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Hot Clam Sammie

Sup bros?!

Had a crazy day the other day.  I was walking down the street minding my own damn business, when this hamster ran up on me all crazy.  He was all like, “sup, bruh?” Then I was all like, “sup brew?” and then we started staring at each other for the next 45 minutes.  Hard stares.  Eye-watering, teeth-grinding, bone shattering (his bone shattered when someone stepped on him.  We were on a public street) bone reforming (then he came back to life because I feed him the Magic Burrito of Justice.) Anywho, this hamster was legit.  We decided to become best friends and even blood brothers.  

On a side bar—I bet you guys didn’t know you could just decide to turn into blood brothers whenever you wanted, huh?! We’ll I did a survey and turns out you can.  

Me and the hamster did everything together.  If you track it chronologically, we met in 1996, got married in 1997, domestic partnership of course, and then had the #2 buddy reality show on MTV, behind only Rob & Biglet.  

Our friendship came to an abrupt halt though.  The hamster got caught up in some trouble.  I’m talking real serious shit, you guys.  He got into drugs.  And by drugs I meat hot ham sammie’s.   

If anyone is stupid as hell about hamster nutrition then they wouldn’t know that hamsters and hot ham sammies are like dogs and chocolate—they just can’t eat that shit.  

Long story short, we met again at an Arbuckle’s seven years later after he came back to life again from eating another Magic Burrito from Justin

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Mike Schneberg in da hizzy!

"Hot Cakes, get ‘em before they get you."  Mike Schneberg, 25, knows all too well what this means.  Born in Quebec, Canada, Mike was used to walking the mean streets, or as Canadian’s call them "Hot Cake Lanes".  Now I’m aware Hot Cake Lanes sounds more like a bowling alley, but that’s beside the point.  Mike knows how to walk, that’s what I’m really getting at.  In fact, he learned how to walk when he was just a baby.  So don’t try and act like he’s new to this shit.  But one thing he learned about walking was that sometimes you can walk into trouble. 

Just one short week ago, Mike drove five grueling hours to St. Louis, Missouri.  That’s right, the city known as the devil’s playpen, Satan’s sand box, the mayor’s cabin, the milk bone dungeon.  No French toast is ever served in St. Louis, but any fool can tell you that.  Mike wasn’t in St. Louis for French toast, he was there for something much more important… he was there for bones.

See, when Mike was but a boy, he lived in St. Louis for a couple years.  While living there he had a dog named Grover.  Grover would hide bones all over his back yard.  Under trees, in this corner, that corner, oh man that dog was nuts.  Any who, as Mike was eating chicken wings one day he thought to himself, “If Grover loved bones so much, they must be delicious.”  After all Grover was Mikes mentor for 3.5 years during his swimming days.  So Mike drove all the way to St. Louis aka “the butcher’s fair grounds” to dig up and devour one of these bones himself. 

The drive there went without incident.  He even met a nice old man who used to collect lizards just for kicks. 

Now bear with me here, Mike went to his old back yard.  He pulled out his orange, plastic, beach toy shovel that he found in a Wal-Mart on the drive to St. Louis aka “Meatloaf manor”.  Mike feverishly dug up the first dog bone and sunk his teeth into it like a samurai sword through a swimming pool full of steaming whipped cream.  The bones juicy core filled his veins with courage and he soon found himself strapped to the back of a ham truck on the way to the world’s largest ham bone museum (editor’s note: St. Louis aka “the blanket-free state” is only famous for one thing, the ham bone museum.) 

Once in the museum Mike began foaming at the mouth like a dog that just ate a bunch of foamy shit.  He eyes began to bleed and his fingernails turned purple. Once he was done painting his fingernails he noticed the song “Street Niggaz” by Gucci Mane filling the air, as did the smell of cold cabbage.  These did not distract Mike though, he raced to the first ham bone he could find and devoured it as fast as he could.  He was a ham bone gobbling machine that any father would be proud of. 

Three minutes later, after Mike had piled 13 pounds of pork bone marrow into his stomach, he decided it was time to hit the ol’ dusty trail.  Mike’s drive home was also uneventful.  In fact, he was just happy to finally be out of St. Louis aka “The-Put-Yo’-Third-Favorite-Family-Member-In-A-Full-Nelson-City”. 

He realized what he had done in St. Louis would never be understood, let alone accepted by society, so he promised himself, and Grover, that he would never tell a soul.  But then we got this assignment in creative writing class at Chicago Portfolio School and Mike spilled the beans.  His soul had been tormented with this secret for far too long and it was an enormous relief to tell his story to the world.  All he asks is that you learn from his mistakes and always remember to never eat a cupcake past its expiration date.  

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Gobblinesque Encounters

So I was walking down the road the other day, just minding my own business when all of a sudden this disgusting, middle aged man frantically runs up to me, dripping with sweat and looking like he hadn’t slept in days.  His Cheeto stained hands grabbed me by the lapels as he said in a Creole accent, “Young boy, you listen here.  There comes a time in every boy’s life when he has to choose… What toppin’s should I get on a Subway sandwich?” 

For only the third time in my life I was dumbfounded.  This creature, this abomination of mankind, this abominable snowman from the eighth layer of hell was right.  What toppin’s should I get on a Subway sandwich?  No one had ever posed to me such a question.  Now I’m a smart man mind you.  Harvard Law class of ’98 to be exact.   

Nevertheless, all these years of education, the highest recorded IQ known to man, and a 51 inch vertical leap couldn’t help me now.  I needed answers.  “Toppin’s,” so simple when you think about it.  But why was it so hard now?  I think it’s one of those things that just come naturally to you until you think about it too hard, kind of like riding a bike.  I decided my first step to inner peace, and deciphering what toppin’s to choose, should start with research.  So I went to the very first Subway location know to man, yeah you guessed it, Elkridge, Maryland. 

Once in Elkridge I finally realized what had happened.  The streets paved with ham, the trees were giant ham, the purple waves crashing into my eager mouth with the taste of ham.  I had but one choice: Live in this paradise of sorts, or go back to my homeland and tell the townspeople what I’d discovered, only to be called a liar and given the ham death.  

After careful consideration it was obvious – ham death.  Many may question it, but it was the noble way to go.  On one hand I could live in this ham paradise, on the other I could sacrifice my life so that others may rejoice in the hams of my labor.  I hampily (you see what I did there, ham + happily?!) would sacrifice my life for this ham lovers heaven because I know something they don’t.  You see, while on the way to Elkridge I was hit by a meteor and temporarily died for three years.  Those three years were spent in heaven.  That’s right kids, that ham land was heaven. And this place I was sending people to, Elkridge, was nothing more than a trap set up by aliens.  The aliens promised me that if I informed the masses to this “ham land”, thus luring them into their trap, that I would be brought back to life after my ham death and have immortality. 

Well, the aliens kept their promise.  This is a true story and it all happened over 4,000 years ago.     

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Majestic Afternoons

The first thing they saw was each other.  Both woke up simultaneously at the bottom of the wave pool at Busch Gardens.  Frantically swimming to the surface like foam from a shaken beer can, the McNugget twins noticed they were alone — Alone in Bush Gardens.  They’re last memory was of jubilation as they sleepily floated down the lazy river, Colada in hand.  Usually the lazy river was the turded toilet of the theme park world, being used as a race track by hyperactive youngsters whose parents cooking skills began and ended with the Hot Pocket.  Today was different however, they got their inner tubes without incident and began to float down the partially shaded water track like a clumsy fat kid on an ice rink. 

So what happened?  Why was the park abandoned now?  And who just farted?  Seriously, I’m trying to tell a story and somebody just freely farts in the middle of it and we’re all supposed to accept it?  Grow up guys, seriously.

Anyway, the sun above had just set for the evening and there was no one in Busch Gardens but the McNugget twins.  And if you know the McNugget twins like I know the McNugget twins then you know what’s likely to happen next. 

Toweling off their bathing suits and gingerly sliding their feet into their flip flops, they scurried to the nearest beverage tent.  Like Diglet from Pokemon the McNugget twins began digging through the ice watery coolers for any beers they could find.  Twisting off the tops, they began chugging, chugging like champions, chugging like choo choo trains, chugging like only a real American could.  See the McNugget twins needed to be drunk if they were going to figure out this mystery.  No one abandons a theme park on the 4th of July, especially not Busch Gardens, and I mean no one. 

They ran to the nearest pay phone to call their nearest and dearest friend, McDougal.  An elderly man from Scandinavia, McDougal always knew what to do in scary situations.  After accidentally dialing the wrong number four times they finally rang good ol’ McDougal.  McDougal answered, drunk off a calzone and sweating profusely.  That’s right kids, McDougal had come down with the meat sweats, perhaps the worst case in years.  The McNugget twins couldn’t understand a word McDougal was saying.  In fact, McDougal had was so sweaty from the meat lovers calzone that it sounded like someone dropped the phone in a vat of Stubb’s Barbeque sauce. 

Instantly a light bulb went off in the heads of the McNugget brothers, it was national meat sweat day.  While unconscious at the bottom the Busch Gardens wave pool, three whole days had passed.  The park was closed and the workers at Busch Gardens didn’t notice that everyone hadn’t evacuated.  A cool wave of relief washed over the McNugget brothers, much like the waves of actual water washing over their lifeless bodies in the wave pool of Busch Gardens for three whole days. 

Calmly waling back to their lounge chairs to collect their belongings and proceed to the exit one of the McNugget brothers had an idea – they should get the meat sweats themselves.  Twas national meat sweat day after all, and what kind of Americans would they be in they didn’t participate?  With the theme park being completely abandoned, they had access to all the meat they could consume.  Beef on a stick, Porkinstein (the giant, demonic pork sculpture someone built the day before in honor of meat sweat day), and that oh-so-deliciouso lasagna.  Stuffing their mouths like Christmas stockings with all sorts of delicious meats, the McNugget brothers were in paradise, both literally and figuratively.  Figuratively because they thoroughly enjoyed eating copious amounts of meat, and literally because the park was decorated with a paradise theme.    

Now all this is fine and dandy, but it still leaves one very important question unanswered.  How in the world did these two goobers survive at the bottom of a wave pool for three whole days?  Not even their dad, Braxton McNugget could do that.  Well, the answer is simple if you understand the basic principles of geometry.  Try and keep up with me: the McNugget brothers, like most humans can hold their breath for about three minutes before needing to come up for air.  The Busch Gardens wave pool was set to go off on a cycle of three minutes.  So every time their bodies sunk to the bottom, the wave pool would kick on and toss them to the surface like a spoon unearthing the blueberries at the bottom of a yogurt cup, where they would then breathe again. 

One year later – the McNugget brothers arrive at Busch Gardens for national meat sweat day.  Marcus, the meat sweat mascot greeted them at the park’s entrance and handed them both a bowl of chicken parmesan.  Customary on meat sweat day the McNugget brothers ate the chicky-parm and began to stroll through the park.  Memories of that one faithful day ran through their heads as they passed the lazy river and the wave pool.  Who knew a simple wave pool timer could save a life, let alone two?  Statues were erected in honor of the McNugget brothers for surviving such an event. 

Two years later – while roller skating to Busch Gardens for another meat sweat day, a semi truck careening down the road at 45 miles per hour smashed into the McNugget brothers, exploding their bodies like a bowl of uncovered chili in a microwave.

Long live the McNugget brothers, for they taught us a lesson no textbook ever could, the value of a doll hair.