1. Meet as much pepperoni as you can. Events such as roller derbies, school lunches, and sleepovers are great places to interface with the Ryan Seacrests of the pizza world.
2. FOLLOW UP with the pepperoni you just met. A nice note card reminding them of your shatteringly thin crust is a sure bet to make a lasting impression. If you’re feeling saucy, try scenting the card with some of your grease.
3. A pizza pizzes. No more excuses. If you’re not pizzing at least 2 hours a day, another pizza is and he/she will get the job.
4. Decide on your toppings and stick to them. Sir Sliceypants High-Five got where he is today only because he knew what he wanted and wouldn’t rest until he was covered in five kinds of heirloom squash.
5. Stay true to yourself. Maybe it’s just some wholesale, part-skim Sargento on you, but it’s YOUR Sargento.
6. Decide on your toppings; and then be flexible with them. Did you know that Sir Sliceypants High-Five originally wanted to be a pediatrician?
7. Think like a delicious pizza. How would a delicious pizza move through a crowded party? Why does a delicious pizza score so much awesome swag? Delicious pizzas know they’re delicious pizzas and expect the world to treat them as delicious pizzas. If you think you’re delicious, that’s one more pizza on your side.
The barrels are oak, the meth is organic, and El Gato is all business.
Featuring Graceann Dorse, Alex Decanaes, and Beeker
Thanks to: Chris Webb, Toby Miller, Mark Bracamonte, Oliver Jevremov, Louis Gordon
Come fly the friendly skies with Brooklyn Portland Airways!
Thanks to Chris Webb, Jessica Schoen, Tom Cryan, Kimberly Brown, Oliver Jevremov, Sienna Jevremov, Bill Donnelly, and everyone at American Airpower Museum.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray my nuts are buried deep.
And if they’re gone before I wake
There be some real nuts I gonna break.
The Tory Husher
Crofton’s Beedlebuggered Snodswag
The Droonken Scotsman with optional vomit pockets
Ye Olde Kurtaynes
Parson Payne’s Procreation Privacy Panels
The Back Bay Fleabeater
Fire and Brimstone and Brocade on Fire
Kapstone and Gielgud’s Patriot Valance
Tears of a Prussian
Revere’s One if by Style, Two if by Value!
There are worse things than both death and the Gowanus.
Feb. 13, 2012. 8:04am. I am given life by Nancy H. on an assembly line in Musky River, IL. My placenta clings to me, dark brown and sticky. As it slowly hardens into an exoskeletal shell, I am bound in a warm sweetness. It’s almost too much to bear as I lie on the vinyl conveyer belt, struggling to maintain consciousness. Is this living? O Universe, my spirit bursts forth! Oops, a crack.
Feb. 13, 2012. 8:36am. A life partner! I have been mated with one of mine own kind, as the Creator herself has deemed it be so. We are placed on a marital bed of thin white cardboard, our bodies becoming one, fusing at the sides, which will later produce a satisfying snap when broken apart. As I weep with happiness, I melt myself a little.
Feb. 13, 2012. 8:47am. Our union has been consummated. My mate and I have been sealed together forever within a transparent veil of plastic, keeping the world out and our love in. As if life can’t get any better, we are sent off on our honeymoon in the back of a truck.
Feb. 20, 2012. 4:38pm. I fear Cupcake and I have hit a rut in our middle age. (She hates it when I call her Cupcake. “I’m not a cupcake!!”, she screams to me.) We never talk, and the tempered seam running down the middle that used to bind us now seems as if it were no more than a coincidental melding of corn syrup, hydrogenated palm kernel oil, and alkalized cocoa. All is dark. We have been stuck in this box, in this damp warehouse that smells of gasoline and rubber, for a week. I sometimes wish Nancy H. had eaten me.
Feb. 22, 2012. 2:17pm. Let me teach you a lesson. It’s always darkest before the display. Just when I thought all was lost in that cinder block cave of despair, I (no, we!) sit proudly on a merchandising kiosk strategically located near the check-out of the Rite Aid in Coheegaskaw, MI. “Pick me! Pick me!” Oh, sisters and brothers! Zebra Cakes and Star Crunches! We shall all get picked. We shall all be purchased, whether impulsively or pre-meditated, whether by debit or cash, or even credit. Times is tough, lady. Swipe the card! The music plays on, and the music plays on. But no sound is as sweet as the snap of our shells, souls uniting as bodies are sundered. Cupcake, I love you. “For the last time, I’m not a cupcake!”. No, my love. You are not a cupcake. You are a Swiss Roll. I am a Swiss Roll. We are all Swiss Rolls.
1. Position yourself near his bed. Make a loud noise repeatedly at a certain time everyday. He will eventually have to touch you to make you shut up. He will at least notice you.
2. Wear something that’s bright red and flashy. Put an alarm clock on your head. I’ve never had to do that, since I’m an alarm clock to start with.
3. Never talk about work. Even if he works at an alarm clock factory and you think you might have tons to talk about, like how the new Sanyo 35XGT has a shorter power cord. How stupid! But no one likes a complainer.
4. Let him know the correct time when it changes every minute. 20 years will have gone by before you know it.
5. Learn how to make bread pudding. This was really hard for me, but you should have seen the look on his face when he discovered a bowl of bread pudding on his nightstand. Actually, getting the bread pudding from the kitchen to the bedroom was the hardest part!
6. Have luscious, flowing auburn hair that smells like coconut, as I’ve heard from other alarm clocks at our weekly alarm clock meetings to discuss what men look for in women. It was my turn to take “minutes” at that meeting! I mentioned that at the meeting several times, and the other clocks laughed every time, but it’s weird, because other clocks have taken the minutes, and that joke never occurred to them.
7. There is no time for sadness.
8. If he doesn’t like it when you make an ongoing loud noise repeatedly at an even rhythm, try only making the noise once every 12 minutes. This is called Snooze, but it certainly doesn’t mean you’re a bore!
9. Let him drive. It makes him feel like a man, plus you can stay at home.
…stains on your couch that you don’t know where they came from, and you don’t really care, but they’re the kind of stains that if you saw them on someone else’s couch, you would seriously question their hygiene and not accept any dairy products they offer to you.