Fuck you George Foreman and your big meaty brain-damaged head. You think I didn’t think of taking those grilled-cheese-sandwich makers and quadrupling the size so you can cook anything in there? You think you’re so much better than me because a steak I cooked in your dumb grill turned out way tastier than all of the quality meat I turned to carcinogenic lumps of coal out on the back porch? Rope-a-dope, bitch!

And yeah, I know you’re not really supposed to make use of wedding/shower gifts before the actual wedding because then if you’re one of the 92% of couples that break up before the big day*, you are badonk’d, my friend. But man it was sitting right there. I also used a meat thermometer for the first time without it being a lewd metaphor.

Work has been quiet, is why all the chatter about cooking. (And P.S. to wrap up the fascinating tale of The Deli I Owe Money To, I finally returned there yesterday and they didn’t bring up the 88 cents and neither did I, and I can’t tell if the disapproving look in the cashier’s eye was just my guilty conscience talking or her usual disapproving look or specifically re: the 88 cents.) Today I’m writing the copy for some emails being sent out to subscribers of a lowball online dating service. I have to write a version for men and a version for women, and the client seems to be looking for something like “Get Pussy Now” and “Find Someone Who Will Tenderly Hold Your Hand While You Talk About Your Feelings In A Non-Judgmental And Nurturing Relationship,” respectively. Those aren’t bad, actually. I guess my work here is done.

*Statistics provided by Cosmo Scare Tactics 2004 so don’t even front.