Tag Archives: wwf

Raviolo: the case study

I like to make inflammatory remarks on the Internet. I’ve said some truly and exceptionally stupid and abrasive things online because I’m a glutton for punishment and other equally selfish and needy reasons.

But never have I captured such a strong reaction as when I said this:
ravioli

In 2016 I learned that people fucking love some ravioli. Like a lot. It wasn’t totally fair that the first comment came from a handsome gentlemen actually from Italy with a glib response:

ravioli

In these comments he’s also informing me that the grocery store that’s behind my very apartment has some delicious ravioli. And then how to cook.

And then I learned that ravioli comes in all kinds of intriguing and diverse flavors and styles, and suddenly ravioli bonds were being forged on my FaceBook timeline:
ravioli

And not only were friends tethered together through a mutual acquaintance and appreciation for pillow-y food treats, it generated confusion:

ravioli

BUT I HAVE A RESPONSE FOR THAT CONFUSION. (I also paraphrased the postmodern bit from an episode of a radio show that I like).

And then it started to manifest in delicious suggestions by beloved friends:
ravioli

ravioli

Totally accurate: I am spoiled. I probably do want it fresh. And I’ll take anything with vodka.

And then I got called out:
ravioli

And somehow bringing up Dunkaroos brought up an entirely different, though I’d venture, equally important conversation about yummy snacks and the halcyon days of the WWF.

ravioli

revelations

Starting to accidentally insult people:
ravioli

And I begin to question who am since most of my favorite food is courtesy of this chef:
ravioli

So I needed to chime in on my own behalf and my own gamine naivety that I think is basically film worthy.
ravioli

It’s true. I eat candy and grilled cheeses almost every day and sometimes in multiples per day.

And much like Kim Kardashian’s ass before me, my self-reflection destroyed the Internet:
ravioli

Many additional voices jumped in with feelings on ravioli, no one was on my side. Not a soul. And then in a shocking twist of irony, the very lunchroom – site of twice a day grilled cheeses – decided to put this out for lunch.

ravioli

It’s fucking fried ravioli (like THAT’s gonna trick me). This lunchroom has never ever ever had this out before.

 

I then brought my parents into the debate. To the best of my knowledge they’re Italian food loving asses would be the best judge on pasta.
This is my father’s response:
ravioli
To give you some context of this email: my father is a great man who I love dearly. However, he is also the person that in response to the news that I got him Yankees tickets and that I love that he’s my dad responded, “wow!” I think I can count the things he’s said he’s loved on one hand. Evidently not only does ravioli makes the list – it makes the list in all caps.

My mom acted just like you’d expect my mom to:
ravioli

ravioli

I love that she conceded that *some* restaurants are capable of making homemade ravioli

FINE.

I decided to go to South Philly to get ravioli because, I don’t know. It seemed like the place to go (somewhere in the Italian market). I won’t share the name of the place because I don’t want anyone to think that destination influenced decisions. Despite the whole going to South Philly thing…whatever. They were homemade. Or handmade? Like not frozen is what I’m getting at.

I tried to get the person I was there with to take a photo of the blessed event but he was crazy stoned and started getting insanely paranoid about using a smart phone in public because he doesn’t own one or know how to use them. So this was the result. I’d like everyone to know that I showered for this occasion and you can’t even tell. Fuck a job.
IMG_2294

Result:

Dude…I’m not getting it. I know that I’ve missed out on some seriously important things in life that I eventually came around to, but are my taste buds corrupted from too many years of persistent candy eating? I mean, they’re just pockets of dough filled with crumbly ricotta – which no one likes. They’re not repugnant like relish or pancakes, but they weren’t delicious like welsh rarebit or Diet Cokes. Maybe if they were filled with welsh rarebit or diet soda I’d be, like, “oh heyyyyyyy sorta adorable looking pasta thing!”

Do I need a do-over? Or not restaurant ravioli? Bigger question – do I need many people to make me many different kinds of ravioli?

In the end I treated myself to a cannoli. I gave myself a boxing name (Janie ‘the cannoli’ Cannarella), and then just ate all of the cream and whipped cream.
FullSizeRender (2)

 

 

 

 

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Filed under food, Uncategorized

I just can’t quit you, so you fired me

It’s the final week of working at my job after getting the lay off notice six months ago. In efforts to appear supportive, the team that is replacing us sent us a gigantic fucking card thanking us…for our jobs. Which are now their jobs.

To paraphrase a co-worker, how dare they use cats to further their agenda?

To paraphrase a co-worker, how dare they use cats to further their agenda?

But then those Canadian bastards raised the bar on emotional (and…in a way physical) manipulation.

They collaborated with a bakery in Philadelphia to send us all fancy cupcakes

which I handled with my typical self-restraint. I took two and am circling the remainder of them like a shark around a wounded seal

which I handled with my typical self-restraint. I took two and am circling the remainder of them like a shark around a wounded seal

My heart melted.

Until I of course remembered that with a paycheck I could just buy my own damn cupcakes. I will not be satiated by a gift of fancy cupcakes (physically yes, and to a degree emotionally, but not monetarily).  I know your tricks, Canada

Take to the internet
blame canada revenge
blame canada revenge 2

Listen up, Canada, I’m coming for you. And when I say “you” I mean:

 

Real Canadian heroes

Real Canadian heroes


Actually, I’m just going to take another cupcake and curse you. 

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Filed under broke, cats, food, letters, work

How I defend myself

It should come as no surprise, give my penchant for Napoleon complex like antics, that I am short. Super short. Really fucking small.

five foot shawty assassin

 

And when you are this damn small, with a habit to get into so much trouble, it’s essential that you learn how to defend yourself when the going gets hostile. My method, since childhood, has been emulation of the moves of professional wrestlers.

I’ve been to two professional wrestling events since my childhood – I wish this was a joke, but that is a Bret Hart shirt from the Holiday Hell Tour in the early 90s. Eat it hipsters and long for my un-ironic ironic WWF swag

 

So, if you are feeling, say, threatened on your birthday, what should you do? Um…the Million Dollar Dream. Obviously. And you should do this after drinking several pints of home brew outside of bar- unwashed, following a Kool & the Gang sing-a-long.

Get your back up off the wall, do wrestling moves, come on!

Now you can defend yourself!

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Filed under beer, birthday, Booze, friends, Philadelphia