Over-rated things Chapter 2 - White People Sundays

Hello again, friends. We all know this exists. Some of you (white, black, or anything else) do this with your Sundays, while people like me wonder, "What the fuck are you thinking?" Today we talk about White People Sundays (WPS).


You wake up "late" at 9:15 a.m. because you work and can't sleep in anymore. You put on a record (not a CD) which plays out of the speakers you know the detailed name of and nobody else cares about.* You drop the needle, and it's Steely Dan.**

*Sidebar: What the fuck kind of anachronistic asshole are you that you love to buy the worst sound quality music format (besides eight-track), but you insist on having $700 speakers to play it? That's like getting a $3,000 HDTV and insisting on watching VHS tapes on it.

**Sidebar 2: Steely Dan - SHUT THE FUCK UP. Chevy Chase was the drummer for Steely Dan in college (true), and we know he sucks balls. Yet, he had the sense to quit the band that now serves as the background to approximately 45% of all White People Sundays.

You slide your feet into your excessively worn "hangin' around" New Balances and take your Weimeraner or non-Pitbull-but-still-a-rescue dog on a walk, stopping to let him sniff the butts of the Malti-poos, French Bulldogs, and other booshy ass dogs your neighbors own. You get home, give the dog a Greenie, and start brewing your morning roast in the Italian stove percolator your yoga teaching sister got you off your wedding registry. You eat brie and bread, perhaps with a bit of fig jam, or maybe a touch of kosher salt and cracked black pepper (making enough for your spouse once she wakes up). Once you're prepared, you finally take a nice relaxing seat in the leather armchair you bought because it looks weathered yet classy, like all your Ralph Lauren dockwear. Should you start smoking a pipe, you won't have to get a new chair to look the part.

There you are, coffee and Frenchy a-hole breakfast sitting on the hand-crafted side table you bought out of a really cute catalog from a company which is, unbeknownst to you, owned by The Home Depot. What time is it? It's New York Times crossword puzzle-o'clock, and you've already got your pen out!
You hear the click of the bedroom door, and out comes the spouse. You share a morning kiss, but because your family is old money from New England, you're too proper to kiss your wife and say "Jesus fucking Christ, your breath smells like the moth coccoon filled throat of Frederica Bimmel!" She goes in the shower while you finish your crossword, leaving two blanks. When she comes out, you hop in the shower too, and when you get out, you snatch up all your re-usable Trader Joe's bags and hit the farmer's market!***

***Sidebar 3: Yes, farmer's markets make you feel worldly, earthy, and sustainability-y by selling Afghani specialty breads, blue corn tamales, and hand-loomed, Sioux reservation made children's clothing. But no, this in no way makes you a better person.

After an hour of watching children dance around a crazy acid burn out dude playing a bongo and petting the goat who made the farmer's cheese you just procured you pack up all the things you've bought to make the perfect white people dinner: Heirloom tomato salad with the aforementioned goat cheese, and a little aged balsamic (reduced, obvi). Then on to the main course of brussel sprouts, a bed of French lentils, and grass fed organic bison meat topped with stone ground, microcrafted horseradish mustard. Oh! and for dessert, you'll make a peach cobbler sweetened with orange blossom honey and agave nectar. You got the recipe from the Top Chef website (Carla made it on one of the episodes).

You and the wife stroll home, apologize to the dog for being gone so long, and throw on another record. It's Johnny Cash, live at San Quentin. This will be your cooking music. You cook for the spouse, who's trolling around Yelp looking for the best Tapas in your area for when your friend comes in from Boulder next week (which will be a White Hippie Sunday (WHS). (Hippies are not people).

The plates go down, you and the spouse sit across from one another, discussing the piece on NPR about Greek debt's relation to the US housing market and whether or not you should try to get over to see those Frank Lloyd Wright houses in the suburbs when your friend visits.

You and the wife settle in to watch a  few episodes of Weeds and DVR'd episodes of Mad Men, while you secretly check your phone for the score of the Sunday night NFL game, since watching it on TV would be uncouth.

You fall asleep on the couch starting at 7:30, and you, sadly, never get to the peach cobbler!

You know what I'd rather do than what I just described?
Get fucking murdered.

List of things that are over-rated: Chapter 1

This post will be broken down categorically, starting with the most important of over-rated groups:

FOOD:

Bacon: If I hear about one more fucking person crumbling up bacon in ice cream and wrapping it around steak and shit, I'm gonna fucking lose it.  First of all, shut the fuck up. I didn't say I didn't like bacon, but come on, try"Bacon wrapped dates stuffed with french goat chevre" When you say that I hear "fancy, fancy, fancy, hillbillypigsteak" I mean, it's not even the creme de la creme of the pig. It's like going to The French Laundry and bringing your own wine cube. And PS., let's get the GODDAMNED DATES OUT OF THOSE OVENS. When I lose 3 layers of skin on the roof of my mouth because of your fancy gastropub nonsense it makes me wish dates were the sampe price as saffron so people couldn't afford it.*
*Brett Coolidge is absolved of all of these travesties because he's awesome.
Designer Mac and Cheese: First of all, let's stop saying this to each other: "You have to go to X restaurant, their mac and cheese is A-MAY-ZING." It never is. Ever. I've been to one restaurant in LA that has unbelievable mac and cheese, and everything else they make sucks. Mac. Cheese. Mac and Cheese. You know what you get when you put Cajun spiced blackened grilled chicken, fire roasted red peppers, prosciutto, and peas into mac and cheese? A big bowl of shit.
 
Beets, beet salads, shit with beets in it: I don't want to hear peep about beets and their resurgent popularity. They taste like the sugar water and dirt compound I used to make to draw ants out of their hole so I could watch them suck up the sweet nectar. You know when people say "I wouldn't eat that if I were starving to death"? I wouldn't eat beets until I was about 35% of the way to starving to death. The guys from Alive had beets available and ate each others supple quads and flank meat instead.
Quinoa: When you're trying to be a food asshole, and no kind of other grain is obnoxious enough, go ahead and buy some quinoa. I was being facetious. Listen Bub, just because a food name starts with a 10 point scrabble letter, doesn't make it taste better.
All things soy: Oh, you don't eat red meat because you found out that the amount of cows you eat a year put more fart pollution into the atmosphere than driving your car for a year? That's great for you. You know what crop is second to corn in the US for pesticide and chemical use for harvest? Soy. You know what food tastes like a wet marshmallow with no taste? Tofu. Get this shit out of my goddamned Thai food immediately. You know what feels like you're eating a spider with three stomachs and no legs? Edamame.
In closing, eat bacon for breakfast, eat Kraft mac and cheese for lunch, a cheeseburger and milkshake for dinner, and an ice cream sundae for dessert.