Welcome to Texas: Where Rape Has Always Been illegal.

Being a pseudo-intellectual is hard work in the information age. Back in the old days you just dogeared a shitload of pages on some Nietzsche, left it lying around the house, and kept a few Bukowski quotes in your back pocket to shoehorn into conversations, confident you wouldn’t be called out because nobody else read that shit either. Up until recently, my go-to was tossing out casual Steve Jobs facts. Everyone loves Steve Jobs, but not enough to actually know anything about him. Plus he wore a turtleneck, so that makes me look smart. Ashton Kutcher and the Samsung Galaxy killed that golden goose but its OK. This ain’t my first rodeo.

Now you have to keep up with the outrage of the week and feel out the room for which side of the Israel/ Palestine conflict you support. I was watching TED Talks this morning, looking for soundbites to regurgitate at parties. I was trying to understand morbidly obese women shaming society for not having sex with them while their Tinder profiles insist all men make six figures, be over six feet tall, and have chiseled abs so that I could agree with them to prove how “woke” I am.

 

 

Then I ran across this video of two girls talking about how rape culture has to end.

 

 

There were two thoughts going through my head:

  1. The girl on the right doesn’t have anything to worry about.
  2. Have I been living under a rock?

 

I’ve heard about rape culture before, but much like the existence of hipsters; I thought it was just an internet joke until I saw enough evidence to realize this is a real problem. The video takes place in England. After doing some research it seems that rape culture is most prevalent in New York, California, (apparently) England, and seems to be worst around college campuses, construction sites, and Harvey Weinstein. According to the video, you can stop Harvey Weinstein rape by tweeting the magic hashtag TIMESUP. For the rest of the rape, we need to educate boys that it’s not ok.

 

I have another solution: Move to Texas!

 

 

 

 

While we aren’t exactly famous for our progressive policies regarding the well-being of women, as far as I know, rape has always been illegal here. Not only that, but rape is universally agreed upon to be the worst thing one person can do to another outside of straight up murder. Not only does Texas execute more people than the entire rest of the country but we have legal loopholes that let you kill people yourself, like if they break into your house, or look at you funny. There are absolutely no exceptions granted, legally or morally, that say it’s ok to rape someone, no matter what they are wearing. So we are actually more ok with killing people than raping them.

 

Rapes do happen in Texas but even the rapists know it is wrong. I’ve never seen a Facebook status that looks like:

 

Fake iPhone Text Generator iOS 

 

This is a true story: When I was in my early twenties i was having a party. Now, you might not believe it but I wasn’t always the law abiding citizen I am now. Without exception, everyone at the party was a criminal. We had thieves, drug dealers, drug addicts, violent criminals, and one guy who cheated on his taxes. One of the girls there said a guy we all knew date raped her the other evening. Just so happened that guy showed up a few hours later. Up until this point, we were all friends with him. He got his ass whooped to the point that he jumped out a window to escape. It was a one-story house so it wasn’t too dramatic but I’m pretty sure his ankle hurt really bad when he landed. Not too much longer the police showed up asking about an assault that had just taken place. This was a fairly small town so the cops were on a first name basis with everyone in the room for all the wrong reasons.

Here’s how the conversation went:

Cops: “We have a report of an assault.”

Criminals: “Dude raped a chick.”

Cops: “It appears we do not have enough evidence to investigate this assault. Have a nice day.”

So come on down to Texas, where the only rape culture is in the Catholic church…but that’s a worldwide problem…and almost exclusively for boys.

 

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The Madgoat Cooks: Beef Jerky

 

On this episode of bottom chef we will be making beef jerky.

My grandpa makes, hands down, the best beef jerky on the planet. I’m not saying that because he’s family. I come from a long line of assholes and have always held the opinion that someone being blood only means you know better than everyone else how toxic they are. When Hillary was running for president, my grandpa told me the only thing worse than having a black president was a woman. I said, “Come on, grandpa. Hillary has done more than enough things to make her a terrifying candidate for leader of the free world on her own personal merits. There’s no reason to bring gender into this.” Although after this current shit show, he’d probably be open to Ru Paul 2020. The point is; when I say that racist old bastard is the Heisenberg of beef jerky, it is with complete objective partiality.

When my brothers and I were kids, the giving and withholding of jerky was used to control our behavior far more effectively than any ass whooping ever could. After decades of begging, Gramps finally gave me the recipe during a health scare where he thought he was going to die. He didn’t. Thanks for asking. Anyway, this miserable old piece of shit left out the secret ingredient. It’s been over ten years, and entire herds of cows have died in my quest to re-create grandpa’s jerky.

Well I’m not one of those fuckers who hoard their recipes because they are afraid nobody will come to visit unless you can bait them with their county famous BBQ sauce. I say if you got some joy then spread that shit. If I was Bill Cosby I’d be slipping my recipes in girl’s drinks all fucking day, son!

Making Jerky has three simple steps:

  1. Cut meat.
  2. Soak meat in marinade.
  3. Dry out meat.

So the first ingredient to good jerky is good meat. If you have the money, any animal that was killed during childhood is a win. It’s so tender you can taste its stolen innocence. Otherwise, in the world of jerky, flank steak is king. If you are experimenting, just buy some brisket on sale. It’s tough meat, but it’s cheap. Don’t be one of those pussies who cry when beef jerky is too hard to chew. Its beef jerky, not fucking foie gras. Responsible cooks will tell you to trim all the fat off because it will spoil and breed bacteria. If you get a cut of meat with a big ass slab of fat on it, you are going to want to cut it off or you’ll wind up with nasty, greasy ass jerky. I always make it a point to leave a little fat on though, because them shits is flavor.

The first step is to throw your dead animal carcass in the freezer for about an hour so it can get firm, but not frozen. You want your slices as thin as possible and that’s hard to do when your meat is flopping around like Donald’s dick at a piss orgy in a Moscow hotel room. Some people will tell you to slice your meat across the grain. If you don’t know what that means, don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.

Once you have all your slices ready, start beating your meat like a teenager who “accidentally” walked in on his hot cousin changing clothes. This increases the surface area of the jerky so it absorbs more marinade, it tenderizes the meat, and flattening out your strips makes it look like you have a whole lot more end product when it’s all done.

The marinade is where jerky magic happens.
Here’s the recipe grandpa goat gave me.

It’s a good basic recipe, but it isn’t THE ONE. You can get as crazy as you want with your marinade, but I’ve found keeping it simple is better than going full on mad scientist.

For this recipe I used:

4 pounds of meat
1 cup of soy sauce
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon pepper
1 tablespoon hot sauce
1 tablespoon furikake
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon curing salt
I normally throw in a teaspoon of onion powder but I was sharing this batch with a friend that is allergic to onions so I didn’t this time. I also wish I’d thrown in a teaspoon of cumin for a little earthiness.

“I buy soy sauce by the gallon bitches.”Curing salt cures the meat so it doesn’t go rancid. But honestly, I was making jerky for years before I found out I was supposed to be using curing salt and I never had a problem. If your jerky lasts long enough to go bad, you suck at life. It was amazing how fucking hard it was for me to find this shit. I went to every grocery store in town and finally found the stuff in the camping section at Academy.

I’m always trying out new secret ingredients. When I made this batch I had a jar of furikake left over that I made for Spam Musubi. Furikake is a Japanese seasoning made out of toasted sesame seeds, roasted seaweed, sugar, salt, and MSG. Other furikake ingredients are shit like dried shrimp, sardines, salmon, etc., etc. I didn’t use any of that stuff. The most important part of preparing furikake is pointing at your crotch and asking everyone in the room,” Who wants to see my furry kake?” Anyway, furikake has some serious umami flavor and it worked out more fabulous than Elton John performing on New Year’s Eve, live in Gomorrah. Next time I’m going to use more.

Ok, so take all those ingredients and bring them to a boil and then let em simmer for 10-15 minutes. This dissolves everything into an even solution instead of just having a bunch of shit floating in soy sauce and all your brown sugar winds up stuck to one piece of jerky. Then let the soy brew cool to room temperature.

I just bought a smoke infuser for $30. It’s basically a little box with a fan that sucks air in one end and shoots it out the other. Tech savvy stoners probably have similar toys. I destroyed some pecan shells and set em on fire to fill a container full of meat with pecan smoke. The flavor didn’t really come through so I’ll have to play around with that some more. Normally I just use a tablespoon of liquid smoke.

Put the meat and the soy brew into a gallon zip-lock bag and toss it in the refrigerator. A couple times a day I’ll flip over the bag and squish it to help spread the marinade around. I don’t know if it actually helps but it makes me feel good.

After 24 hours, drain the bag and pat all the strips dry with paper towels. I didn’t used to do this step because I didn’t want to wipe off all that good flavor, but then half your dehydrating process is just drying all the shit on the surface, then the end product is sticky and not fully dehydrated. Don’t be like me.

You don’t need a dehydrator or a smoke shed to make jerky. All you need is an oven. Move the oven wire rack to the top slot and use toothpicks to hang the strips between the racks. Put some tinfoil on the bottom to catch the drippings or you’ll wind up with a fucked off mess and a kitchen full of smoke. Turn the oven to the lowest temperature it will go to and prop the door open with a wooden spoon to allow air to circulate. Every oven is different so your drying time will vary. A good rule of thumb is to start checking your jerky after five hours until it is dry like you’d expect jerky to be, but not shriveled up pieces of leather.

This part is super important but often overlooked. Once the jerky is done, put it on a plate and put a paper towel over it for an hour or two. Moisture is still escaping the meat at this point so if you put it straight into a plastic bag all that moisture will be trapped in there and get reabsorbed.

Congratulations. You can now walk around gnawing on four pounds of animal flesh while ripping warm, soy sauce farts for the next week.

Madgoat Movie Review: A Quiet Place

 

Short version: It’s a good fucking movie.
Long version: You get to hear about my erectile dysfunction.

I don’t really like horror movies. I’m miserable enough already and I don’t want to spend two hours watching horrible shit happen to other people. It is not a cathartic experience for me. I’ll give a horror movie a shot if they bring something new to the genre like “Saw” but I don’t get any joy from murder porn, like the rest of the “Saw” movies.

I don’t want to ruin the plot but I’ll give you the basic rundown based on what you see in the trailer and the first 30 minutes of the movie. The movie starts a few months after the inhabitants of Earth have been murdered the shit out of by monsters that are most likely aliens. Said aliens are blind but have super hearing that they use to track down people and kill them. Surviving humans eek out an existence by being quiet as fuck. I thought of a thousand plot holes surrounding this premise, but I don’t have a neckbeard so I just let them shits slide and decided to enjoy the flick.

The first five minutes of the movie was captivating. The next 40 minutes were boring as fuck. Nobody says shit and nothing interesting happens. Despite nothing happening, the cast does a stellar job of portraying people who live in constant fear using nothing but facial expressions. Mad fucking props to everyone in the cast. Even when nothing was happening I had to take a blood pressure pill to ward off a heart attack from the constant tension during every single second of the movie. I would have watched the first half of the movie on fast forward but my computer was buffering slow as shit…I mean… I was in a movie theater… where I totally paid for a ticket.

I liked John Krasinski in “Leatherheads” but I’m not a big fan of him because I hate “The Office.” The internet loves to jerk off “The Office” but I can’t stand that thing they do where the characters talk to the camera like they’re in some kind of documentary but they never explain why. Who the fuck are they talking to? “Modern Family” does it too but I let it slide because I want to butt fuck every female character on that show. Hell, I’d probably throw a bone to half the male cast just because they are so damn loveable. Anyway, John Krabopplewhatever earned a slot in my “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” category next to Magic Mike based on his performance in “A Quiet Place.” Dude acted the shit out of this movie.

Anyway, I dredged through the first half of A Quiet Place because, despite the slow pacing, it managed to keep me on the edge of my seat and wanting to know what the fuck was gonna happen next. Plus, with a 90 minute run time; even if it sucked, I’ve wasted an hour and a half of my life doing a lot worse things than watching this movie, like unsuccessfully trying to masturbate while drunk and on cocaine in a hotel in Las Vegas. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, so the second half of the movie really picked up the pace. Things started happening, the action ramped up, shit got all kinds of emotional. The payoff was totally worth the buildup. The ending was good, but I would have been happier with like just one or two more minutes of violence, just to help release all the pressure that had been building up inside me for the last hour and a half.

TheMadGoat gives “A Quiet place” four enthusiastic hooves up. The cinematography was on point, the script was solid as fuck, the acting was off the chain. It was just a good fucking movie. Hopefully, Hollywood takes notice and realizes it is possible to make  profitable horror movies doing something other than flashing some boobies and sawing people in half. Although, I wouldn’t have been mad if Emily Blunt popped a titty out for just a second.

Fun Facts About Fear: Halloween Candy, MSG, Old People, and Mexicans

 

 

If you look at the statistics for people dying after hitting the ground at 120 miles per hour you will find the mortality rate skewed heavily towards sky divers, with curiously few people who are afraid of heights. Decapitation from an ethereal being after investigating a strange noise is almost exclusively a problem for white folks, as opposed to black people, who have a healthy fear of the supernatural.

Fear has historically been a valuable survival trait. There are a lot of things that go bump in the night that you should be afraid of, like Canadians. My Grandpa always said, “Boy, don’t ever trust someone who smiles all the time. Ain’t nobody that happy. They either crazy or they trying sell you something.”

For some reason, with so many perfectly good things to be afraid of, we humans feel the need to invent even more shit. Here are a few things you can go ahead and stop worrying about.

 

 

Mexicans

According to my father, Mexicans only come to Texas so they can steal our jobs, live off welfare, and get free healthcare and education. I’m like, “Shit, I’ve been trying to do that for years!” If they can figure all that shit out while not speaking English, and having a vested interest in avoiding anything resembling authority or the government…First off, I need to go talk to these motherfuckers and see what’s up, and second, we need to start rounding up all these undercover geniuses and deporting their motherfucking asses to NASA or Tesla or something. The guy who’s gonna cure cancer might be out in a cabbage field in Odessa right now. We need to find him quick, because I smoke cigarettes.

 

Halloween Candy

 

I used to think my parents rifling through my candy haul on Halloween because it might be poisoned or somefuckinghow have razor blades inserted into the package was an elaborate ruse to steal my candy. Now as an adult, I know for a fact it was. “Sorry kid. These butterfingers might be poisoned. Those skittles look suspicious too. Lemme just take those off your hands…for safety.”

I remember as a kid thinking handing out poison from the place you live would be a terribly reckless way to murder children. Kids are unreliable witnesses at best, but you ask thirty children, “which house was giving out the big Snickers,” authorities would find themselves with a stack of corroborated witness reports so detailed and accurate, that the case would be taught about in every criminal justice class on the planet.

The ONLY case of poisoned candy ever recorded was in 1974, when Houston resident Ronald O’Brian murdered his son with a cyanide laced Pixie Stick so he could cash in on his life insurance policy. He slipped a few into his daughter’s bag as well as some other kids they went trick or treating with to make it look random but they didn’t like pixie sticks so they were ok. The surviving children all reported not being given pixie sticks at any of the houses they went to, which led authorities to investigate O’Brian.
BOOM! hashtag I’MALWAYSFUCKINGRIGHT!

 

MSG

Many Chinese restaurants have signs saying “No MSG.” That’s your sign the food is going to suck. MSG has a bad reputation for similar reasons to why vaccines have a bad reputation. One fucking person said it was bad, then was immediately proven wrong, but the damage was already done. In 1968 Robert Ho Man Kwok had a bad reaction after eating at a Chinese restaurant. Instead of thinking, “I either got sick because OSHA won’t be invented for another two years and that kitchen was filthier than a circle jerk at communion class, or because I had the arrogance to treat the wait staff like shit and not expect them to take turns rubbing one out in my egg drop soup.” Instead, Robert channeled his anger about everyone making fun of his name and blamed the MSG, and the stigma stuck.

The other problem MSG shares with vaccines, is stupid people get scared by big words. Granted, Monosodium Glutamate does sound like rat poison ingredients, but Monosodium is just a simple form of sodium, also called…salt. Glutamate is a naturally occurring amino acid that is in pretty much every single thing you have ever eaten in your life. If you enjoy the savory umami flavor of soy sauce, give MSG a chance. I put that shit on everything.

Change

change demotivational poster.jpg

Politicians love to conjure up images of a time when life looked like an episode of Leave it to Beaver, and promise to restore our country to good, wholesome values. Which good old days were they talking about? Was it when we had slavery, segregation, the cold war, the great depression, Vietnam? The fact is; Politicians pander to old people because they don’t have to worry about missing work to go vote, and taking part in our electoral process makes them feel like they still matter since nobody ever comes to visit because they smell like cat piss. Fear is the world’s greatest motivator and the thing old people fear most is change.

Fear of change can best be illustrated by the phrase, “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” Intellectual laziness exists on a sliding scale between “unintentional” to “Fox News,” but every one of us is guilty of it. People spend the first half of their life flailing around, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. They never do, but eventually, we work out a routine that is comfortably familiar. When the wheels of time grind along, things change; threatening to yank us out of our bunker and go through all that flailing again. Ain’t nobody got time for that. The natural inclination is to be afraid. It’s scary to watch the world move on and realize it doesn’t give a shit about you. So; lazy ass geriatrics vote to keep everything in their comfort zone instead of putting on their big boy adult diapers and coping with their own mortality.

I was going to give a rousing speech about fearless trailblazers who changed history for the better but this is getting long so I’ll just shorten it down to the nuts and bolts.

If things didn’t change we’d still be shitting in small wooden shacks in the backyard and settling our differences by poking each other with sharp pieces of metal. Nobody likes you and you are going to die. Stop being a pussy and deal with it.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

 

A series of unfortunate events have kept me away from my computer for far longer than my addictive personality and technological dependence for internet cat pictures would prefer these last few weeks. I’ve been beside myself with grief for not being able to post blogs.

 

A lot has been going on so I’ll try to keep this from being long and boring as an orgy at the hotel after a narcolepsy convention. After Hurricane Harvey my boss wound up in a shitty two bedroom apartment with his four dogs, three kids, and pregnant Bi-polar one legged wife. We watched too many episodes of “Tiny Houses” and decided to sell him our house so we could help him out while downsizing to a smaller house so I could have more money to lose on the stock market. It turns out my boss is a fucking idiot and made the whole process more miserable than having a root canal on your taint.

Problems started when we had to raise the asking price of the house after finding out it was worth 20k more than we originally thought it was. We were doing him enough favors already, but we weren’t going to leave 20k just sitting on the table. Then he thought we were fucking him over because he doesn’t understand the difference between property tax value and market value, despite having it explained to him multiple times. We owner financed the house to him because his ex-wife fucked his credit up so bad he can’t get a loan. He got more butthurt because he’s a vet and thinks that because the V.A. gives home loans to veterans who can qualify for them at like a 2% interest rate, then everyone else owes him the same interest rate the V.A gives, even though the V.A. won’t even give it to him. The only reason that we went through with the deal is because we gave him our word, and because of his children… and in the agreement he signed it says we can foreclose on him if he is 31 days late on his payments.

 

Anyway, his peg legged wife popped out her kid early because, despite being a huge cunt, her vagina isn’t big enough to hold a baby in for nine months. This severely jacked up our timetable for finding a new place to live. The housing market in Houston is still more fucked up than Whitney Houston at an all you can smoke crack buffet because of Hurricane Harvey so we found ourselves in the same conditions that had landed my boss in a tiny apartment in the first place. The only options right now are: big, expensive nice houses, and small, equally expensive shitholes. My “kinda” nephew is a cool, laidback, guy who makes good money as an electrician and brews his own beer. He also lives out in the Boondocks and wanted to move into town. We asked him and his girlfriend if they wanted to move in and split the rent so we didn’t have to live in a crack house. They enthusiastically agreed, and everything started to feel like it was going to work out.

 

Due to lack of time and options we wound up downsizing into an even bigger house. Nephew Kris works long hours and was still commuting so he wasn’t available to help much during the moving process. When it comes to moving, women are about as useful as a goddamn kickstand on a goldfish. Women are all about “Girl Power” until it comes time to move a refrigerator, then all of a sudden it’s 1930 up in here.

 

So my brother and I took the first truckload to the new house while the women were doing important feminist shit like picking out new cabinet liners at Big Lots. Anyway, Kris’s girlfriend has two dogs. One is awesome, and the other is a Lab/Rottweiler (or as we say in Houston “Rokwolla”) mix. She is the type of dog lover who leaves her dogs in a kennel for 80 percent of the day while the dogs cry and go insane while she’s all, “Oh, animals love being locked in cages. It’s actually good for them.” Well, my brother thewisesloth and I open the front door and I hear Cujo barking in the back room, smash its cage open, charge at us, and bolt out the front door. I’m like, “Fuck. This is exactly what I need right now.”

So we spend an hour chasing this fucker around the neighborhood until I finally get close-ish to this demon spawn, shit dog. The dog hates men unless you are lying or sitting. So I sit down and coax it towards me. I manage to get the little bastard to come all the way up to me, lay down, and collect some belly rubs. I figure we’re cool now, so I try to grab its collar. Cujo responds by biting my face and giving it a few hearty shakes before running away. I limp back to the house, cupping my neck with my hands, and hoping I don’t have a gaping hole in my throat. My beautiful beard covered most of the damage so it was hard to tell, plus I have a rare eye condition that makes it nearly impossible to see under my chin without a mirror. I called everyone that wasn’t helping and told them the situation so within minutes they all showed up to look for the dog while thewisesloth and I finished unloading all the furniture.

We get back to the old house and my bro convinces me to shave my beard just to make sure there isn’t more damage. It quickly becomes evident that I need stitches so we go to one of those minor emergency strip mall hospitals. They say I definitely needed stitches but they don’t like to stitch up dog bites because they are full of bacteria. Then they charge me $275 to put some tape on my chin that fell off in the parking lot.

Kris’s grandfather, James, got flooded out in Harvey too, as did the entire small town he lives in. The guy who runs the only gas station in town gave James a shitload of beer he couldn’t legally sell because, despite never being opened, it floated around in sewage flood water for a week. James gave that beer to Kris, who gave it to me. We gave the cans a good soaking in some bleach water to kill the plethora of flesh eating bacteria growing on it, and figured that would suffice to make six month old dumpster beer soaked in sewage safe to drink. Hindsight being what it is and all…it wasn’t the best idea I ever had. After using dumpster beer to wash down my pain killers I came down with a mild case of dysentery. Thankfully I was already on a barrage of antibiotics from the dog attack, so that worked it’s self out after a few days, and I lost about seven pounds.

The MadGoat Cooks: German Food

 

I lived in Germany in my early 20’s. It was my “Eat, Pray, Love” moment, only it was more like “Drink, Swear, Self Loath.” You know how some people just have a knack for languages? I am not one of those people. Of course, the Germans don’t make it easy on you with words like “rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz.” I didn’t want to be one of those Americans who travels across the world, eats at McDonald’s and demands everyone speak English. So when I went out and the menu didn’t have subtitles I’d just point at something and hope for the best. Sometimes it worked, other times I’d sit there watching everyone else eat while I’m starving, going, “Yeah, I totally ordered this bowl of lemons on purpose. It’s a new diet I’m on.” After that happened a few times I just started ordering schnitzel everywhere I went.

While I was over there I worked at a hotel. On holidays we’d get a half-day and the fifty or so German housekeepers would bring dishes for a picnic. Ohmyfuckinggod, you haven’t had real comfort food until you’ve tasted recipes passed down through families who survived the plague, the protestant reformation, and lost two world wars.

You know this bitch can cookI was feeling nostalgic and decided to have a German night. The beauty of these dishes is their simplicity. When you watch cooking shows and they say things like, “Simple dishes are the hardest because there’s nothing to hide behind,” they’re full of shit. What does that even mean? It means they don’t want you to know how easy this shit is to make because if you did, you wouldn’t pay $20 a plate.

We’re gonna start off with some classic red cabbage. Slice up an onion and an apple and sauté them in a Dutch oven until the onions turn clear. Sauté is a French word that means: Put it on a hot piece of metal for a few minutes while you push it around with a spatula so you can feel like you’re a part of the process. If you do this step without making a joke about giving someone a Dutch oven, you aren’t fit to step into a kitchen.

Next, shred up a head of red cabbage and throw it in the pot. That’s pretty much it. I left my mandolin in Colorado a few years ago and haven’t bothered to buy a new one so I just hacked up a head of cabbage with a knife. Throw some salt and pepper on it, dump in 1/3 cup of sugar and 1/3 cup of white vinegar, cover it and toss it in the oven at 350 for an hour. Juniper berries and cloves are also common ingredients but I didn’t have any, so… fuck juniper berries.

Done with that shit and I haven’t even finished my first glass of wineOur next side dish is kartoffelsalat, also known as potato salad.
Boil some potatoes until tender and chop em up, along with an onion and some parsley.

You think you can handle that?Mix in 1 ½ cup of beef broth, ½ cup white vinegar, some salt and pepper, 1 teaspoon of sugar, 2 teaspoons of mustard, a little dill, and 1/3 cup of oil. Technically there’s supposed to be a process where you add the oil right before serving and some other stuff but this ain’t that kind of party. Just throw all that shit in a bowl and let it sit for an hour so the potatoes can soak up all that flavor. Even better; overnight.

 

 

Now you’ve got some time to kill before you start the schnitzel. Go outside and smoke cigarettes while thinking about all the bad decisions you’ve made in your life. Normally chefs do this while sitting on a milk crate next to a dumpster, but as long as there’s shit on the ground somewhere you should be fine.

 

Now for the schnitzel. I only use the finest cuts of pork that are on sale because they’re about to expire. Smash your pork like you took it home after last call. It is ABSOLUTLEY necessary to make a joke about beating your meat or the pork will turn sour. My meat tenderizing hammer thingy is buried somewhere in my garage right now so I used a rolling pin. It seemed to work fine. Salt and pepper your beat meat, dredge it in flour, then dip it in a bowl of whipped up eggs, then flop it around in some panko bread crumbs.

 

Fry them shits up in some oil until it is golden brown. If you’re one of those prissy little bitches who’s all like, “Ooh, I care about what temperature I cook pork at…” Fine, its 300 degrees.

 

That’s all there is to it! Squeeze a shitload of lemon juice on your schnitzel and you just made a fine ass meal of Third Reich cuisine. All the ingredients cost less than $20 and it’s so easy even a Pollock could do it.

 

Fun Facts about Valentines Day

 

Who was Saint Valentine and why do we celebrate him by getting yelled at by our girlfriends for not remembering to buy shit on February 14th? Historians have a hard time answering this question. There were a bunch of guys running around spreading Christianity who went by the name Valentinus who got martyred for their troubles. It doesn’t really matter because most of them had nothing to do with love and most of them earned martyr status by performing miracles like making rich blind girls see again through the glory of god. Anyone whose bullshit meter isn’t broken knows God doesn’t cure amputees … or blind pagans. It was all part of the Catholic Church’s 3rd century fake news public relations campaign “Pack the Pews.”

Around this time, pagan Romans were celebrating their yearly fertility festival Lupercalia. This involved a bunch of drunken naked guys running around whipping chicks with straps of goat skin to help them get pregnant. Honestly though; that was like, pretty much every pagan holiday. The Roman Catholic Church has a long history of co-opting pagan holidays into Christian Mythology and making them far less naked and fun so it would make sense to assume Valentine’s Day and Lupercalia were connected, but there’s no hard evidence that they are.

A more plausible case for Valentine’s Day comes from Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Canterbury Tales.” The feast for Saint Valentine happened in February, which coincided with English bird mating season.

(Technically, bird date rape season starts more around May, but the Chaucer connection is still better documented and more believable than priests with magic jazz hands who cure the blind but can’t avoid getting their heads chopped off.)

Chaucer wrote about a couple sending love letters on the day of Valentine’s feast while the bird-orgypocalypse was going on. British “lovebirds” who knew how to read grabbed onto the idea and ran with it. Then all the peasants started copying them and February 14th became the most dreaded day of the year for English men.

Valentine’s Day started out with guys having to come up with shitty poetry to woo the girls with. This sucked because guys had better things to do, like avoiding the plague, so they harnessed the power of the printing press and just popped down to “Gutenburg’s Ye Olde Printe’ Shoppe’” and bought some shitty poetry to hand to her. In 1840 the postage stamp was invented, allowing men to just drop a card in the mailbox and go back to polishing their sword. That was a penis joke, in case you didn’t get it.

Medieval Persians had a secret love code where you gave different types flowers to the girl you were wooing to show your intention while maintaining plausible deniability in case she said no and her father chopped your head off. Roses signified love while poppies meant you wanted to finger her behind the skating rink this Saturday. If you got slapped you could say, “I’m sorry! I didn’t know what it meant…unless you’re gonna do it?”

In the 1700’s Charles the second of Sweden got back from Rumspringa in Persia and brought “The Language of Flowers” with him. If you gave your shorty a whole bouquet of flowers, she’d have to sit down with a flower dictionary for forty five minutes to decipher all the implications of what you wanted to do with her butthole. This was a HUGE success because if there’s anything women love, it’s plausible deniability and making shit unnecessarily difficult. They eventually fucked up the whole point of giving flowers by tossing aside the meaning behind them and changed it to “Just buy me shit.”

British chocolate company Cadbury smelled a golden opportunity and harnessed women’s seeming inability to feel good about themselves without inconveniencing a man and started selling heart shaped boxes filled with chocolates.

In 1913 American company Hallmark saw what was going on and said, “God dammit! This is Murica! If anyone is going to suck the joy out of something special by overcommercializing it, it’s gonna be US.” They started churning out shitty Valentine cards featuring unfunny cartoons faster than Usain Bolt at a Klan rally.

The rest is History.