BREAKING: Plus-Sized Women Denied Access to Horrible Clothes That No One Should Be Wearing Anyway

I don’t know why this is suddenly news again, but people seem to be buzzing this week about Abercrombie & Fitch opting not to carry women’s clothing in large sizes. A&F CEO Mike Jeffries makes no secret of the fact that the intentional absence of XL sizes is meant to cultivate a perception that the brand is exclusively for beautiful people.

This, just by the way, is Mike Jeffries:

“In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids,” Mike told Salon in an old-ass interview that people keep quoting this week. Judging by the quality of his plastic surgery, he probably can’t move his mouth anymore, so maybe 2006 was the last time he was able to give an interview.

He goes on: “Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely.”

The ickiness of this high school version of exclusivity, where your social status is determined by how attractive you are and how much money your parents give you to blow at the mall, is palpable when you walk into one of their stores, which all blast techno music and smell like date rape. (Okay, I haven’t been into an Abercrombie store in about a decade, so maybe that accusation isn’t fair. They’ve probably kept up with the times and now blast dub step and smell like a fourteen-year-old boy screencapping your naked SnapChat.). The massive images of naked beautiful people leer down at you with the same expressions as the high school elite who at best would look right past you and at worst would decide to ruin your life for fun.

From their print ads to their pretty-people-only hiring policies to their unapologetically assholish CEO, Abercrombie’s message to their consumers comes down to this:  You’re cool because of the things you have but didn’t earn, and you should DEFINITELY lord that over everyone else. OWN that vapidness!

It takes an evil genius to corner a market by being the one willing to appeal to its worst qualities, but that’s not what’s going on here. Mike Jeffries didn’t build a company by tapping into the psyche of a Mean Girl. He did it by actually being Regina George trapped in the body of an old gay man.

I mean, I think someone may have literally tested the theory that if you cut off all her hair, she’d look  like a British man. Nope, it turns out. She looks like Jocelyn Wildenstein’s twin brother.

My point is that the lost member of The Plastics didn’t get to where he is by exploiting the teenage desire to latch onto any arbitrary signifier of coolness. He did it by being that teenager well into adulthood. He’s an elderly man who still says “dude” and doesn’t like to be around uglies. That jock who tripped you at graduation became wildly successful by NEVER CHANGING. In other words: We. Are. Fucked.

That said, if I go to my high school reunion and find that all the worst people now look like Mike Jeffries, then I guess there is some justice in this world. And we all know what happened to Regina George in the end.

What comes after the blues?

Are we complicit in the deaths of those who wrest their lethal pain into something beautiful for us to consume? Asking for a friend.

Bye Jason. Thanks for everything and I’m sorry.

“Quote Captain Badass,
‘I am setting your heart on fire
So when you leave me
I will burn on in your soul.’”

(Songwriter Jason Molina Dies at 39)

The ten best things to eat in the Mission

We live in an era of rising global temperatures, under a government that wages secret drone wars, and in a society that denies equal rights to citizens based on their sexual orientation rather than whether or not they watch Two and a Half Men. (You should not be allowed to get married and have a family if you watch Two and a Half Men. Just kidding! You should be sent to Guantanamo if you watch Two and a Half Men.)

So naturally the most hotly debated topics on any San Francisco media outlet are where to get the best burrito, $1 Pabst at Pop’s vs. $16 Manhattans at Hog and Rocks, and whether or not going to Tacolicious constitutes gentrification of the Mission/terrorism.

The very last thing this world needs is one more amateur food writer’s opinion on these matters, so HERE IS MINE! These are the ten best things to eat in the Mission. I don’t eat meat, so they happen to be vegetarian. Dietary restrictions aside, you won’t regret eating these (unless you’re vegan). Next week I’ll tell you all about why I quit Facebook and this hilarious thing I overheard on Muni.

10. Mike’s cheese dip from Tacolicious

Photo from tacolicious.com

People love to hate Tacolicious because it’s the home for wayward Marina douchebags who needed a place to go after Medjool closed. But the food is too good to let the popped-collar crowd claim it all for themselves. Yes, I DO want another basket of chips, thank you, and no, I’m not leaving this bar stool soon.

Can’t we just eat some fucking tacos without having an argument about gentrification? No? Okay, well go ahead. I’m totally listening.

9. Spicy marinara pizza with pepperoncini and olives from Beretta

Terrible photo stolen from Jennifer Y on Yelp. Thanks for nothing, Jennifer Y!

There’s a lot of good pizza in the Mission, especially if you’re a fan of waiting two hours for a table. Beretta is no different, but at least they have great cocktails, so you can kill that two hours by waiting two hours to get the bartender’s attention.

As for the spicy marinara pizza, shell out the extra five bucks to get burrata on that fucker and it’s STILL cheaper than the cheapest pie at another Mission pizza joint that shall not be named. (Farina. It’s Farina. That fucking place is overpriced even by my standards and, as we’ve established, I’ll shell out eight bucks for glorified Cheez Whiz. Fuck Farina.)

8. Mexican chocolate soft-serve from Bi-Rite Creamery

Artist’s rendering

The regular ice cream at Bi-Rite is delicious, but that line can get ridiculous. I don’t care if you serve ice cream topped with candied unicorn bacon; no ice cream is worth an hour of my time. And trust me, my time is worth very, very little. Also the vegetarian thing.

The soft-serve is just as delicious and conveniently dispensed at an express window that seldom accumulates a long line. With a hint of cinnamon and just enough chili to leave a little burn, the Mexican chocolate is pretty much what I imagine it’s like to have sex with Diego Luna. Is that racist? I hope not, because I was going for sexist.

7. Smoked trumpet mushroom Reuben from Wise Sons

I couldn’t find a picture, so here’s a drawing from some kid’s deviantART page. Classic move, putting your smoking mushroom in tall grass so you don’t have to draw its feet.

I never really imagined getting excited about rye bread until I had this sandwich. Is it weird to order a sandwich on rye with a side of rye toast? Don’t answer that.

6. Vegetarian BBQ chicken sandwich from Rhea’s Deli

Vaguely decent photo stolen from Jennifer L on Yelp. At least she didn’t use a flash. Take note, Jennifer Y.

The Internet probably doesn’t need any more words about Rhea’s, right? Let’s talk about something else. Can you guys believe this new pope business? Richard Simmons was robbed.

5. An omelet from Foreign Cinema

Unrelated image

Foreign Cinema’s brunch is always amazing, particularly whatever omelet they’re serving that day. Truffled potatoes? Spectacular. Champagne mushrooms and fines herbs? I don’t actually know what that is, but sure. Pears with pilsner and fontina? Uhh, okay, I guess I trust you guys to make that work. Weirdos.

And you might as well throw in a cocktail and one of their house-made fruit pop tarts because WHY NOT? You’re already spending $16 on an omelet. Obviously you’re no financial genius. MAKE IT RAIN [CHAMPAGNE COCKTAILS]!

4. Vegetarian Burrito from Taqueria Cancún

Burritos really don’t photograph well, so here’s a recent Mary Worth strip instead

I haven’t been to that many other taquerias in the Mission, because everything disappoints in comparison to Cancún. Farolito makes the second worst burrito I’ve ever had. (The worst was a truly terrible burrito I had in Antioch. How do you even get beans, rice, and cheese to taste that bad? That was the day I found out my mom had cancer and I still think the burrito was maybe the worst thing that happened to me that day.) And El Buen Sabor puts carrots in their burrito. What?

Cancún always delivers. One time I ate a Cancún breakfast burrito and then felt so good that I walked all the way to the top of Twin Peaks. But most times I eat a Cancún breakfast burrito and then just go back to sleep. Wait, maybe the Twin Peaks thing was a dream? Shit.

3. Potato langos from Bar Tartine

Artist’s rendering

Sometimes I feel like my time would be better spent if I started a foundation that works to convince death row inmates that no, you do not want a bucket of KFC Original Recipe and a two-liter Coke for your last meal. You want whatever they’re making at Bar Tartine. I’m not sure how this project would advance the greater good, and the staff at Bar Tartine would probably get tired of stopping what they’re doing so they can make dinner for convicted serial killers, so I guess you could say I’m still working out the kinks.

A chewy, deep-fried potato flatbread with sour cream and dill, the langos is just one of many brain-explodingly good dishes at Bar Tartine. Last time I was there for lunch I had a pickled mushroom sandwich that was insane and a romaine salad with buttermilk dressing that was so good it made me want to cry. A fucking salad! I order salads so I can feel virtuous. This salad made me feel like I should punch a baby and then check into rehab.

2. Satan’s Philly Cheese-Fake from Bender’s

My own photo. Those iPhone food photography classes at the Learning Annex are really paying off!

Bender’s is the only place outside of Tijuana where I’ve seen a cook have to shoo a wandering dog out of the kitchen. I have no idea who they pay off to get away with so many obvious health code violations, but whatever. If I witnessed the chef use his bare foot to nudge a family of rats out of the dishwasher, I’d STILL go to Bender’s for the seitan cheesesteak because fuuuuuuuuuuuck. I don’t even know what seitan is. Is it meat? Probably. Whatever. Comes with tater tots.

1. Breakfast sandwich from Rosamunde

I love Rosamunde. They have outdoor seating and wine on tap. And I just think it was really nice of them to give Dick Butt a job as their mascot after his fall from superstar meme status. Maybe Ryan Gosling can work the register there after all the 14-year-old girls of Tumblr have moved on to something else. Actually that would be great.

But nothing is as great as their breakfast sandwich. Much more than the sum of its parts (ciabatta roll, hard-poached egg, melted cheddar, arugula, and country sausage that you can sub out for vegan apple sage), this sandwich is the perfect food and I hope to god no one ever tells me how many calories are in it. Because then I might feel bad about having it with fries. And a Stella. And a nap. And then who has the energy to go grocery shopping and make dinner after all that? Let’s just go to Bender’s.

Life Is Brutal

“You know, Tom, I never got a chance to properly thank you for helping me carry my Drugstore.com delivery up the stairs. Those value-packs of Depends aren’t really heavy so much as they are awkward.”

“Oh it was no problem, Mrs. Worth. Any time.”

“So this is your apartment, hmm? I haven’t been in 3B since Minnie Munroe died in it. My my that was a travesty.”

“Is that so?”

“I love what you’ve done with it. Did you paint the walls black yourself?”

“Yes, yes I did. Took me a couple days. Well . . . can I offer you a glass of water or anything?”

“Sorry, what’s that? I was just making a mental note to bring something up at the next Charterstone HOA meeting. So you didn’t use one of the condo board’s approved vendors for the paint job, eh?”

“My apologies, Mrs. Worth, but I’m still not well. If you don’t mind, think I’m going to lie down for a nap. Thanks again for the soup.”

“Please, Tom, call me Mary. Toby does, no matter how many times I tell her to stop coming to my house to exposit the beginning of every new storyline. And there’s no need to apologize. How rude of me to keep you. You get some rest and I’ll be on my way.”

“Thanks for understanding, Mary. I’ll put this soup in the fridge for now. Just have to make some room between the dry lime soda and the salmon squares . . .”

“Tom . . . “

“Yes Mary?”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Oh no, Mary, you’ve already done so much, what with the soup and th—OH GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR CLOTHES?”

“Tom.”

“Mary, please. I’m a sick man! Are those sock garters?”

“Tom, that’s exactly why I’m here! Don’t you see? I help people. It’s my calling. I helped the recently widowed John Dill win Santa Royale’s strangely well-attended cake decorating contest, and now he’s three thousand miles away in New York City. So presently I need someone else to help. A new . . . project, if you will.”

“But, but what about Dr. Corey?”

“Oh, Tom, Jeff just wants me to be happy. And nothing makes me happier than helping others. Except violently pruning my roses. Goddamn I can’t wait for spring. Anyway, you never come to the Charterstone pool parties. Why is that?”

“I . . . I just . . . is this a hallucination? How high is my fever right now? I need to sit down.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, you sit down. Tom, have you ever watched a show called Game of Thrones?

“What?”

“I need someone to explain this show to me. Is it about Canada? I’ve never quite understood Canada.”

“This is a nightmare.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about Canada.”

#yeswecanseco

I’ve been a fan of Jose Canseco since I was a kid. And by that I mean that he was the cutest boy in my baseball card collection circa 1988, then he got traded to the Rangers and grew a mullet and I essentially forgot about him because even eight-year-old me disapproved of Texas. Also he was kind of a giant asshole.

But now, twenty-five years later, we’ve rekindled our romance. Because I no longer hold the fact that someone is a giant asshole against them. It takes all kinds, right? Without giant assholes, we wouldn’t have the Noel and Liam Gallagher Insult-a-Day Desk Calendar. (A quick Google search suggests that this doesn’t exist/the universe is a miserable fookin’ nipple.)

Also, Jose Canseco’s Twitter feed is comedy gold.

“What does Jose Canseco do on Twitter?” you probably aren’t wondering. Jose Canseco does EVERYTHING on Twitter. I’m pretty sure he thinks Twitter is his Palm Pilot.

Jose Canseco offers hugs on Twitter:

hug for u @oprah call me

— Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 18, 2013

He issues threats:

I will go to washington and slap all politicians if they dont fix the fiscal cliff.They are haters of America and deserve it. Here I come

— Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) December 31, 2012

This is probably more the result of a chemical imbalance than it is a display of emotional depth, but whatever. He also goes back and forth between begging someone to turn his tell-all book into a movie and apologizing to Mark McGwire for writing a tell-all book.

Anyone have contact info for dustin Hoffman?Can’t find him on twitter and want him for the La Russa role for Juiced! The Movie. — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 11, 2013

Writing the book was my big mistake. — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) November 3, 2012

He casts about for odd jobs:

I would love to write lyrics any band that needs help please get my agent joemelendez@msn.com. open to a trade deal — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 24, 2013

He would like some brownies:

Anyone in vegas got some fresh brownies right now? — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 19, 2013

He questions his sexuality:

Wow Jodie Foster at goldenglobes makes me want to join the lesbians — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 14, 2013

He does . . . this:

BRUCE is my dog, bruce IS my dog, bruce is MY dog, bruce is my DOG — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 14, 2013

And . . . uh . . .

Ever notice how some people can sonsomething at ease while others can’t in a million years. No coincidence. Aliens exist — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) December 12, 2012

On the first day of 2013, he posted his ten New Year’s resolutions. Things started out pretty normal:

1.spend more time with my daughter — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

Sounds good! I’m sure she’d like that. Resolutions two and three were “get stronger and fitter” and “help people who are getting screwed wherever I can.” So far so good. Then things get a little more ambitious:

4.return to pro baseball as player or manager and have dinners with McGwire, La Russa, Bonds, and Selig. — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

As something of a free agent myself, I completely understand resolving to be more proactive about networking. But Jose Canseco talking about returning to pro baseball as a player is like me talking about going back to fifth grade camp as a fifth grader. We’re both too old.

Okay, I guess there are other professional baseball leagues besides the MLB, so maybe this one isn’t so farfetched. Jose can go back to playing pro ball in the Dominican Winter Baseball League, and I will go back to camp as soon as someone opens a bar in the Mission called Camp.

What else ya got, JC?

5.Fight Shaq in MMA cage match — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

Um . . .

5.develop and launch Ponce de CAnseco a real anti aging drink — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

Wait. Why are there two fives?

6.Get elected to a important political office in the U.S. or canada to help all people and governments with there problems — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

Because playing for both American and Canadian baseball teams makes you eligible to run for office in either country.

7.Become a world class entreprenur and found at least two great companies that make peoples lives better and funner — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

TWO great companies! Suck it, Rockefeller!

8.Write athird book and do a move deal for Juiced! — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

And I thought “post on my blog more” was a tall order.

9.Do at least 100 promotional deals for good companies and products like Animal Rights, Human health, Environmental, and Beer companies — Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

Well, animal rights IS my favorite company/product.

10.Use position as A List entertainer doing reality, TV, movies, blogs, columns, appearances to be able to do more charity

— Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco) January 2, 2013

Jesus. I would need performance-enhancing drugs to even set this many goals. I had to take a shot of creatine just to read them.

So will someone please give Jose Canseco a job? The dude is raring to go and works harder on his Twitter feed than most of us do at life. Give the man a goddamn reality show! Why would you watch Honey Boo Boo bid on abandoned storage lockers on the Jersey Shore when you could watch Jose MMA-fight his way to becoming Mayor of Toronto? THIS SHOW NEEDS TO EXIST (ALSO THE GALLAGHER BROTHERS CALENDAR THING). Please, if you can get Jose Canseco a TV show, email joemelendez@msn.com.

By the numbers

I hate football. I’d like to boycott the NFL, but Stephen watches football religiously, so in order to avoid it completely, I’d have to get up off the couch. And the only thing I hate more than traumatic brain injury is getting up off the couch.

So I try to pay as little attention as possible when football is on, but two things keep me from completely tuning it out. One is that ninety percent of the announcing sounds like it could work equally well as the commentary track on a gay porn film. Someone’s always penetrating a hole or handling his balls or pounding a tight end. It’s very distracting to those of us with the maturity level of a thirteen-year-old boy.

The other is the ridiculous specificity of the statistics they spout off. Oh, this is only the third time Aaron Rodgers has thrown over 100 yards in the first half of a home game against the Vikings while the temperature was under 60 degrees, you say? FASCINATING. TO NO ONE.

Here are some football stats I’d actually like to know (and don’t tell me to Google it. I want to hear them come out of Al Michaels’ mouth):

The number of people who have been injured while showboating.

I love showboating, because funny dancing and offensive gestures are much more interesting than football. But sometimes all that chest-bumping and helmet-slapping and dick-wagging can get pretty violent. How many players have sustained a twisted ankle from doing the Electric Slide or pinched a nerve while kissing his guns? And do they still give the thumbs-up while being carried off the field with a hula injury? (By the way, my showboating move would be performing a hula that tells the story of how awesome I am. My personal ukulele player would travel with me to games, obviously.)

Gatorade showers gone wrong.

I know about The Play, but if Stanford’s players had already dumped Gatorade on the coach when Cal stole the win, then that moment was surely overshadowed by the fact that several members of their marching band died on the field that day.

Has any coach been affected by premature exuberation, showered with yellow liquid only to suffer an upset in the last seconds of the game? Because that would be awesome.

How many people have shot their televisions while watching that annoying fucking Fox Sports robot?

I’m not some gun nut, but it’s not murder if you’re shooting a robot. Or a television. What I’m saying is that I really hate that robot.

How much does Pam Oliver get paid?

Because it’s obviously not enough to afford a decent wig.

How much better would Sex and the City 2 have been if they’d replaced Carrie Bradshaw with Terry Bradshaw?

Just kidding, I already know that one. A LOT BETTER.

What could I have accomplished today if I hadn’t spent it Photoshopping Sketchbook Expressing Terry Bradshaw’s face into a Sex and the City 2 poster?

Wait, no. I don’t want to know that one. No one tell me.

gif via bleacher report

life hack

Those of you who know me may find this hard to believe, but I would like to do something with my life. This last year was one of stasis for me, summed up neatly by a conversation I had on New Year’s Eve:

“This is the year I’m going to do something,” I said to my friend Liz. And as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew. “I said the exact same thing to you last New Year’s Eve, didn’t I?”

“Yup,” said Liz. Fuck.

So in the grand tradition of starting the year with impossible-to-achieve goals, 2013 is the year I’m going to do something FOR REALSIES THIS TIME. Anything. I’ll be damned before I have that conversation again. And I really don’t want to have to stay home next New Year’s Eve because Ryan Seacrest.

How hard can it be to do something? Other people manage to do stuff all the time. My problem is that I keep waiting around for an inspiration, an idea, or an insight worth writing about. But you don’t need any of that stuff start writing. Just look at the Bold Italic!

But: this fucking table.

I can’t write a Nobel Prize–winning epic novel at this mess of a table. If I tried to work in this chaos, I’d probably end up writing a screen adaptation of the novelization of Liz & Dick. Lindsay Lohan wouldn’t even star in it. And not just because Lindsay Lohan will be long dead by the time I finish my screen adaptation of the novelization of Liz & Dick.

So cleaning up is Step 1. Step 2: winning a Nobel Prize. Well, I guess Step 2 would be finding a dress to wear to the Nobel Prize award ceremony. And if we’re being real about this, Step 1 is stalling with this blog post because I haven’t actually started cleaning yet. See how a messy work environment brings you down?!

But for simplicity’s sake, let’s call cleaning the table Step 1. That would mean that Step 1.1 is, of course, fixing this broken dog toy that’s been sitting on the table for two weeks.

Right? Pretty sure I read that in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. It’s in one of the appendices.

There. Done. I’ve accomplished something in 2013. Step 1.2 is figuring out what that key goes to. Because I have no idea. Maybe that’s a project for 2014.

2012 in review. Ha ha ha, just kidding

I know I don’t update this blog very often, but every day a few of you still click over here to check up on me. Do you guys know that there are other things to read on the Internet? Have you been to dlisted? Shit’s hilarious.

Anyway, for your sake, I feel like I need to get that heinous picture of Guy Fieri off the top of this page. So here’s a pointless, rambling post about nothing. Because you deserve the best.

Did everyone have a good Christmas? Mine was fine. My brother came up from San Diego to stay with us for a few days. It’s always great when we get to spend time playing iPhone games together in the same room instead of 500 miles apart. You don’t need to use the “nudge” feature in Scramble with Friends when you can just yell “PLAY YOUR TURN GODDAMNIT!” through the bathroom door.

Speaking of Christmas, I was picking up a plant for my grandma at Paxton Gate a few days before the holiday, and that place was a ZOO. And I’m not talking about all the dead animals (what kind of shitty Emily the Strange zoo would that be?). Apparently every single person in the Mission decided that the perfect holiday gift this year is a taxidermied mouse dressed in elaborate Victorian garb.

The utter preciousness of it all didn’t really hit me until I was standing in the mile-long line for checkout (which wound uncomfortably close to the Wall of Giant Disgusting Spiders) and watched as a homeless man walked in, looked around bemusedly, shook his head, and walked out. What must someone who has nothing think about a bunch of people spending absurd amounts of money on dead bugs dressed in business casual attire? I’m not kidding about that, by the way. They literally have grasshoppers and beetles set up in little display boxes wearing neckties and carrying briefcases like they’re headed to their jobs at an insurance agency. Ugh, San Francisco, sometimes I hate us so much.

In less depressing news, earlier in December Stephen and I spent a weekend in Seattle. I’m not going to write a whole long thing about every place we got drunk at in Seattle, because do I look like Anthony Bourdain? (Answer: a little. Another answer: Montana. We got drunk at Montana and you should too.)

Seattle is surprisingly pleasant for a place that gets rained on 374 days a year. Also? It is weirdly clean. No human excrement on the sidewalk, no shattered glass, not even a coffee sleeve rolling in the gutter (quite a feat when you consider the ten million Starbucks on every corner). What’s your deal, Seattle? I know about the Gum Wall, but does that mean you have walls for all city refuse? Is there some alleyway in Ballard with everyone’s tattered grandpa cardigans from 1993 piled in the corner? Tell me your secret, because I would really like to hear about an alternative to San Francisco’s current waste program: Everyone Dump Your Spent Whippet Canisters and Used Heroin Needles in Front of Jessica’s House Right Before Her Family Comes Over for Thanksgiving.

On an administrative note, my new year’s resolution is to stop worrying about what to post here and just post more. 2013: the year of quantity over quality (“Quality?” — everyone.). Watch out, rest of the Internet! I’m coming for ya. Probably.

Guy’s Big BURN

By now (and by “now” I mean “five months from now,” since I’m sure no one checks this blog for updates anymore), you’ve probably heard about the New York Times’ review of Guy Fieri’s new restaurant in Times Square. If you’re just joining us (the conscious), let me sum it up for you: they hated it. As Stephen astutely pointed out to me, it’s basically a takedown in the form of SNL’s “REALLY!?!” segment from Weekend Update.

The review addresses Guy throughout, essentially questioning him as to why this abomination even exists. “Hey, did you try that blue drink, the one that glows like nuclear waste?” they ask. “The watermelon margarita? Any idea why it tastes like some combination of radiator fluid and formaldehyde?”

It goes on: “When you hung that sign by the entrance that says, WELCOME TO FLAVOR TOWN!, were you just messing with our heads?”

Hey, New York Times, feel free to let me know if you have any other questions about Guy Fieri’s restaurant. No, I haven’t been there, but I did once go to the Elephant Bar in Concord, so I’m sure I can tell you anything you want to know.

Here’s a question for you, Pete Wells. What the fuck were you expecting? Do you know who Guy Fieri is? Have you seen his show or even his face? Were you thinking you’d walk into a 500-seat restaurant that slathers its sandwiches in something called “Donkey sauce” and be served a deconstructed apricot clafoutis with a glass of lightly chilled sauternes? Anyone who’s ever heard of Guy Fieri knows that the man is the walking embodiment of our collective worst regrets about that one night at Señor Frog’s in 1996. To expect anything more of his restaurant is just ludicrous.

Also? The place is in MOTHERFUCKING TIMES SQUARE. What was the last Times Square restaurant you reviewed, Pete? Red Lobster? The Olive Garden? The people who eat in Times Square are the people who WANT to eat shitty food. “Guy-talian nachos” may sound scary to us coastal elites, but for everyone else in America, it’s far less scary than going to a strange city and trying some ethnic restaurant they’ve never heard of from the tee-vee. People don’t visit the big city for new experiences. They do it to shop at M&M’s World and buy the same crap they can buy at home. I know because that’s exactly what we did on family vacations when I was a kid. The wait for a table at that Olive Garden can be a killer, by the way.

Yes, I know Pete Wells is probably well aware of all this and was just looking forward to shooting wasabi-encrusted fish in a tequila-soaked barrel. Well here’s some advice for you, Pete: shake two ounces each of orange juice and pineapple juice with one ounce of light rum and a dash of Donkey sauce, strain it into a highball glass filled with ice, and top with some freshly grated nutmeg. Now take a sip of your Donkey Punch and hope that it KNOCKS SOME FUCKING SENSE into you. Doing a review in bad faith is stupid. I don’t complain that ice cream is too cold, and you shouldn’t get paid to tell us that shitty restaurant is shitty.

Before you get the wrong idea, let me be clear that I am in no way defending Guy Fieri or his glorified TGI Friday’s. He, along with Paula Deen, Rachel Ray, and those two racist caricatures make me think that the Food Network is actually part of a secret government program aimed at solving the obesity epidemic by making us hate food. Think about it: every time you see delicious food on the screen, it’s paired with a personality so stomach-turningly annoying that it will eventually make you associate food with being nauseated and you’ll never eat again. I had to stop watching Barefoot Contessa before Ina Garten’s fake laugh and Valium-voice turned me against ridiculously gigantic portion sizes. Nice try, Food Network, but you’ve got to get up pretty early in the morning to keep me from overeating. Or just put Donkey sauce on everything. Either one.

I feel vaguely, grudgingly compelled to get physical, physical

I need to get some exercise. They say it’s good for you. Also, I would like to look more like Blake Lively from the neck down (and from the neck up, but that’s a different story for a different day). How do you achieve this? Plastic surgery. But I can’t afford that. I suppose I could just eat less. Hah. Ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha. *snorts entire burrito into nose through rolled up dollar bill*

So exercise it is. The poor man’s plastic surgery.

I’ve avoided joining a gym, because paying to work out seems stupid when I can jump up and down on my own for free. All I really need is a place to do it where I won’t look like a crazy person. I should probably just get over that little hang-up, since doing jazzercise on the sidewalk in front of my house would make me only the third craziest person on the block, behind Can Kicking Guy, who mumbles to himself while acrobatically kicking detritus from the ground into distant trash cans with disturbing accuracy, and Dangerously Psychotic Sean, who spends most of his time having loud arguments with his imaginary frenemy Arthur. But I don’t know, maybe crazy people have territories, and I really don’t want to get into a turf war with Can Kicking Guy. Never make an enemy of someone who can weaponize a Snapple cap, my grandma always used to say.

So a while back my dear friend TK tipped me off to the aerobics videos on Comcast On Demand. Perfect! I could work out in the privacy of my own home for free (or at least for what I’m already paying for shitty Internet service and near 24-hour-a-day access to Law and Order reruns).

If anyone needs any nuts cracked, Cindy Whitmarsh can do it with her bellybutton

Most of these videos feature perky women with terrifying abs taking you through a short cardio routine. Since staring dead-eyes into the camera while silently doing lunges for a half hour would be off-putting, they keep talking for the entire time, encouraging their imagined audience. “Come on, you can do it!” “Yeah!” “Imagine the fat melting off your slovenly frame!” Then things start to get weird. “Tank tops!” one woman shouts halfway through a set of light weight lifting, presumably to remind us of how good our shoulders are going to look in tank tops after a few weeks of toning. Or maybe she’s just reminding herself of what she needs stock up on at H&M.

But my favorites were the Crunch Dance Rhythms videos with Marc Santa Maria, who has no doubt done gay porn at some point in his life. The Crunch videos are styled like a class, with Marc leading five other perma-smiles through various dance-themed workouts (including one called “Lyrical Hip Hop.” I’m not sure what makes it “lyrical” aside from Marc’s occasionally shouting “Ungh!!”).

I watched these so many times that I had concocted elaborate backstories for each student in the class. The two blondes up front are obviously competing for Marc’s attention. Dina may look better in stretch pants, but she has no idea how willing Brook is to fake a pregnancy if that’s what it takes.

But even these get old after a while, plus I was starting to wonder if my downstairs neighbor might be less enthusiastic about my daily samba sessions than I was.

So I decided to start running, something I’ve eschewed in the past because I don’t like being seen in public in ugly shoes. Seriously, do you know what athletic shoes look like on someone with size 8½ feet? I look like an adult woman with giant toddler feet.

But you can’t very well run barefoot in this shit- and shattered glass–strewn neighborhood, so a trip to Niketown was in order. There I was helped by a kindly flunky wearing a nametag and a giant pin that said “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY.” Ugh, Nike, where do you come up with these creative ways to steal people’s souls? Do you make the eight-year-olds in your sweatshops wear those pins too? “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY FOR THE MAJORITY OF THIS 36-HOUR SHIFT I’M WORKING AT THE LASTING MACHINE.”

As I tried on pair after pair of fluorescent pink and green monstrosities and resigned myself to the fact that I was going to look like Sideshow Bob, a pair of young Asian tourists were trying on the same shoes a few seats down from me. And you know what? Those shoes looked ADORABLE on their tiny feet. But apparently they were having size trouble too. “You’ll have to try the children’s section if you need something smaller than 4½,” the flunky said. She turned to me. “You might want to go up to a size 9.” DAMN YOU, NIKETOWN!

$135 later I was ready to start running and fully expecting a call from my bank about suspicious activity on my credit card. “Athletic shoes? Ha ha!” I imagined the bank people saying. “The most athletic thing account number 154799-11 has ever purchased was a Ritter Sport.”

The first run was horrible. An hour and a half of pure hell (ten minutes running, an hour lying on the couch moaning about the fire in my lungs, and twenty minutes trying to decide which color iPod Shuffle I should buy). The second run was still pretty shitty, but by the third time I was totally getting into the groove of running a mile and a half every other day.

That lasted exactly two weeks. My knee started to hurt! Stupid knee, do you KNOW how much I paid for this pink iPod Shuffle?! I bought a Ritter Sport and pretended to be sad about not running anymore.

After that I pretty much gave up on exercising and started wondering if there was a way to concentrate weight gain in my boobs and hair. But I was caught off guard last Friday night when my friend Bina texted me to ask if I wanted to try Zumba.

There are only two correct answers to the question “Do you want to go to a Zumba class tomorrow at 9 a.m.?” Those answers are “No” and “Fuck no.” (Saying “I’ll think about it” and then faking your own death will get you half credit.) But as I said, I was caught off guard, and by “off guard” I mean “drunk.”

As it happens, I was at a standup comedy show with some wonderful friends who do things like take us to standup comedy shows, and we had just had a lovely dinner and I was in a good mood and did you know that comedy clubs have a two-drink minimum? I am not one to shirk my duties when it comes to drink minimums and wow, that is a serious pour for a place that purports to be about comedy. And oh, what’s that you say, phone? Zumba? Sounds hilarious. Let’s do this. Yes, I will meet you at 8:45 tomorrow. I should get home from this comedy show just in time.

When my alarm went off at 8 the next morning, everything seemed less hilarious. “Why did you set the alarm?” Stephen asked.

“I don’t remember.” Then I remembered. Zumba. “This is going to be hilarious,” no one said.

Zumba is about as hilarious as trench warfare. Is trench warfare hilarious? What about if you’re doing trench warfare while really hung over? Zumba is a tiny Brazilian woman dressed as Flashdance-era Jennifer Beals leading forty other people as they thrash around to loud music and try not to throw up. Okay, maybe I was the only one trying not to throw up. I was also the only one doing every dance move wrong, shuffling forward instead of backward, shaking my shoulders instead of my ass, shouting “Fuck my life” instead “Woo!” It was like one of those I Love Lucy episodes where Lucy tries to get in on a performance at the Tropicana but doesn’t know any of the dance steps. Like that except, as I mentioned, NOT HILARIOUS.

After class, I waited while Bina chatted with her friends, clutching my hoodie to my chest like someone who had just been assaulted and barely lived to tell about it.

“Did you have fun? Would you do it again?” she asked me.

“Yes, sure,” I said. “I would do it again.”

I will not do that again. I will fake my own death.