Who Buys That?

Oh my god you guys, an automatic tortilla maker you just drop a cartridge into, like a Keurig coffee maker thing!

My house is a perfect example of why this product is stupid:

My wife, a chef, wants only homemade tortillas. They taste better to her, and because she is sick in the head she enjoys cooking things anyway. So when she's craving tortillas, she makes them herself.

I, a barely-functional man-child, just buy tortillas at the store because honestly who the fuck cares about the tortilla, it's all about the pound of meat and beans and cheese I'm stuffing that fucker with. Sure, I'll happily eat homemade tortillas. And I agree, they do taste better! Just not better enough to justify making them myself.

And I feel like we're a pretty fair representation of the tortilla-consuming public: some people like to take the time to make them at home, and some people just buy them at the store and don't give a shit.

The person who makes them at home will never buy this thing because it defeats the entire purpose of making tortillas at home, namely better taste and, y'know, love or whatever.

The person who buys them at the store will never buy this thing because it adds an extra step/expense/gadget in between them and eating a burrito, and expediting the burrito-to-mouth process is the whole point of just buying a bag of tortillas and not taking the time to make them.

Soooo...who the fuck is this for?


Spice it up a Bit!

Look, I don't need to "spice it up" in the bedroom, because obviously I am a virile and sexy man with a wonderful sexy wife and we do sex all the time and it's perfect.

But I'm just saying, if hypothetically we wanted to mix it up a bit, I'd be down to try grapefruiting. 



The Road to Recovery, Part 3

Part 1
Part 2

With my surgery scheduled, I had nothing but time on my hands with which to freak out about it. I've had surgeries before, but I think the last one was when I was nine years old or so. I don't really remember anything about them, and back when I was nine I hadn't quite developed my constant nagging fear of death, so medical procedures weren't quite as scary. Unless there was a shot. If there were shots involved my dad had to try and hold me down while I screamed and kicked as the poor CMA tried to jab a needle in my butt. Shots were no bueno.

But I didn't have to get any shots. I just had to let them inject me with a chemical cocktail that would disconnect my brain from my body while they hacked through my vertebra and scraped a bunch of cartilage goo off the sinewy fibers of my spinal cord.

Easy as pie, right? 


How many times have you been sitting in a conference room thinking to yourself "God DAMMIT I wish these dress slacks were sweatpants"

Have you ever found yourself embarrassed at wearing sweat pants in public and wondered if there was some way to class them up a bit?

Congratulations! You are the entirely fictitious person Betabrand had in mind when they started selling the stupidest thing ever.