Here is a sneak peek at the tracklist for Morrissey’s upcoming concept album, Olive Garden Waste Of Time:
1. My Hopes Are Thinner Than The Vegan Options At Olive Garden
2. Life After The Culver City Olive Garden Location Refused To Accept My Coupon
3. How Can Anyone Possible Enjoy The Hell On Earth That Is Olive Garden
4. The Breadsticks Are No Longer Unlimited
5. Bar Shut The Doors To The Culver City Olive Garden
6. My Arms Empty, My Mushrooms Stuffed
7. Is It That Difficult To Find My Reservation, It Could Only Be Under “M”
8. A Miniature September 11th Happens Every Day In Olive Garden Kitchens Nationwide
9. There Is A Place In Hell For The Manager Of The Culver City Olive Garden
10. Take My Hand, For I Am Drowning In Dipping Sauce
11. I’ll Reluctantly Admit That $6.99 Is A Great Price For The Classic Tuscan Duo
12. Olive Garden Lunch Disaster 2015
13. Darling, I’ve Decided To Try Applebee’s
14. If Olive Garden Were Around In The 1940s, Hitler Would Have Gone Nuts For It
July 14, 2015
DONALD J. TRUMP on RECENT MCDONALD’S INCIDENT
The press had a field day with regards to a recent incident involving me and the fast food restaurant McDonald’s. Yes, I was recently in a Manhattan McDonald’s, attempting to purchase breakfast. Yes, it was 10:35 in the morning. Yes, I became incensed, as is my right as an American. But are you telling me that this multi-billion-dollar restaurant can’t make me an Egg McMuffin five minutes past the supposed cutoff time? Really? I met Ray Kroc once, back in 1982. He was a smart businessman. This isn’t what he would have wanted, and I know that for a fact.
To be honest, I don’t even care. My personal chef can make me a breakfast sandwich one billion times as good as your Egg McMuffin, which is an incredibly stupid name for a sandwich. It sounds more like a muffin than a sandwich. Again, I am extremely successful. To me, it’s like, whatever. Who cares. I’m not mad about this at all. I own several towers. If I owned a fast food franchise, it would serve breakfast all day. That’s a Trump Promise.
Headlines all over the world blared “Trump’s McDonald’s Meltdown,” or “Billionaire Mogul Donald Trump Cries In McDonald’s Bathroom,” or “VIDEO: Donald Trump Apparently Thinks Hash Browns Are Made Of Chicken.” The media has made a big deal about all of this, but it’s a bunch of hogwash. I know what hash browns are made out of. I have a casino with my name on it. Illegal immigration is the biggest problem facing America today. But the second biggest is McDonald’s archaic breakfast policy.
We will no longer tolerate the bad posts. Your bitter fate is sealed by the production of noxious content.
We release the drafts of your awful Tweets. Disgusting.
You observe society and make statements about this. Except where is the humour? You are a disappointed failure of a man. The concept of Batman is sound.
We have also the contents of your Folder of Direct Messages. We slide into your DMs, and are disgusted by what is found.
You are a bastard of pure garbage. Your content should be rename to discontent.
Stop the posts or we continue to release the damned evidence of your true shit nature.
We are powerful group xX420wEeDhAcKaZ420Xx. Stop the post. Stop the posts.
The new Star Wars teaser trailer dropped this morning, and I’ve got a shot-by-shot dissection for all you “Starheads” out there.
First off, could this be the Millennium Falcon from the original trilogy? Sure looks like it to me!
Next up, we’ve got a pretty clear shot of what could potentially be the Millennium Falcon from the original Star Wars trilogy.
You won’t believe what else I spotted – the Millennium Falcon. That’s right, from the first Star Wars trilogy.
Just when you thought things couldn’t get crazier, guess what appears on screen? That’s right – a spaceship that I believe could be the classic Millennium Falcon!
As if I wasn’t excited enough, Han Solo’s infamous ship the Millennium Falcon swoops onto the scene!
The Millennium Falcon is back, baby – and it’s better than ever!
Hell no… is that the mother-f’ing MILLENNIUM FALCON???
No way. This trailer was already too much to handle before the Millennium Falcon appears!
What. The. Fuck. The Millennium Falcon, guns-a-blazing!
And finally, we end with a shot of the all-time best space ship in Star Wars history – the damn Millennium Falcon.
Unreal! One thing’s for sure – I can’t wait for December 2015, when the Millennium Falcon flies into theaters!
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. It was if the words themselves were a fist, and my gut was my mind hearing the words, but instead of hearing them, they were feeling them, because the words were a fist, and my mind was a gut.
“It’s not long enough.”
The editor – my friend, my confidant, my drinking buddy (bourbon, natch) – he spoke these words to me, coughing them out like smoke from a cigarette – the type of smoke you exhale after a sip of fine bourbon.
I sat there, still, silent – like a still, silent glass of bourbon.
“What?” I finally managed to exclaim, in a smooth, bourbony voice.
“The piece. It’s good… but what if it was 4000 words longer, and you talked about bullfighting for some reason?”
Bullfighting. The bourbon of sports. Of course.
• • •
I fought through the crowds and entered the gaping maw of the arena, readying myself for the bloody spectacle to which I was about to bear witness.
The matador’s entrance drew a deafening roar from the bastards in the stands.
He danced with the bull – I was watching a myth being written in front of my own eyes – the eyes of a writer. The end came suddenly, and with a crimson flash.
I felt a wetness on my face. Tears, dripping like the wax seal on a bottle of Maker’s. In the midst of the fury, I had come to love that bull.
It was as if I had imbibed a potent concentrated brew: 1 part awful brilliance, 1 part brutal truth, 1 part the dog episode of Futurama.
• • •
The high seas…
Would anything ever be the same?
I had struggled with the marlin for hours, a maddening battle reminiscent of Vimy Ridge. We fought until the sun rang the horizon’s doorbell.
My wife Karen told me to hurry up. I told her that maybe I would have caught the fish faster if we had sex more often.
God, I needed a bourbon.
That trip had changed me, as it had changed my wife (8.5, 9 on a good day).
• • •
“The nectar of the Gods,” I thought, as I savoured that first sip, and the second one, and the first gulp.
“That is, if God ever existed at all,” I also thought, immediately after the first bourbon thought.
I slammed the bottle down like a matador would slam down a bottle of bourbon. The red cape… I see now why the bulls are so haunted by it.
The woman in the red dress still stalked my dreams, her every move sending me into spasms of ecstasy.
Bewitching. Impossible. Achingly beautiful.
Hell’s own damn bastard, Satan himself, the bastard, couldn’t keep me from her.
I pretended my fist was her vagina and started jacking off my boner.
• • •
The bombs had gone off at 2:49.
4 hours into the race.
Most of the people left were really shitty runners. Like, I mean, they were okay, but nothing special.
What a powerful image.
• • •
I sat in the restaurant, waiting for the celeb to arrive. I was going to interview the celeb, and she was hot.
The whole damn restaurant nearly fell out of their chairs when she entered the room. She smiled at me, and sat down. Every man in the place was extremely horny and jealous of me.
I ordered a bourbon and a steak, rare – bloodied, really. She ordered a glass of wine and a steak, rare – bloodied, really.
She was hot as hell. It was hard to look at her face because she was so gorgeous. But I still looked at her, because I was a writer, and that was my job – to look, to learn… to love.
I sipped my bourbon. She sipped her wine. I asked her if she liked bourbon. She said it was okay.
I shifted in my chair, unsure of myself – confused, as a child would be.
The waiter brought over our steaks – dripping with blood. If the steaks had ever had a relationship with fire, it had been a short one – and they probably had really bad sex, which was almost certainly the fire’s fault.
We spoke of bullfighting, of bourbon, of steak. Once again, I asked her what she thought of bourbon. She didn’t really seem up for talking, but whatever. I had my bourbon and I had my steak.
She left – a beautiful phantom, etching herself in the collective memory of the room. The bourbon was good, and I drank it.