn into Sean Penn. Well, we here at DECF are willing to help you out. There are eight steps in coping with it and we would like to share those with you today. We just need to indulge in pornography first. It’ll be just a few minutes.
Step One: Confusion: Surely something must be wrong. Why, just a moment ago that little icon in the very corner of the screen was happy and blue, the little circle indicating that the wireless connection was raging like a teenage hard-on in Victoria’s Secret. Seriously, I was literally JUST working on editing together a YouTube video to surreptitiously piece together a music video to showcase my balls playing in the NBA. I need to get this done. The people must see this! They must hear the siren call of my ballsack in a throwback Kings jersey! This is important, damn it! There must be some kind of mistake, a momentary glitch in the system. It’s okay. It happens. Nothing can be perfect. It should be back in just a second. Any second now.

Step Two: Realization: The Internet connection is gone. It’s left you. What did you do to so upset it so, you bastard? Did you hit it? Did it show up at work the next day with a black eye and a split lip, claiming that it tripped over a dog toy and fell down the stairs? Did you scream at it while you were drunk, calling it a whore and accusing it of sleeping with Fred, that goddamn taxidermist the next town over? Or was it a more passive neglect? Did you tell it you loved it anymore? Did the lovemaking lose all its passion? Did you even make love anymore? Did you just opt to sit and watch the Rangers game while drinking whiskey instead of engaging in foreplay? Frankly, I don’t blame it for leaving you.


Step Four: Bargaining: Okay. Okay, I’m cool now. It’s cool. Okay. Alright, Internet fate. Let’s talk bargain here. You give me my Internet back immediately and I’ll stop fucking around with it. I won’t just leave the computer all on night, sucking up those precious Internet juices. I won’t intentionally troll the Net for sites to test out my antivirus and give it a nice workout. I won’t even leave porn up all day, coming and going as is my wont. Okay? Is that an acceptable deal for you? I’ll give you all that if you just bring my Internet back right now. Now. Okay how about…now? Are you listening?


Step Six: Depression: It’s never coming back, is it? I’m going to be without my Internet forever. Lord, I miss it. I do. I know I never really treated it as well as I should have, but I didn’t think it was going to leave me. I thought we would just go back and forth, sniping at each other but always with love in it forever. I can say it now. I miss it. I do. I don’t want to, but I do. I should have taken more pictures. I should have downloaded more porn. I should have written more articles. And now I will never have that chance again. Damn it. I didn’t think it was going to be this hard.


Step Eight: Accep…Oh Wait, It’s Back: Neat! Okay, cool. Let’s do this. Back to the porn downloading. I heard they have some good shit I don’t have my hands on yet.
(Are…are you okay with that joke? – ed.)

Which joke?

(You KNOW which joke. – ed.)


(Just…forget it. If we don’t get hate mail over this, we never will. Let’s see how this turns out. – ed.)

Lightning sundered the sky above us as the walls of the city, cracked and filthy gray, created a jagged horizon. Vents dotting the ground spewed noxious gases, the cores of the vents glowing a malevolent red. The path on which we walked wound serpentine through an obscene mockup of what appeared to be city streets. I walked more closely to Astley than before, concerned about some shade reaching from the shadows and pulling me into nothingness. I wished to quiz my guide on this Sixth Circle but fear locked my voice deep in my throat. He, as usual, needed no word from me.

“We have entered the City of Diss, friend. As we walk, be mindful of our surroundings. A false step could lead to an eternity of plummeting through this place. Stay fast to me. I will be careful. We have now entered the Sixth Circle, though only near the entrance. Let us go deeper so that you may experience the true depth of this level of sin.”

I am not proud of what I did, but it must be said. To ensure my safety, I softly held onto the sleeve of my guide, as if a small child frightened in a shopping mall or a zoo. A quick, amused glance from Astley was all I saw before turning away, ashamed. Stifling a laugh, he motioned forward to me.

“Look, the first members of this circle are up just ahead.”

“Who lives in this circle, poet?”

“Those who in life were desperate for attention.”

“As those in the earlier circles were?”

“No. Those wished only that people would notice them, say good or bad things to them. A weaker, less intense form of attention. These that dwell here wish for…personal attention. Less verbal and more…physical attention.”

“As in fighting?”

“As in sexually engaging.”

“Ah, well surely this circle cannot contain ALL those who are desperate for sexual attention. Nearly…all of the planet, really, are in that frame of mind much of the time.”

“Yes, but not all of the planet prowls the Internet like rabid beasts seeking it from strangers.”

“Point duly noted. Who are those then?”

I gestured to a massive pile of grotesque naked flesh writhing and pulsating near the edge of the path. Muffled moans and grunts emanated from the inside of the pile. The more clearly I looked, the more horrified I became. The pile was not just random. It was a conglomeration of legs and lips and breasts and behinds and other less savory body parts. Attached to the occasional breast was a suckling child. I heaved involuntarily.

“Those are the online daters. They are less reprehensible than the rest, normally. They ache for sex, yes, but also for companionship and love. Unfortunately, their life choices to the point where they signed up to date online were what we shall call poor. They would get married and pop out their brood before being divorced two years later by their rurally-based Marine high school boyfriends. After a few years of raising their children alone, they miss the touch of a man and thus enter the online world to find some person that will accept her and her child as a viable partner, making sure to mention in every essay that they are not looking for a father for their child, though they surely are. Their sheer desperation has warped them and drawn them together into one giant mass, never to be alone again for the rest of time.”

“And what of the males who join online dating websites?”

“Sexual predators all. Let us move on.”

We walked a little further and found before us a giant conference room filled with large men and women staring at each other, all seeming very uncomfortable. Occasional coughs and sniffs were the only sounds to fill the air. The overwhelming quiet created an atmosphere of supreme awkwardness.

“Poet,” I asked, careful to keep my voice to a whisper, “who are these that stand here so silent?”

“These are the Craigslist perusers. While those who date online have low standards, those who search for intercourse on Craiglist have those that much lower. Of course, they lie as well when describing their physical attributes, creating a cycle of untruth. This could not stand down here. They cannot hear or see us, so we may depart quickly. They are doomed simply to wrestle with their deflated and unmet expectations forever, unable to broach the subject of the lie they see for fear for exposing their own. Come. We have one more group to see.”

That last crowd of damned souls were just a few steps down from the last, but were noticeable as soon as we left the first. Their screams pierced the air, making me wince. As we entered their area, I could see why. Every one of them, every single one, had his or her crotch lit aflame, the fire never dying or subsiding.

“What are the sins of these poor souls?”

“These have lacked the subtlety of even Craiglist in their pursuit of sex. They plainly went for those oh-so-prevalent groups online that promise nothing but random sex with random strangers. Their lack of decorum has damned them to have that which they valued so little licked by tongues of fire, an appropriate metaphor as well. If I may also have one more moment of your time, friend?”

“Of course.”

“What we shall experience in the final three circles is much different than what we have seen so far. The last three are made of components – three, ten, and four, respectively – and are darker in tone than what we have been through. While these six have been the realm of the self-serving, the last are…malicious. They seek not to serve their own needs but to hurt others. What they wish is pain and agony, not simple affirmation of their selves. These are the ones that do harm on the Internet. We must be careful. We must be wary. We must watch over ourselves lest we be pulled down into their worlds. Be warned, traveller. You now remain in constant danger. Now, let us depart.”

With a deep breath to calm my nerves, I followed Astley as we began to descend. The smell was overwhelming. I was overtaken and felt my senses leave me. There was nothing.