Friday, May 28, 2010

how to get laid, even if you are an idiot who doesn't deserve to.

because god loves me so much, i am friends with more frat boys than i'm comfortable admitting to in public. i don't know why or how it happens. maybe because i like to get drunk? but i don't like to punch dudes in the face or date rape skinny white girls when i've been drinking, so that shouldn't be the reason why. maybe it's because i look so good in a white baseball cap and cargo shorts.

god, i just have SO MANY. big pink hunks of meat who go to cubs games and party in wrigleyville and date interchangeable faceless blondes in tight black pants and make so much money doing whatever it is you do when you ride the brown line to the loop in a suit every morning. dudes who say "bro" and smash into each other for laughs and eat so much food and pass out drunk in the street and are always fucking sunburned and way too fucking loud.

and the FIGHTING. what is with all of the fucking FIGHTING? jeff and i were out at smartbar once and a fight broke out in front of the gingerman (or rockit or yakzies you know where the fuck i'm talking about) and not only did we hear the awful crunch of one dude's fist breaking against another dude's jaw, we watched that same dude PICK UP A METAL GARBAGE CAN and REPEATEDLY THROW IT DOWN ON THE OTHER DUDE'S HEAD. in the middle of clark street! at eleven o'clock at night! it was like that scene in boyz in the hood when that crackhead snatches off dookie's chain and they chase him and beat his ass and drop a garbage can on him. just swap "poor inner-city drug gang los angeles" for "privileged north side trust fund shitfaced." TERRIFYING.

sunday morning i was at karen's and those fucking dogs got me up at FIVE-THIRTY to be let out and fed. this is why i have a cat. just saying. the big one wakes all 175 of his pounds up, then the skinny one follows suit, and they stand at the side of the bed jingling their tags and breathing moist, hot eukanuba in my face until i pry my eyes open and crawl down the stairs to shiver at the back door while they fertilize the yard. then i have to stand guard while they eat and make sure one doesn't murder the other over a runaway piece of kibble or curd of cottage cheese, then take them out AGAIN, feed the fish and watch for a few minutes while they swim up from the bottom to eat, remember that i am standing outside in full view of the neighbors who can totally see my areolas right now, then race inside and shiver at the back door some more until the dogs finish crapping. AGAIN.

it's too much work for that time of morning. work i would never do unless 1 i was being paid or 2 a smokin' manfriend with fantastic testicles asked me to do it. if i'm drunk or tired i fill helen's bowl to the top right before i go to bed, and if she bothers me before i'm ready to get up i just push her off the bed in the direction of the food bowl.

anyway, i'd left my phone in her truck and wanted to get the freshly-delivered sunday times so i ventured outside in my sleeping clothes (god, if you only knew the hotness of that mess) to collect the paper and get my phone. i had approximately seven thousand missed calls and texts and voicemails and my phone was lit up like christmas, so i checked a few (voicemails are boring unless they are from hot dudes) while i contemplated how awful driving to starbucks in gaucho pants, bare feet, and a shirt that was 97% exposed tits would be on a scale of 1 to daytime hooker.

dudebro, my dude-iest, bro-iest frat-iest friend BY FAR, had texted me 911 ten times overnight, and had left a handful of voicemails. there were a whole lot of "sam, call me back" and "are you passed out somewhere? why haven't you called me?" and the truth is, i hadn't had time to call him back because i was out doing missionary work and wet nursing homeless crack babies and ministering to the sick and plugging oil leaks and putting an end to nuclear proliferation and clearing that little misunderstanding in afghanistan up. so stop blowing up my fucking phone. i'm busy saving the world.

seriously, though, i had two glasses of chenin blanc and a benedryl before i went to bed and didn't have a care in the world, especially not dealing with the "problems" of a spoiled brat whose entire wardrobe consists of shit from abercrombie and express men. pffft.

stop. i have to pause right here because laura just walked in and handed me a frosty thai iced coffee from cozy, and i would be willing to give up human contact for the rest of my life if i could have one of these a couple times a day. especially if they were delivered by a sweaty, masculine dude in a loincloth. (what? i can look without touching.) they are OBVIOUSLY made of cardamom and condensed milk and jesus urine, and once a month i get to have one and it makes my day absolutely better. you know what's gross but totally awesome that i probably shouldn't disclose to hundreds of judgmental bastards on the internet? when i finish the coffee i pour a can of diet coke in the cup and drink that, too. it's glorious.

i called him back because, ultimately, i am a sweetheart under all this moldy, crusty exterior. you bitches know it. i just talk a tough game. he answered on the first ring, then explained to me that he needed my help wooing some beautiful temptress with whom he'd been on several dates yet hadn't closed the deal with. as much as i write every single day that i get tired of helping dudes put their dicks in somebody ELSE, i am still a good friend (read: SUCKER) and help you do it anyway.

dudebro is at the point in his life where he wants to start THINKING ABOUT settling down (i love how much of an arduous process that is for you stupid manfriends), and he's out five or six nights a week auditioning and interviewing potential candidates for mrs. boring in the suburbs three kids and a dog and a lexus suv. well i'm at the point in my life where all i want to do is heat up lean cuisines and drink vodka and sext my stunt penis, so i'm probably the PERFECT person to play cupid for some asshole.

you know i don't believe in driving a car off the lot before you've seen how it handles city traffic, and neither does dude. so he invited brittany over to his fancy condo for dinner so that he could try to find out whether the carpet matched the drapes. he read in a magazine or some shit that chicks really go for a man that can cook, so he figured he'd saute his way into her chonies.

i think that cooking for someone is the sexiest fucking thing you could ever do. i've spent more time being salty that i'd wasted a delicious handmade, home-cooked meal on a raggedy dude than i have regretting some ass i gave up. for cereal. i like to exert as little REAL or EMOTIONAL effort as possible, and i disconnected my heart from my vagina YEARS ago. you girls who fall in love the second a dude sticks the tip in are a mystery to me. i don't have to love a dude to fuck him, and i don't fall in love just because we fucked. i know it's not romantic, but it's real. i feel much worse when i actually care about someone's well-being and he doesn't give it back to me or if i make something for someone who isn't appreciative. and the only shit i know how to make are excellent mixtapes that rule, and amazing meals that are delicious.

but there was one problem. DUDE CAN'T COOK. so, despite the fact that i was hungover and scantily dressed, i found my sunglasses where i'd left them in karen's basement next to the washing machine and dragged myself out to her car to drive to the south loop and help my handsome friend make a meal for someone else's vagina. i should be nominated for sainthood. FOR CEREAL.

i put on a little blood sweat and tears ("more and more" is the greatest song on the face of the earth and if you don't agree please kill yourself thank you) and turned it up to "black person driving a nice car" levels, got a mocha AND a latte (i cannot have a car, because i would go through the drive-thru starbucks nine times a day and totally be homeless), then jumped on lake shore drive. sunday mornings are where it's at, man. i am a confident, aggressive driver, and other people on the road make me spitting fucking mad, and thankfully they are all asleep or at church or still at the club (good LORD, it was early) and not clogging up the road.

to my surprise dudebro was downstairs waiting when i got there, and he jumped in the car and offered "i grocery shop as much as you do" as an explanation. good enough. so off we went to this fancy downtown grocery store where all of the fruit looked colorful and healthy and like it might actually be good for you. I HAVE TO MAKE SOME MORE FUCKING MONEY. or i need a sugardaddy. because i would totally shop all the time if i could afford to do it at a place poor people don't go to. i'm tired of looking at fucked-up raggedy shriveled "vegetables" and dusty green meat. i want to go where the produce makes you want to be a better person and start living your fucking life right.

standing in the middle of the butcher section we decided that, based on the fact that he had NO IDEA whether or not this woman he'd had dinner FOUR TIMES with ate meat or seafood or dairy, he would make one of the many vegetarian pasta recipes i had stored away in my tiny little brain. i was already irritated 1 because i don't make enough money to have a car 2 i don't make enough money to live downtown 3 i was in the grocery store at ass crack o'clock and i hadn't even brushed my teeth 4 the coffee wasn't helping and 5 i was wearing shortened pants in a public place, then this fool started arguing with me about how to cook and what tastes good and what women like and i caught a GIANT killer attitude from the pit of hell and started slamming shit in the cart and here is my recipe for pasta siracusani which will impress whatever cassie or amy or lucy you're dating enough to sleep with you because you actually chopped shit up and it's colorful and looks so pretty on the plate and you took the time to cook for her (and it even sounds cool and authentic) and you are the sweetest guy she's ever met and no one's ever made dinner for her before and you're welcome you ungrateful bastards.

note: this isn't really vegetarian, because it has anchovies in it. and i feel bad for poor little anchovies, as they and brussels sprouts really do get a bad fucking rap. everyone's automatic response is to say "i don't like anchovies," even if he or she has never had one. THEY ARE DELICIOUS, and YOU WILL LIKE THEM. even if you think you won't. give the poor little guys a chance. i eat them on crackers or toast or mixed with rice. so make sure your paramour doesn't have a fish allergy. don't ruin it by telling her they're in there, though, because that jerk will IMMEDIATELY turn her pretty little nose up and say, "i don't like those," and ruin my fucking dinner that i worked so hard to help you make.

more notes: this is so easy a fucking toddler could make it. therefore, you men should be able to do it without incident. and it takes half an hour. if that. it totally grosses me out that you might go get a copy of 30 second meals in an instant or whatever, so i will continue to post simple shit that will excite the panties off even the most skeptical, hard-hearted bitch. except me. to break through the fortress around MY corazon you'd have to slaughter an animal in the wild, expertly butcher it, and cook it to perfection. WHILE I WATCHED.

even more notes: please also clean your apartment, ESPECIALLY THE BATHROOM, hide your porn, put away your game controllers, light a candle, and change your goddamned sheets. BEFORE she comes over. and maybe if you could buy some fresh flowers that would help, too. and stock your bar. dudebro and i had a huge blowout about what sort of booze he should have on hand, and it involved much shouting and a temper tantrum (what a fucking baby), so i am hesitant to tell you what to get. you know what girls like to drink. and no, it's not MOLSEN. fucker.

so many fucking notes: i assume you all at LEAST have olive oil and garlic at home. if not, grow up already. this makes 4-6 servings for normal people with average appetites; 1 dude-sized serving plus 1 "i'm too shy to eat in front of you" katie or veronica or kimmie serving; or 2 lonely, hate-filled writer servings plus more to eat directly out of the pot in the middle of the night after you've forgotten to put it away.

shopping:
1 large green bell pepper (wash it and slice it up)
2 14 oz cans of crushed tomatoes
2 zucchini (wash them and chop them up)
anchovy fillets (2 of them, chopped)
capers (2 tbsp, drained and chopped)
black olives (3 tbsp, drained and pitted and HALVED)
fresh basil (2 chopped tbsp)
1 lb dry spaghetti or linguine
a block of fresh parmesan (if it won't make her shit her pants)

1 put on a big pot of salted water for your pasta. heat 2 tbsp oil in a large, deep pan and fry 2 cloves of CRUSHED garlic for 30 seconds over low heat; don't burn the garlic, please. that will make the whole thing taste like BALLS.

2 add: bell pepper, zucchini, tomatoes, anchovies, olives, capers, and four ounces of water; cook uncovered for twenty minutes while stirring, during which you should cook the pasta for the bare minimum amount of time it takes to cook it. al dente is better. drain it and rinse cold before draining it again.

3 add basil to the sauce and stir well, season to taste (a little salt, a little pepper), then top the pasta that you've divided between two of your good plates while it's still hot. grate some cheese on it if she'll let you. and you should maybe have a couple bottles of wine and some good bread and if you need me to tell you what to put in a nice dinner salad you really should step your game up before you think about getting some ass.

bonus, just because i like you so much: most chicks won't eat dessert in front of you (not sam), especially if she has designs on backwards cowgirling your ass later (again, not sam). but i was inspired by all that gorgeous fruit, so dude and i bought some cartons of strawberries and raspberries and blueberries and shit. nicely cut up the strawberries and put them in a bowl with whatever else you bought (it really doesn't matter, just don't use grapes because I HATE THEM). buy some fresh mint, and put a few sprigs in the bowl. (classy, right? i know!) i would tell you to make your own whipped cream, but that takes too long and you probably don't have a stand mixer anyway. so get some cool whip, and put a dollop on top. NOW FOR THE PANTY-DROPPING FINALE: get a bar of semi-sweet baking chocolate (in the cake and frosting aisle, dummy) and gently grate a piece over the top. i have microplanes and other tools that are perfect for this, but you can use a raggedy box grater. just make sure you use the teeniest holes and just dust chocolate over the cream. if she doesn't giggle and jump right into your sleeping bag or onto your futon you better turn her over and check for a pulse and an on/off switch.

boner appetit!

ps, the next morning i got a text that said "I HIT THAT." see kids? romance is still alive and well. pfffft.

pps, i DID NOT cook this for him. i made him buy me brunch at southport grocery and went back to karen's and lapsed into a coma. it was, like, eight in the goddamned morning. sheesh.