Tag Archives: Kale

Are Kale Chips Good? And Other Questions You’ll Ask Yourself While High at Trader Joe’s

27 Mar


1. Why do Hawaiian shirts look so busy?

2. Is flax seed good for me? Do I need more flax seed? What is flax seed?


4. Nice calf tat? Maybe? I don’t know anymore.

5. Can I eat nine of these samples?

6. How do you measure a handful of nuts? What if I have large hands? What if I I’m a midget? Should these handfuls be like rubber gloves in different sizes? I don’t even like nuts.

7. What is speculous and why is it so good?

8. Can I put speculous on this frozen pizza?

9.  Why is chocolate in this beer?

10. How does non-dairy butter exist and who would buy this?

11. Why is everyone running?

12. Why are my feet wet?

13. Is someone giving birth?

14.  How do you drop that much pasta sauce?


My Body is a Temple, Bro

21 Oct

I googled “Body Temple” and this is what I found.

Dude, I found a bump on my hip.

Well, it wasn’t really a bump, per say, like the kind that protrudes from your body and makes people at the beach or on the bus feel awkward about your presence. It’s more the kind of bump that’s just a hard spot where it should be doughy.

So I freaked out because I was obviously dying of cancer.

After I found it, I started to get weird muscle tensions on one side of my body. I felt numb, tingly, lightheaded. I stopped shitting. I went to an ER just to get some fucking relief, to find out what the fuck was going on and solve this Hardy Boys mystery once and for all – nothing. All tests negative.

I went on WebMD and put in my symptoms – a blue screen just came up which said, “You’re fucked.”

Now I was even more convinced I was dying. Nothing felt right. I wrote my last will and testament. I left most of my worldly possessions to my parents but I gave my brother my PlayBoy stash and left my slippers to my dog – which he loved to shit in and then eat – after he shat in them.

Then I found another bump. Same size, texture and composition, but on the other side – like I was a symmetrical painting. Not wanting to embarrass myself at an ER again, I sought out a personal physician.

This whole situation caused me to actually use the dusty health insurance I had been paying for as a trainer at my gym. I also began using adult terms, like “healthcare associate” and “social security number.”

How can a dude who lectures middle-aged, fat guys on how to slim down, contract a deadly disease?

In the process of finding a doctor, I found out that these guys do this thing where they just choose not to accept patients. Like they hit a limit and say, “OK I’m good with this. These guys have enough problems to keep me busy for a while.”

Thanks, doc. Glad you’re all available when I’m dying of Stage IV, inoperable, Walter White-type cancer shit.

Don’t make me turn into this guy, doc!

So I finally got a doctor. But he didn’t know what was going on. It wasn’t adding up right. I was showing signs of this but not that. I had stomach problems but no bloody poop. He could barely find the bumps when I pointed them out but they were so God damn obvious to me.

Was this shit all in my head? What the fuck was going on? He did confirm that these turd-sized bumps were there. He told me to watch them. Make sure they don’t get bigger. Make sure they don’t get warm, like they’re fucking alive.

I started measuring them with a ruler and a sharpie, like I was on Nip/Tuck or something, but I could never get an accurate reading. One day it was three inches the next it was one. And how was I supposed to know how big they really are? Is this really the state of the American medical industry?

“Just look out for some blatant signs and let us know when our job gets easier.”

I finally hit a point where I thought, “Why don’t I Just focus on the things I can control and let the things I can’t take their course?”

We’re all gonna die anyway. Might as well go down as the person you want to be rather then the person that Death finds you as.

So I started being healthier, figuring maybe I could will this thing away with pure awesomeness.

I began eating kale. And, guess what? It’s not that bad. All you have to do is sauté it in three pounds of butter and a gram of salt.

This only tastes good if you cook it right.

I researched superfoods. Shit like blueberries, the aforementioned kale, collard greens, broccoli and everything else you hate to eat.

I started mashing all this shit in my roommate’s blender and pureeing the fuck out of it. I’d chug one of those bitches every morning before I went to work. Sure, my farts would emit a green fog and I would attract rabbits but hey, I was feeling better and I started shitting again, so fuck it.

I did yoga regularly. Three times a week I would attempt to fold myself into positions that I never thought were humanly possible. I also got to hang out with physically fit girls wearing the best invention in the world – yoga pants.

Google image search “yoga.” You’ll ONLY find chicks. Google does not acknowledge the fact that there is a subset of healthy-ass dudes who do yoga ON THE REG.

I would get to talk to these chicks in the studio because I was basically the only dude there. They would ask what brought me to yoga and I would tell them, being completely honest, “Oh, I’m just trying to get healthier.”

Panty soup, bitches!

The muscle tensions that made my left arm and leg feel like I had just done one-legged squats and bench press simultaneously for eight hours a day finally subsided. They would only to return when I let myself walk down that dark pit of despair into, “Wah I’m dying of cancer land.” Even then, those became rare instances since I began taking more control of my brain-thing and what went on inside.

Yeah. This shit.

Rather than constantly freaking out, I became the master of my fucking domain, the captain of my God damn ship. Morgan Freeman would either be jealous or proud of how awesome I was.

Morgan Freeman does the best representation of God that I’ve ever seen.

Needless to say, things were going well. I was feeling good. I stopped drinking brewskis every night of the week. I got at least six hours of sleep and only went out on weekends until 1 a.m. instead of five. I hadn’t blacked out in about four months and began to abhor the smell of weed.

I became one of those super-healthy douchebags I used to make fun of to feel better about my own mediocrity and I fucked loved being it because it felt SO GOOD.

But I still had these God damn bumps and once a week I would relapse and find myself curled into the fetal position, sucking my thumb and picking out caskets on eBay (the mahogany ones are expensive).

So I scheduled another doc’s appointment just to follow up, show this douche what I had been doing and get some fucking answers.

I walk in and the nurse takes my heart rate at a low 48. “Are you a runner?” she asks.

“No, I just do a shit-ton of yoga,” I respond.

Her scrubs just dropped right there.

The doc finally comes in. I tell him the news. He’s fucking elated. We chest bump in the middle of the room.

But then I asked; “Now there’s still one problem! How the fuck do we know this isn’t cancer?!”

He brings in another doctor. An expert. The dude feels me up for, like, ten seconds and then says, “Sebaceous cyst.”

What the fuck is that?

“It’s when the oily chemical that makes your hair greasy fills up a hair follicle and causes it to balloon into a cyst. It’s very common. I would say about 100 percent of the people in this hospital have them, whether they know it or not. They’re completely benign. There are a lot more important things to worry about.”

Your body is basically just a factory of chemical reactions. It’s, literally, just one big as chemistry experiment that produces a ton of waste.

“So you mean I’m not dying of cancer?”

“No, no, no. You’re a very healthy 24-year-old.”

“So all the yoga and kale, the fucking green smoothies, cutting out soda, only drinking on weekends, not smoking weed anymore – you mean all that was for nothing?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘nothing – ‘“

But I fucking left.