What They Won’t Tell You About Carrots

You’ve always been told that carrots improve your eyesight, but is that really true? And what else is there to know about the world’s most orange veggie? With the help of the internet and some unsurprisingly pristine library books, I was able to do some digging around to see what’s really the deal with this root vegetable. As it turns out, carrots are an indigenous crop of… okay, I think we’re safe. There’s no way they got this far. Listen, you, whoever’s reading this now, stay with me here – this is bigger than any of us.

I’m not actually writing about some fucking carrots. Really, what’s there to know? They’re delicious, nutritious, and consumed by bunnies everywhere. I didn’t lock myself away in an underground bunker in Uruguay to ramble on about the vitamin content of the most baby-fied veggie. No, carrots were merely a cover to disguise the true purpose of this article. Even with that misdirection, I know there’s agents on my trail right now, trying to put a stop to the truth. What’s really going on here goes deeper than anything you’ve seen before – I’m talking about potatoes.

That’s right, potatoes. The world’s favorite starch. But ask yourself – why is that? Think about all of your favorite potato dishes: French fries, mashed potatoes, hash browns, latkes, the list goes on. All of these dishes, in order to make them delicious, directly relate to having LESS potato in it and MORE fried batter, butter, or some other non-potato substance. Have you ever eaten a potato raw? No, you haven’t. And if you have, you’re already too far gone. Even baked potatoes, a dish known for basically just being a potato, is notoriously improved by adding excessive, some might even say ungodly, amounts of sour cream and bacon bits. Think about it – an ungodly amount of bacon bits, just to make potatoes palpable. You should not be forced to consume that much sodium to make a “baked POTATO” taste good. I crunched the numbers and it just doesn’t. make. sense.

So this begs the question, why do we, as a culture and society, love potatoes? You can’t go two days without seeing some Buzzfeed quiz or Odyssey article about how potatoes are God’s greatest gift to man. That’s just their handiwork at play. I’m talking about Big Potato, of course. They’ve got their hands in every major media outlet this side of Saturn. I’ve gone down the rabbit hole, and let me tell you, I didn’t find fucking carrots. It took every penny I had to infiltrate the inner workings of the media – corporate secrets, employee bribery, and fake mustaches cost a pretty penny. Every article, every quiz, every potato-based Emoji (there’s three of the goddamn things) – Big Potato made it happen. Just like potato itself, Big Potato has its eyes EVERYWHERE. Do you think it’s just pure coincidence that the side dish of every meal is potato based? Hash browns at breakfast, French fries at lunch, and tater tots at dinner. They couldn’t make their crop the main dish – no, that’d be too obvious. The potato lurks on the sidelines, planning. Plotting. Waiting.

I know what you’re thinking, “So what? Who cares if we eat potatoes a lot? It’s not hurting anybody.” That’s where you’d be FUCKING WRONG. There’s a reason no one runs a marathon after eating a tub of potato chips. They tried to throw us off the scent by making McDonalds the official sponsor of the Olympics, but don’t be fooled. Just like you can’t microwave a McDonald’s fry and have it be edible, you can’t eat a McDonald’s fry and be in peak physical condition. Potatoes keep us weak. Potatoes keep us sedated. And they know that. Big Potato always knows.

I can hear banging on my door now. It’s pure steel, but they’ll break out the blow torch soon enough. I’m not going to make it, but I’ve made my peace with that – this will have to be my last will and testament. Please, whoever you are, wherever you’re from, listen to me. Big Potato will not stop. They won’t cease until they have their hands in everything from desserts to degrees. When you can order a potato cheesecake while working on your Potato Sciences thesis, it will already be too late. I need you to resist now. The world needs you to resist now. They will take me away, and I do not know where, but you, out there, you can do something. Know this, that above all else, you cannot let them REDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTED

Ha Ha Ha, what a fun, satirical article I, Blake, wrote! Of course, this is a piece of fiction, created solely for the reader’s enjoyment. None of it is to be taken seriously. On an unrelated note, I will be taking a sabbatical from writing for a while, so do not worry about my impending absence. Thank you for reading this piece.

By Blake

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I am so glad I have you, diary, because I need to mark this day in history – Friday, December 14th, 2016 – because today was KRAZY! First thing in the morning, when I went to the bus stop, the bus was already gone! Total bummer, right? I thought the whole day was going to be a suckfest after that. I was able to get a ride to school from Jennifer (ily Jenn!!!), and that’s when my luck began to turn around. Check this – Taylor Swift on the radio ALL. THE. WAY. THERE. I know, major yes, right?!? So we slid into first period right before the bell, and there he was. The HUNKIEST substitute teacher EVER! Honest to God, I couldn’t think about balancing fractions. All I could think about was balancing on those biceps! Teehee, don’t tell anyone! I would DIE of embarrassment if anyone knew. Anyway, second period was blah, as always (Someone tell Mrs. Robins to liven it up a bit, she can be such a *snore*). Lunch was where the day went from okay to FANTASTIC. They had waffle fries. WAFFLE. FRIES. EEEEKK! They only ever have normal fries on Fridays, or sometimes even those orange ones (blech!). I sat with Jamie, Ollie, Natasha, and Toni, as always, and we gabbed about whatever. Third period was more blah (especially with Jack poking the back of my chair with his pencil – we get it, you’re a dork). THEN fourth period, my favorite period of the day, because I get to sit behind Johnny Patterson! Ahh, Johnny Patterson, the boy of my dreams! He’s the good only thing about European Literature, except maybe Mr. Smith’s laughably obvious toupee lol! I could stare at the back of Johnny’s head all day, if only my mom wouldn’t kill me for letting my grades go. I’ll be Rebecca Patterson one day, just you wait! Anyway, that was my krazy day! I only hope the weekend will be as good. Toni and I are having a sleepover on Saturday, and I CAN’T WAIT!!!

Love love love,

Rebecca ❤

 

Journal Entry: Rebecca Howard – 12/14/2016, 20:13:57

I don’t trust that fucking diary. She’s going to turn on me, I can feel it in my bones. And that bitch has too many of my secrets to be left unchecked. If she goes rogue, we’re all going down, and I can’t let that happen.

First, I’ll recap you on what I told her; the short version, because I don’t have time to waste here. Missed bus. Transport by Jenn. First period, hunk sub. Would tickle his butt given the opportunity. Second period, blah. Waffle fries for lunch. Hooray. Third period, blah redoubled. Fourth period, reconnaissance on Johnny Patterson. Heart eyes. End of recap.

I’ve been careful in my discourse with the diary. I only let her know what she needs to know, and that’s it. I’ve been leaving misleading evidence to make sure she can’t read my true intentions. I told her not to tell anyone about my infatuation with the stud muffin sub. In reality, I wouldn’t give two shits if she told the whole school about that, but that’s just the point. If she thinks she has the upper hand with that information as blackmail, I can ensure she won’t focus on any real dirt.

The key to this level of recon is not letting them know everything you know. Of course I know the orange fries are sweet potato fries – an idiot with a fridge for a brain could figure that out. But it’s important that she not suspect any more of me than she need to; if she thinks I’m a ditzy girl, then so be it – it’s safer for all of us that way.

Of course I remember what Jamie, Ollie, Natasha, and Toni discussed with me, but the diary doesn’t need to know that classified information. I will share it with you, however, because this discourse needs to be documented. Jamie has expressed interest in an individual by the name of Harry Stein. A person of interest, indeed – curly hair, piercing blue eyes, and as tall as the day is long – exactly Jamie’s type. Natasha expressed dissent in the matter, as she heard from Alissa who heard from Vicki who heard from Mike who heard from Samantha who heard from Vicki again that Harry has a reputation for ghosting on planned events (i.e. dates and the like). While I respect the intel, I trust Jamie’s intuition in this matter, and I know she’ll make the right call in the midst of action.

In summation, I need you to stick by me in this hour of uncertainty. The diary could go rogue at any moment, and we need to be prepared for that eventuality. I will maintain a line of communication with her, just as to not arouse suspicion. We need to keep our eyes open, and prepare for the worst. Signing off.

 

By Blake

The Real Issue

This election cycle has been a lot of things. It has been long, it has been tumultuous, it has been unexpected. But, most importantly, it has been a distraction. The American people have been inundated with a plethora of media coverage, occasionally touching on actual policy and presidential duties, but mostly dwelling on scandal and soundbites that make for good television. While, yes, the presidency is a crucial office that will determine much of our future as a nation, there are countless other issues that are just as important, and they too deserve our attention. These current events have strong implications in the daily lives of our citizens, and yet they have fallen by the wayside, with one specific proceeding being criminally underrepresented in our media and our social consciousness. I am, of course, referring to the short-lived relationship between Tom Hiddleston and Taylor Swift.

That’s right. Tom Hiddleston, the most British Avenger, and Taylor Swift, everyone’s favorite girl next door, were an item for a whole three months, and most of you didn’t even know that. You know why? Because the media had been too flooded with email scandals and pussy grabbing to show you the emotional roller-coaster that was the love between America’s sweetheart and Taylor Swift. He was her Loki and she was his shiny, blue cube-thing – a true story of pursuit, love, and loss, fit for the best of Nicholas Sparks novels.

When Tom and Taylor shared their first dance at the Met Gala, and the first notions of Hiddleswift began to bloom, where were the eyes of the world? They were watching the end of Ted Cruz’s presidential campaign, endlessly speculating the uncertainty of the nomination and the fate of the Republican party with hours of television coverage and hundreds of online articles. And yet, it was a mere Instagram video that documented this picturesque dance, whose vague arm flailing and hip shaking will go down in history, rivalling The Nutcracker in pure beauty and poignancy.

On June 14th, 2016, Hillary Clinton won the Washington D.C. primary. Many celebrated her inevitable path to the nomination following this victory, but you know what we weren’t celebrating? The official blossoming of the Tom and Taylor Power Hour, in which they were seen making out on a beach in Rhode Island – the most romantic island. However, this monumental scene wasn’t captured by CNN analysts, FOX reporters, or even the BuzzFeed investigative journaling team; no, this was first documented by The Sun, a British tabloid as trashy as its name is generic. Hiddleswift deserves better. We all deserve better.

Finally, when we were all focused on nominations and upcoming debates, the most beautiful integration of American and British passions since Simon Cowell fell apart right under our noses. September spelt the end for Tom and Taylor. Through all the Instagram drama and potential proposals, we never got to see any of it because we were focused on choosing the leader of the free world. What a shame.

 

By Blake

Some More Haikus For Your Day

When Germans tell you

To stop wearing your bow ties,

You dress to the nein’s.

I have to ask you

Something, Lou, so tell me – Where’s

Mambo Number Six?

Your whole world is a

Lie – technically, every hat

Is a top hat. Boom.

Running away from

Jurassic Park’s attractions;

You’ll be dino-sore.

Fun fact: Bananas –

Add a “D,” it’s “Bad Nanas.”

Fuck it up, Gram-gram.

The phrase “roller blades”

Sounds much scarier if you

Don’t know what they are.

If you were doing

Your job well, Beth, you’d be a

TEETH Fairy, not TOOTH.

“B” is pronounced “bee”

“C” is “see,” “V” is “vee,” but

Somehow, “H” is “aych.”

 

By Blake

Mean Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Sweaty, smelly, and seeped

In high expectations, while actually

Ending in an unpleasant stickiness

And the need to shower.

 

Would a rose by any other name be

Just as sweet?

Yes, but it would still be a prick.

 

What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and you are the sun.

Hard to look at for an

Extended period of time,

And will eventually kill me

If I spend too much time in your presence.

 

So are you to my thoughts as food to life –

A distraction from the problems

I should actually be dealing with.

Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground –

You ruin picnics.

 

O, that I were a glove upon your hand

That I might touch that cheek!

Then I could be used to slap you

As the preamble of a duel.

 

Let all the number of the stars give light

To thy fair way!

Because, like the stars,

You are gassy and distant.

Exeunt my life, Bethany.

 

By Blake

Okay, Hear Me Out: Basketball But, Like, With Birds

Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and no – the game would not involve substituting the basketball with birds. That would be animal abuse, and the aviary population deserves better than that. Also, I don’t think slam dunking a parakeet would be nearly as satisfying as it sounds. But I digress.

No, this would be basketball with the BIRDS as the ATHLETES. Just imagine – birds swooping around the court, executing perfect mid-air passes, and shooting from heights the NBA couldn’t even conceive of! Even the name possibilities are endless! Le-Fawn James. Sha-Quale O’Neil. Larry Bird. But I know, you’re not here to listen to these incredibly witty names. Let’s talk logistics.

So the basics of the game would be the same. There would normally be five players allowed on the court at a time. Of course, we would have to take into account the size of the birds when determining the size of the teams. Five pigeons versus three crows would probably be an even matchup, depending on their respective wingspans. A pair of eagles would be a fairly formidable duo by themselves, and honestly, I think a single ostrich would be able to dominate the court no problem.

I’m not saying there wouldn’t be any problems, but if you just hear me out, the sky’s the limit! Actually, not even the sky is the limit, because BIRDS. So I know bird talons aren’t the most dribble-friendly appendages, but honestly, are hands that much better? That’s what I thought. I’m also sure we will have some trouble with the smaller fowl crafting nests in the hoops, as fowl are ought to do, but you know, that may just be a risk we have to take. We cannot stop the course of nature, but we can make nature do some fucking dope alley-oops. Speaking of oops, mid-game poops would also be problematic, but if we give them little bird-diapers with their team logo, that solves that problem AND the need for jerseys – two birds with one stone, if you will.

Anyway, I know what you’re thinking – what sort of marketing would be the most effective way of informing the public of our aviary athletes? First, blimps, for obvious reasons. Second – what? No, Doc, I don’t think I use imaginative delusions to avoid thinking about my actual problems. And hey, this isn’t a delusion! I didn’t spend an entire therapy session talking about a delusion – I was explaining a detailed plan to have BIRDS play BASKETBALL. I don’t think you’ve been listening.

 

By Blake

You’re Like a Metaphor

You’re like a metaphor.

A means by which to

Evoke feelings beyond description,

Like the beauty of the sun

Or how much of a bitch you are,

And wholly, entirely

Comparable.

You’re like a simile,

Using like or as.

You’re like an ass:

Pretty shitty.

You’re like a stanza.

Sometimes

The

Way you

Are

Doesn’t make

Any

Sense.

You’re like alliteration.

Obtusely obnoxious,

Exceedingly ever-present,

And always annoyingly abjective.

(Albeit, attributed with an amazing ass)

You’re like an onomatopoeia.

Though your personality is woof

And your attitude is ugh,

I’d still like to bang you.

You’re like a rhyme.

With an initial chime,

But honestly not worth the time,

Because eventually it won’t be sublime.

Paradigm.

You’re like poetry.

Deceitfully beautiful and eloquent

When in reality,

The substance is

Crude.

 

By Blake

An Open Letter to My Best Friend Debra

Dear Debra,

Hey Debra, it’s me, Barb! I’ve been seeing these “open letter” things all over the place lately, so I decided to write you one! Isn’t that a hoot? I don’t know why people write these instead of normal letters, but hey, we’ve got to keep up with the kids, don’t we?

Speaking of which, I heard from my son Jeremy that your little Harry has gotten into cooking! Last week, I overheard Jeremy going on and on about how Harry had just gotten a “grinder.” I’m no expert chef myself (You’ve had my chicken parm, Haha!), but I’m sure that’ll make seasoning so much easier! From what I’ve heard from Jeremy’s phone calls (I know, I’m bad!), he’s using a lot of “twink.” I don’t know that one, but from the way Jeremy talks about it, it sounds zesty! If Harry keeps it up, those skills in the kitchen are going to get him a nice Christian wife one day.

My kids are doing quite well themselves. Jamie has really been establishing herself at high school as a smarty! Whenever her friends come over, they’re always calling her a thought. My baby, having so many smart thoughts that her friends call her a thought! She must have gotten her father’s brain; it still takes me twenty minutes to work a corkscrew! (LOL!) Jamie’s really been making the effort too – she’s stayed after school every day for tutoring with Chad, and when I’ve done her laundry, almost every pair of her jeans has had white stains. She’s really working hard at those chalkboards.

Any-who, it’s six o’clock, and you know what that means – Wine time! At my last checkup, my doctor told me that red wine actually prevents heart issues. So I guess I’m going to live forever, ROFL! You know how I like to drink – wine glass in one hand, my secret stash of Dove chocolate in the other – so I’m going to finish up the letter here. I hope to hear from you soon! Give Richard my best, and the best of luck with his vasectomy!

Much Love

Barbra Hall

By Blake

The Eye of the Storm

According to the Weather Channel, this inbound hurricane is no joke. Stores and public institutions are already closing early and boarding up their windows in anticipation of the biggest storm of the year. Thousands of people will lose their homes, even their lives, and even more will be forced to change their weekend plans because backyard cocktail parties are not conducive to forty mile-per-hour winds, and those tiny drink umbrellas are an embarrassment to the rain protection community. Honestly, something has to be done. But meteorologists around the world are merely forecasting the storm, and our savior Al Roker has been missing since the tornado incident. While it would be better for the experts to handle this crisis, I see no choice but to take matters into my own hands.

I’m gonna fuck that hurricane.

I know what you’re thinking. “Blake, how the hell do you plan on seducing a storm system made up of strong winds and heavy precipitation?” Very carefully, that’s how. To entice a woman requires a gentle touch, but to entice a intangible conglomeration of condensation requires an even gentler one. I’m going to look that hurricane right in the eye and whisper softly, “Hey. You don’t need to be doing this. You and me, let’s go back to my weather-resistant bunker and watch some Cake Boss. I know a sweet cyclone like you can appreciate some pretty pastries.” If all goes well, the world will be spared another tragedy caused by Mother Nature. And I will have had sex with a hurricane.

If you’re asking what good doing the no-pants dance with a tropical typhoon will do, you’re asking the wrong question. The real question you should be asking yourself is, “What kind of monster am I for not whole-heartedly supporting any effort to quell human suffering on this Earth?” The answer is the bad kind. But it’s okay – we forgive you.

Look, it’s not my first choice either, but we don’t have any other options. Do you see George Clooney stepping up to protect his fellow man? No. No you don’t. He’s too busy being famous, probably hooking up with a minor thunderstorm as we speak. Even the alternative solutions aren’t an option. Mankind has never built a fishbowl large enough to trap a hurricane, and even if we had, it should probably go to a very large goldfish. The scientists currently running the Large Hadron Collider refuse to help because the machine “is not safe for untrained use” and “has nothing to do with hurricanes, stop contacting us.”

In reality, I am probably humanity’s best choice for this endeavor. I already like my women like I like my hurricanes – unpredictable, and responsible for billions of dollars in property damage annually. I already have a propensity for things that go counterclockwise – that’s why I’m not allowed on the tea cup ride at Disney World anymore. And if the storm violently tears my body apart mid-coitus, I want you to know I’m willing to make that sacrifice. Like Neil Armstrong once said, “One small step for man, one giant leap for a man about to stick his dick in a hurricane.”

If the storm horribly ravages my body and throws me into space, this very well may be my last testament. For my final words, I want the populace to know that I don’t regret my decision for a moment. I died doing what I love – putting my genitals in logistically impossible situations. Veni, vidi, Cōnvéneram cum cataegem.

By Blake