The Final Word on Mayonnaise.

I fucking loathe you, mayonnaise. Just look at you. You repulse me. The way you can’t decide if you want to be yellow-y white or white-y yellow. That schloop noise you make when you’re suctioned out of your ugly container and the Thwlap of your fatness against a plastic bowl.

The way you congeal white, doughy wonder bread to muted pink bologna. Nothing that does that should exist in the world. Oh, and your egg salad. How dare you? Where do you get the nerve to call yourself a “salad?” Salad is clean, refreshing, crisp, beautiful, and healthy. But you mayonnaise, you’re just slippery, fat, unclean, and appalling. Just look at yourself. Seriously, take one second off from fattening the world and look in the mirror. Now imagine your most beautiful form. What did you come up with? Something like this?

is grossI mean, ew. I couldn’t come up with a less appetizing looking food if the only ingredients I had were ketchup and diarrhea. And that picture is the internet trying to make you and your egg salad look the best. Congratulations, that’s the best you’ll ever look. I may not be beautiful, but at least I can go to the gym and work on it. Yet, I can’t stop staring at your enormous gobs of yoke and white mushed together with clumps of mayonnaise.

I don’t even have to smell the egg-y cold fatness emanating from the plastic “jar” of Hellman’s to feel the vomit gurgle up through the lower regions of my esophagus. There it hangs, waiting for my brain to remind it that I’m just looking at a picture so that the vomit retreats. But it remains wary, waiting to eject should the egg salad attack my digestive system.

But it’s not the egg salad that bothers me the most. I know that egg salad is mayonnaise. I’ve learned that “aioli” is just a trick word you use to make yourself seem more exotic. I’ve discovered that spinach artichoke dip should really be called “choke on a tub of mayonnaise dip.”

It’s the way you infiltrate other seemingly normal foods that infuriates me the most. Take honey mustard for instance. What a nice name for a food. What a beautiful combination of sweet and spicy, of brown and yellowish brown, of condiment and dessert. Honey-mustard is almost un-fuck-up-able. Well, did you know that many delis add mayonnaise to this sweet concoction? I bet you didn’t because you’re a disgusting mayonnaise whore. But I did. Because I am a mayonnaise sleuth who can feel that slimy oil/eggyoke concoction sliding down my throat and settling into a lump on the pit of my stomach, where it sits, constantly reminding me that the world is out to get me.

Sure, I know what you’ll say, mayonnaise. You and your defenders will tell me that I should just chill out and deal with you. That I should wipe you off with a napkin, and my meal will be good as new. But we both know that doesn’t work. Because you’re more powerful than napkins or paper towels. Yes, I’ve used a Bounty quicker picker upper to remove poisonous poisons from the floor of my important. The kind that come with warnings that “one must wear gloves to avoid this poison burning through your skin and eviscerating your intestines.” But I wiped them right up with a little flick of the wrist. But you mayonnaise, you somehow turn paper towel into a translucent film of ick and wind up on my fingers where your remnants remain for days.

So fuck you mayonnaise. I hate your face.

Fuck you mayo - A cartoon by Rob Pollak



Things that are making me irrationally mad right now

True story, all of this stuff is driving me insane:

– Right this second I’m sitting in Barnes and Noble.  My head just exploded from rage.  But please don’t pity me.  Nothing severe happened.  It’s just that the internet, which is the only reason I am sitting here eating a quiche filled with shit cheese and shit corn and shit broccoli, stopped working.  Well, not stopped.  But just stalls every time I try to watch this video on youtube:

I haven’t watched it yet, but I bet you’ll enjoy it.  Everyone else who has access to Reddit has certainly enjoyed it today.  But not me.  I’m just sitting here, tapping away on my keyboard, wondering if this post will ever make it to the internet, and scorching the roof of my mouth with scalding ricotta.  Yes, Barnes and Noble, this cold, wet, gnarly day seems like a fabulous time to replace your toaster.  I’m sure everyone wants cake for lunch.

– Since you’ll never read this (because of the shoddy internet), I’ll mention some other things that make me irrationally mad.  Like my blog reader Lisa Zollner, who reads my blog for a week and then kindly “suggests” that I use “since” when I really mean “because.”  Listen, jerk.  I would never make rookie mistakes like that.  That’s one of those things that’s always made me irrationally mad as well. But since you’re here, why don’t you go eff yourself?

– Wow.  I don’t know what’s in this quiche, but at this moment, I’m guessing a combination of bourbon and lactose.  Two of the things that appear friendly at first, but sneak up on me and send me into a surprise of rage.

– People who watch standard definition channels when the same show also airs in high definition and claim not to notice the difference.  Like when I wake up in the middle of the night and imagine that I can see the clock without my glasses.  We all know it’s better in high definition, figure out the channel, even if it’s 3:IG in the morning.  Most cable providers have a formula for figuring it out.  On my TV, the HD channels are all exactly 500 higher than the standard definition counterparts.  Example NBC SD is channel 4.  NBC HD is channel 504.  (504-4=500).  HBO SD is 300, HBO HD is 800 (800-300=500).  Uncanny!


– Blowdryers.  By far the loudest of all household appliances, and conveniently the one most likely to be used when a spouse remains asleep.  Maybe I’m extra sensitive because Anne and I live in a smallish apartment, and I am lucky enough to be married to a woman who never leaves the house without perfectly coiffed hair, a beautiful smile, 2-5 inch heels, perfect make up, a calm glowing demeanor, a joke or two to lighten the mood, a hundred interesting topics to discuss, and a reminder that I’m amazing.  But god damnit when she’s blow drying her hair and I’m trying to sleep, I want nothing more than to rip the cord right out of the wall, slam the hair dryer down onto the ground, jump on it until it shatters, sweep the shattered pieces up into a pile, burn the pile, put the ashes into a bag, and shove the bag right up… In other words, I wish there were a blow dryer that didn’t make so much noise.

Blow dryer

– Those people who drive either 1-5 miles slower than I’d like to be travelling when they’re in front of me?  Or the ones who drive 1-5 miles faster than I’d like to be travelling when they pull up behind me.  This is my left lane, you dick.  I learned this in defensive driver training.


– That drawing.  Just look at it.  It’s so bad and stupid and dumb and lame.  Who drives like that?  What’s an asshdi?  Why is the exit sign falling over into the road?  Would those tires even work?  Why is my arm the length of an entire car?  Why don’t the other people have eyes or ears or arms or faces or steering wheels or airbags?  How do they even get into the car since they don’t have doors?  Don’t you mean “because,” you idiot?


– The day I decided it would be okay to use my gmail account to sign up for things.  Because it’s not like the reason that I switched to gmail was all the spam I was receiving.  And I promised that I would never let it get that way with gmail.  Now I wake up and have 45 emails every morning.  Like I need a daily report about golf tee times in the middle of the winter?  I clicked unsubscribe on one of them and it made it worse.  Remind me not to do that when I get my google glasses.

– Google glasses.  I’m not ready for this.  Also, they seem douchey.

Okay glass, post this to the internet.

– Well this is awkward.  Apparently Barnes and Noble had lost power because of the massive rainstorm outside.  That’s why the toaster wasn’t working and I had to eat quiche. It’s also why the Internet was slow.  It’s also why they fixed it right at this second, which happens to be one minute before I have to leave to go to my appointment.

– I didn’t proofread this.  I hope that’s on your list of things that make you irrationally mad.

Defensive Driving

Thanks to an unfortunate speed limit in Central New York, I have been taking an online defensive driving course.  It is an excruciating experience.  The course is a mandatory six hours, which means that the viewer can’t advance to the next slide until an allotted amount of time passes.  The only explanation for how the time limits were created must be that the person who set them did so to optimize my frustration with the situation.


For example, the slide titled, “Should I wear a seatbelt?” had a 100 second playback.  The short answer is yes.  Also, the long answer was yes.  When I smashed down on the next slide button, a screen kindly reminded me that I was required to wait 100 seconds before I could advance to the next slide (as required by New York State law).  It also was kind enough to remind me that the time it took me to read that notification would not count towards the time limit.

The worst part of this whole process is that the time I wait for the next slide just fills me with road rage.  And as I learned from a 450 second slide, road rage is bad.  Another problem with the program is that the timing of the slides isn’t usually long enough for me to go and read something else somewhere on the internet.  I’m too nervous about going one second over the time limit and having to sit through extra minutes of the class.  I hate them.

One important item I learned is that AAA no longer recommends 10 and 2 as the ideal hand positions while driving.  9 and 3 or even (gasp) 8 and 4 provide the driver with ideal hand position for safe deployment of the airbags.

On a somewhat related note, I’ve recently been thinking that the speed limit everywhere in the country should be raised by 10-15 MPH.  For as long as I can remember, the speed limit has been the same, but cars have gotten safer and stronger and better in every way.  One would think that we could now safely drive 65 on I-95 (everyone drives 80 anyway).  To make my case even stronger, the defensive driving class told me that the majority of injuries from accidents happen at intersections not on the highway.

Welp, time’s up for the “Headrests” slide, so I guess I’m done here.


Note – If anyone from DMV or traffic court is reading this, please keep in mind that I was probably hacked.