[Ed. note: I'm really not into the beginning part with the misogynoir etc. Lovelyburger does not endorse white people talking about twerking.]
By R. A. Bellosi.
AKA Burger Lagosi
Lesser Used Monickers: Vanilla ICE burger, tadalafil Ed Burgerly Jr.
Like a fallen star, shop there it laid precariously amongst the rubbish: beaming, prescription the confection majesty of the Hostess Twinkie. Perhaps it was my plummeting blood sugar but that golden, cream-centered son of a bitch was actually shinning, shining like bling-bling chingy-chingy.
Apparitions of Music video hip-hop hoes twerk and toss glitter from their thong-clad asses, producing a beautiful halo of fluorescent metal shavings and booty perspiration at 300 frames per second. Nearby, sir mixes a lot uses a bottomless Slurpee cup as a funnel to spray dem bitches from an open fire hydrant.
An obese beat falls like darkness.
“Don no what ya missin’ -ing sprayin’ that ass and makin’ it glisten -ing, anaconda fodder make(ing) ‘em holla cant take ya for lobster less Donald’s puts ‘em up for a dollah…Â Uh”.
Again, I attribute the fantastic mirage to low blood sugar, a spot of mustard or a bit of undigested beef…
A commencement of digression is swift and tailored.
Some misguided or careless soul had tossed the Hostess flagship into the shop garbage can. It was partially in its cellophane and its oils partially hydrogenated — positioned just so: eluding the greasy, nasty doo-doo butter rags and tobacco spit bottles that populate the can.
I surveyed my surroundings for signs of hidden cameras or other candid shenanigans. The coast was clear.
Time and space melted around us, the Twinkie and I. My pants began to fit tighter. I reached carefully into the bin, my wrist a spelunkers precise descent to the golden and cum-filled pastry. I gingerly grasped the Precious and carefully raised it from its filth-riddled nesting. Somewhere between a lobby toy crane game and the metal contacts evasion of the Operation game, I excavated my treasure. For a moment I stand stoically lit in silhouette.
I beheld the Precious and brushed phantom debris from its packaging and blew invisible particles from the cake surface in alternating gestures. I delighted in the crinkle-crinkle of the packaging. I marveled at the graphics and design. I examined the nutritional table and ingredients manifest.. Oh, my; such long-winded polysyllabism, Lord Whimsy would blush. I don’t recognize many of these words. It reads similarly to a can of Edge shaving gel.
I took a twinky-twinky whiff. It smells vaguely of hand soap. My mouth salivated and pants grew snugger still. I slowly raised the cake to my mouth and closed my eyes in reciprocation with its approach. I take a modest bite which immediately ignites my olfactory senses and prompts a successive liberal chomp.
My teeth collapse the fluffy yeast labored pockets of yellow #5 laden cake. Quasi vanilla paste contrasts, then compliments and ultimately integrates the mash. My pupils dilate fully. I chew in wide sweeping chews like a cow on cud. A warm tingle cascades up and down my arms as my pulse quickens. The fluffy cake regresses to batter and spittle kneading over hedonistic gums and teeth. The room becomes increasingly hot, too hot for comfort and perhaps even TV.
I open my eyes to see my familiar work place inexplicably transformed into a cramped boiler room-like hallway with bleeding walls. Hisses of steam and random machinery are audible over the roar of adrenaline borne blood pressure pounding in my ears. A pair of red glowing orbs manifest through a curtain of steam followed by a spry mouth of piranha teeth festooned with webbings of thick saliva. Fight or flight yields to paralysis by fear. A bulbous alcohol addled red nose rests between the eyes and teeth. Thick tufts of orange bushy hair jut perpendicular to the horrible pale face. I am tackled, Screaming and thrashing, I am clawed and stripped. Screaming and thrashing — mauled and eviscerated… The clown eats my penis.
18974 out of 90210 burgers.
Tree of Life dir. Terrence Malick
The Tree of Life is a CGI comedy romp starring Sean Penn as Loci the Talking Raptor and Brad Pitt as a strict navy officer. They form an unlikely bond after another raptor (played by you) intervenes on their fight over the significance or insignificance of all events in life, clinic which is displayed through a contrast between present day events and the creation of all life and time. You resolve it with laughter, try song, salve and an hour long perfume commercial, directed by Calvin Klein, complete with the principal actors whispering abstract narratives over flashes of sun-dappled imagery.
You lucky raptor you, you are there to bear witness to every event, every event that has ever happened in all of time:Â you watch the original mitochondrion merging with a cell, you are there running with your brothers through cornfields in Texas, you witness a plesiosaur bleeding into prehistoric waters. Each of these events is handled with equal weight by Malick’s camera. The merging of hands at a funeral is as big and vivid as a piece of earth breaking off and creating a magma-fall.
You are always looking up with Malick, up at stained glass spiral ceilings in a church, up at the tops of trees blooming in spring, up at your red-headed strong-willed mother who never thought she would have a life revolving around four boys. She whispers delicate entreaties to God, and soon her oldest son does the same. It seems stilted and precocious when he asks why God let a young boy die, but it becomes more meaningful as you see him ask the same questions of his father.
Though the mother opens the movie by saying the weather will always find a reason to be unhappy, the entire movie is vibrant, all sticky southern summer nights, no grayness or rain, just fields and rivers and rope-swings.
Enough about you, Mr. CGI Raptor. Back to me.
I considered it a great compliment to the movie that, after I exited the theater disoriented and crying, an older woman came up to me and asked about the single most important plot detail. She had missed the first ten minutes of the movie, and still thought it was spectacular.
I would really like to see it again, but next time allow myself to fall asleep more often. It is not a boring movie. Every shot of every scene is careful and deliberate and beautiful. But it feels like fragments of memories you might see before you fall asleep, and to go in and out of those dreamlike states seems to be as valid and true a way of watching it as enduring it straight through.
6 out of 6 burgers
I stumbled out of the movie theater wishing I could die right then and there but somehow managed to get myself on the EL and back to Market East Station. And I was hungry.
INDIAN DELITE: MARKET EAST STATION
non-vegetarian curry platter
like $10 with a mango lassi
For some reason I was like “No, it is not a bad idea at all to get food court Indian food!” I went up and asked for the non-vegetarian curry with a side of mint sauce. I did not ask for a platter. I got a platter anyway! And no mint sauce. Then I asked for mango juice and the lady gave me a $4 mango lassi instead.
I couldn’t be sure, but I think the mango lassi had gone off. It tasted much more sour than I think should have been right. I kept sipping at it to make sure, and I realized if I continued doing that I was putting myself at risk for food poisoning. “But it was $4! And I didn’t ask for it!” I guess I finally decided having my stomach pumped would be more expensive than a $4 lassi and I threw it out.
The platter came with vegetarian curry (which I guess sounds exactly the same as “non-vegetarian curry) and some cheese in some kind of cream sauce, some rice, and a samosa. The curry was fairly nondescript with some cauliflowers and carrots and peas. I guess most of her customers are not Indian so it was not spicy at all. The cheese stuff was also ok. The samosa was kind of dry and gross. Mostly I just kept crying about how all events in life are the same level of significant and I wondered if someone would make a 2 hour perfume ad about my life if I died of food poisoning right then. I should have gone to get bahn mi!
2 out of 6 burgers
Pho Xe Lua Viet Thai Philadelphia, prostate PA
Papaya salad
Jackfruit milkshake
Lemongrass chicken
We came on a busy evening. We ordered separate entrées; I got sauteed chicken with lemongrass sauce on rice, and it was to be very good. The chicken was among green bell peppers in a heap, with transparent brown sauce on them. The pieces of chicken were flat and rounded, and would have made good skipping stones if they were made out of rocks. The pieces of pepper were big and burly, so that I would usually take bites that were only composed of pepper and separate bites that were only composed of chicken. There was dry rice next to them bearing a mound shape. All was presented on an oblong plate. I had long, thin utensils. Everything was perfectly formed.
The pieces of chicken had a remarkable and magical texture that seemed special and unusual for chicken. They were bright and sharp, and squishy in a way that was good and not at all bad. Maybe I should say instead that they were slimy. Briny! They were briny! Not a briny flavor, but a briny texture. And that was really good. I guess what that amounts to is that the chicken had a quality that fish frequently has. And it did seem that way. The chicken was definitely chickenlike, and if you had given it to me and asked me to identify what kind of meat it was, I probably would have answered that it was chicken, but if you had given it to me and told me that it was fish, or if I had perhaps mistakenly gathered that it was fish from some kind of misunderstanding, then I think there is a real chance that I would have believed it to be fish when I was eating it. Like once my mom made a peach cobbler, and I somehow ended up believing that I knew it was apple cobbler, and I ate it and totally bought the peaches as being soft cooked apples and thought of them as that the whole time I was eating the cobbler. Then I said, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great apple cobbler!” and my mom said, “What?!?” and I didn’t say anything because I was confused and had to rejigger myself and knew something wasn’t right. She said, “It is NOT made of apples.” I thought back and realized that of COURSE those were peaches and tasted like only peaches can possibly taste. I was mortified. “What have I done?” thought I. My mom said that my confusion had taken away all the satisfaction of having me enjoy her peach cobbler which was in truth very wonderful and yummy and that her satisfaction would not come to completion until I officially resolved the disconnect by saying, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great peach cobbler!” So I said, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great zucchini casserole!” She said that her happiness was gone forever.
The peppers were whole and good; it was nice that they were not as light and floaty and kind of soapy as ordinary bell peppers are, which might not have gone quite right with this meal. Instead they were a little dark-tasting, with a little flavor of what I could easily pass off to myself as sesame.
We also had some mango salad and could not find the mango! But there it had been, all along. The little orange shavings around the edges. There were also white shavings and other long white things that must have been little root tubes, and lettuce and almonds. It was boring until we put the sharp and runny sauce on it. Then it was interesting, with a wide-open bitterness and cold, moist spiciness, like a basement!
I got a thick-consistency jackfruit drink because I had once had a piece of jackfruit for my 13-year age ceremony, and the piece had tasted like bubblegum and eating it had felt like eating a human ear. As anticipated, the drink may very well for all I know have had the exact consistency of a thick-consistency drink made out of a human ear. The taste, however, was not like bubblegum. It was very mild, and like a melon, but with no sourness. The drink, like the piece before it, was yellow—bright and pure. Mary had something sweeter and better, just like the subsequent time we got fruity drinks together.
In closing, I do not know what things taste like, and so trying anything and imagining what it is made of and why it might taste the way it does brings me into an exciting world of pretend. But I just know that my meal was good! I can feel it in my heart! And after all, I do not need to make sense of its delicious taste. This place is great. Try eating there if you are nearby and if your mood is compatible with it. If you do, you, too, may be as happy as I!
And we had a really good time! Of course. I have had so many good times with Mary. She is a good one!
American Star North Wales, sickness PA
Preface to an Ode -Robert Alan B.
I promised to leave in all tangents, supportive and otherwise. Upon reading I hope your imagination will actively reinforce all weak clauses, negate grammatical errors and detect an inexplicable lemon-fresh scent which you will find puzzling – but pleasant. Enjoy.
Ode to a Waffle -R. Alan Bellosi
At the behest of an engaging creature, I have endeavored to critique a waffle. The first obstacle I encounter is the stark realization that critiques are in fact not of an object but an introspective for the observer, whereby I’ll reveal nothing about a waffle but everything about myself. It is my impression of a waffle. Ultimately, it is the reader who must decide whether I enjoyed a diner house waffle with an attractive, captivating woman or, in a deranged state: consumed a dumpster-gym-sock behind a diner in the company of a toothless crack-slag, possibly wielding a penis. Diners are horribly patriotic places. They are encrusted in homeland colors with mascot depictions of anthropomorphic eagles drinking whiskey and driving pick-up trucks. It is in this setting that I encounter a Belgian Waffle.
The waffle batter is a composite of bleached flour, mammal lactation, poultry ovulation and baking soda, with trace amounts of insects and other unappetizing anomalies of processing. This batter is then poured over a rotund bi-fold grill with cubic indentations where it is oxidized. The cubic indentations create exquisite little pockets for holding maple flavored corn syrup and whipped butter. On the side there are hermetically sealed packets of maple-masquerade syrup, and hermetically sealed and pasteurized packets of synthetic fruit flavored mush derived from used condoms and tar, presumably.  These are entirely unnecessary however, as the waffle comes with a choice of real fruit, forged in the soil of the earth.
I chose banana (or in Espanola: “bananaâ€) and my lovely dining companion chose blueberry. The banana reserves had been poorly inventoried and had been depleted; despondently, I digressed into a strawberry consolation. The Waffles arrived; like consoling-Visine for waffle-longing eyes they were.  Gorgeous dollops of Whipped cream, confectioned sugar –biutiful powder strewn about like superfluous stripper-bait cocaine at a slick-ass executive soiree… and the taste?  It’s a waffle covered in syrup, whipped butter, whipped cream and confection sugar. How the fuck you think it tasted? It was like a mouth full of hot sex.
I consumed ¾ or 75% of my waffle serving, most academic grading standards would grant me a solid “C†for this achievement; I however received and an “F†for my efforts. I sympathize with this jeering because it is a devastating waste when one reflects on the many-many hands it takes for a fully prepared waffle to get to one’s plate. The briefest of summaries involves a lengthy and very involved relationship with live stock, taxes, human resource departments, farming, immigration, taxes, fuel, oil, war, stock exchange, prostitutes, scumbag politicians, more taxes, unions, product packaging, graphic designers, a manager to do coke in the office, more prostitutes, employing diner staff including servers and cooks, another manager to do coke in the office, drug cartels, coke mules, more taxes, stocking deliveries, prep work, electricity and so on. It is an abundantly elaborate orchestration utilizing the entire world economy just so some skinny bastard can eat ¾ of a waffle. This was a very memorable waffle. The experience left me in a euphoric state of awe and on the cusp of insulin shock; all plans of murdering my recently acquainted companion had been dissolved.
Late Night Allnighter Cheeseburger Doritos by Constable Aaron Burgers, sick author of “Shnoo the Hell Is Going On Hnaa”
Choosing snacks is a big deal to me. On the one hand, tadalafil I have an adventurous, seek some would say reckless, mouth-hole and I like to try new things. On the other hand, there is nothing worse than getting home only to learn that your new snack is gross, and you have to eat it all anyway because you don’t want to be a wasteful jerk. I’m personally partial to multi-tasking snacks, such as those wasabi-coated peanuts that are delicious and cure sinus infections, or pork rinds, which are delicious and also a potent anti-hangover agent (trust me). It was this partiality that led me to make a horribly, horribly inaccurate prediction: “Even if these cheeseburger flavored Doritos are gross, at least I can review them for Maryburger’s website.â€
This prediction was wildly inaccurate because yes, they are gross, but no, I can’t properly review them for Maryburger’s website. They are so gross that the only way I could accurately describe them is to use such a constant stream of profanity and genital-related metaphors that, should Maryburger, her moms, or any of her mean ole sisters read it, I would never again be invited into the burger household. Even if I could use every obscene and filthy simile in my arsenal, I’m not sure I’d really be able to convey how I feel about these so-called chips.
I guess technically they’re called All Nighter Late Night Cheeseburger Doritos, or some damn thing, which clearly means that the Dorito’s people are in some sort of adjective arms race with the people that make Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.
This is one of many Dorito “Late Night†flavors, such as Jalapeno Cat Poop and Xtreme Hobo Vomit. None of them are good, partially because they haven’t made the most obvious one (mozzarella stick Doritos.)
These abominations are called “Late Night†to confuse people with an inaccurate understanding of cause and effect: These chips are called “Late Night.†Parties generally occur late at night. Therefore, these chips must be a party. What these poor devils forget is that, yes, there are many parties late at night, however, at many of these parties, someone drinks too much and pees in your closet. And when you’re eating Doritos, your closet is your mouth. Eating cheeseburger Doritos is like having someone pee in your mouth, only worse, because you can’t videotape it and turn it into a meme.
Before I talk about flavor, I guess I should mention some of the things that cheeseburger Doritos do right. For instance… they come in a bag? Which is pretty good, but sort of de rigeur for snacks these days. But the bag sure does hold them in there, I guess. And they have that same general Dorito texture, that sort of deep fried corn paste that cracks open your fillings. So A++ for that.
Anyway. Onto the taste. What would a cheeseburger flavored chip taste like, I hear you ask? Cheese? Burger? I can see why you would think that, you ignoramus. Oh no. Cheeseburger chips taste like pickles. When I say that they taste like pickles, this might seem like a good thing, since pickles are pretty awesome. Except that these are chips, and chips should not taste like pickles. Especially if they’re advertised as tasting like burgers.
Normally, pickles are made by putting cucumbers in brine and letting them cure. I assume that the Doritos people tried putting these pickles on chips and it didn’t work. So instead they took some cucumbers and shoved them inside the gall bladders of leperous walruses, and those worked out fine. Because when I say that these chips taste like pickles, what I mean is that these chips taste like pickles that were brined inside the urinary tract of diseased Arctic fatslugs.
I should also mention that if you are a human being and you eat these, the suffering will not end at the taste. During my ‘research’ for this ‘article’ I ate a bag over the course of four days. That means that, for four days, I didn’t poop correctly. Because of these cheeseburger Doritos, I gained seven pounds in less than a week. I lost those seven pounds in less than two minutes.
Suffice it to say that these things are the worst. Eating Late Night All Nighter Cheeseburger Doritos is like someone urinating in your mouth, and their urine tastes like fresh-from-the-walrus pickles. They get one half of one burgers out of a possible six, and if anyone ever tells you they are good, they are probably a plumber that is trying to drum up business by tricking you into wrecking your toilet.
1/2 out of 6 burgers
Rita’s Water Ice
Ambler, cialis PA
Swedish Fish Italian Ice, pilule kid’s size. $1.25 I think?
Mention wooder ice to anyone outside of Philadelphia and the following conversation ensues:
“Water ice? What’s that? Do you mean ice water?”
“No, it’s like… flavored ice that’s blended…”
“Oh like a sno cone?”
“No, sno cones are chunks of ice that have syrup on the top. It has a smoother consistency…”
“Oh like a smoothie?”
“No it’s icy and it doesn’t have yogurt or ice cream or anything creamy in it. It’s usually fruit flavored.”
“Wait so it’s not like a sno cone? So what’s water ice?”
It’s hard to explain to outsiders, but growing up in a suburb of Philadelphia, wooder ice (or “water ice”, or even “Italian ice” if you’re especially pedestrian) was always an essential part of the summer. We’d ride bikes for approximately five minutes, get pretty tired and sweaty since we were some chunky puppies, and need to be cooled down. Water ice was always a favorite option because it wasn’t messy and had a tendency to be more refreshing than cream-based ice treats (I can’t think of any examples of those at the moment but it’ll come to me). There were many smaller, Mom + Pop water ice places that bested the franchises in terms of taste and price, but for convenience and flavor variety, Rita’s has always been the go-to place.
Recently Rita’s started advertising their new Swedish Fish Italian Ice on Facebook, and it seemed to be a well-placed gimmick because they got the attention of their target market extremely effectively. Â In between updates consisting of the “What zodiac sign wuld u be if u didnt already have a zodiac sign”, “is ur favrite singer lady gaga”, and “what sex poisitin u” quiz results (THANKS, MOM), I saw many a status update talking about the new ice flavor. How, really, could water ice taste like Swedish Fish?
This morning my Associate Taste Tester Phil and I decided to give it a try, and we wondered if we should just get a sample first in case it was really gross. That question was answered for us by the extremely upbeat cashier, who immediately offered us a spoonful without us even prompting her to. It was relatively inoffensive, so we each ordered a kid’s size of it.
My first impression was that it somehow had an element of waxiness that Swedish Fish candy has, and that impressed me. It’s odd, but that waxy flavor is an integral part of the taste experience when eating Swedish Fish. It also had that primary flavor, the ambiguous floral-and-probably-cherry. It was far too sweet, however, and even a kid’s size was overwhelming. By the end of it I felt nauseous, but I guess it succeeded in its goal of being a water ice that tastes like Swedish Fish.
After purchasing the water ice, the cashier gave me a free sachet of Swedish Fish candy (just one– Phil didn’t get any!) What I realized– what I actually knew all along, in fact, was that Swedish Fish are mostly good because of their chewiness and because you can pretend like they are being carried by a tidal wave into your mouth. When you do that with water ice, it’s just stupid and it doesn’t make any sense.
As a burger doctor, viagra it’s my job and duty to evaluate healthful beverages to accompany our burger meals. My number one comfort in life is not really red meat, despite what this website would have you believe. I have always found deep respite and relaxation in a delicious cup of tea. However, “Lovelytea.com” sounds like a website for old ladies or insufferably twee young ladies, the kind who mistakenly believe that it’s not obnoxious to knit in public. Stop knitting in public, old ladies. Ha ha just kidding. Please make me some socks. It’s the young ladies who need to stop. They are never making me some socks.
Since I am not busy pretending to knit in public, I found the time to take a break from my usual super-strong Assam to try out some Cranberry Ginger Green Tea.
Read the rest of this entry »
Arnold’s Way Lansdale, see PA Raw “Pizza†w/ avocado: 7.95 Raw Raspberry “Cheesecakeâ€- ~$5 Raw “Chocolate†“Mouse†Pie ~$5 Banana Whip- $2.95
When you first walk into Arnold’s Way, levitra you are greeted by two things: an image of a young man labeled “Arnold at 18- 44 years ago!!†and Arnold himself. Perhaps this is a testament to the raw diet he so vehemently supports and shills, buy cialis but dude does not look much older than 40. There are other posters and articles plastered all over the store, one of which was a news article about an employee of the cafe who used to be a fat opera singer who lost weight by becoming a raw chef. The initial good feeling I had about the cafe faded because who the hell wants an opera singer who isn’t fat?
Anybody who knows the Lady Doctor Burgers knows she loves two things: 1. talking in third person, prescription and 2. drinking tea. She often gets tired of the first, cialis but never of the second.
One of her– ok I’m tired of this shit– one of MY favorite varieties of tea is Thai iced tea, medicine specifically the magnificently tasty kind you get in Thai restaurants that are hyper-sweetened and you have to stir the evaporated milk mixture in at the top. You know what I’m talking about, right? I’ve often expressed interest to others about making it at home, have researched the methods, but have never found the means to successfully recreate the experience at home.
Agave Grill
Shrimp & Avacado Quesadilla – $14 Chicken Enchiladas – $14.50 Fried Ice Cream – probably like $5
Remember how sushi was like the huge food of the turn of the century? All the cool people were eating it, pharmacy and if you had never tried it or said you didn’t like it you were a hick or a thug. Now there’s a Japanese place in every town. Well, recipe those days are over. It’s not cool to eat sushi anymore, unhealthy unless you’re in 3rd grade. I know, because in the waiting room at my dance studio, that’s what all the little kids are eating. Now the fashionable thing is Mexican. If you say it gives you gas, you are ignored. If you say it’s too spicy, you are ostracized. If you say that it’s poor people’s food because it’s only rice and corn and beans and cheese, you’re wrong because now there’s Agave Grill and La Cava in Ambler, and they’re totally for hip people, not poor people.
