Tag Archives: Annual 10

An Interview with Sara Benincasa

In The Annual #10, we shared an interview with comedian Sara Benincasa. With the advent of her new podcast, “In the Casa with Sara Benincasa,” we thought we’d better introduce our online readers to this stand-up comedian/YA novelist/memoirist/storyteller/web editor-in-chief who advocates for mental health wellness in LGBTQ youth. She also has an adorable dog named Morley Safer. Yes, she does everything.

sara copy

Emily Perper: So how are you?

Sara Benincasa: I’m good! I usually get up at 5:30, which is crazy. I blog—I’m the editor-in-chief of a site, an entertainment-humor site called Happy Nice Time People. Happy Nice Time People runs on an East Coast schedule, so I have to be blogging starting at six a.m. So I get up and walk the dog. I actually got up a little late today because I had an interview that wasn’t until 7:45 with Sirius XM, so that was very exciting.

EP: This is good, because I felt a little bad—“I hope I’m not getting her up really early on a Saturday and ruining any sleeping in plans.” What was your Sirius interview?

SB: It was The Judith Regan Show on Stars. She was this very powerful publishing industry person for a while, and then she transitioned to radio. Now she has this radio show, and it was fun; it was really fun.

EP: Were you talking about [your new young adult novel] Great?

SB: I was talking about Great. And I was talking about my Kickstarter, too, so that was neat.

EP: Good. I’m so glad you’re getting the word out about the Kickstarter. I believe in it. I think we’re going to make the goal. Notice I’m using “we.” I’m obviously very invested in this.

SB: You’re on board! I appreciate that. I really hope so. (Edit: We did!)

EP: I was actually going to ask you about Happy Nice Time People, because you just started that gig, right?

SB: I did. I just started a few weeks ago. I just wanted something steady, because the nature of my career is that—and this is true for a lot of people who freelance—I get a job here, I get a certain amount of money; I get a job here, I get a certain amount of money. I spend a lot of time chasing down checks from different places, and I just thought, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a steady gig so that it’s not feast or famine all the time?” It’s like I have something that I can rely on. Hopefully one day that’ll be unnecessary because I’ll be so fucking rich, but it seemed like a good idea, and I like the site. It’s fun; I like the content.

Continue reading An Interview with Sara Benincasa

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NORAD Murray Tracker

photo 5 update

Briana Haynie

“Welcome back to MT175.3, the radio station with your favorite songs AND the home of the official NORAD Murray Tracker. Every hour we update you on the whereabouts of mysterious thespian and professional good guy Bill Murray. When we come back we’ll answer ‘Which family photo did Mr. Murray photobomb back in 2013?’ Here’s Louis Armstrong with What a Wonderful World.”

“Hello, listeners! Let’s answer that question, shall we? Which family photo did Bill Murray photobomb back in 2013? We have a few guesses coming in via Twitter. @BM4LYFE guesses, ‘The Jolie-Pitt family.’ @IWantMeSumMurray says, ‘The Baldwin brother’s publicity photo,’ and @billBmine says ‘My <3.’ Well, one doesn’t make sense, and all three of you are wrong. Bill Murray photobombed the British Royal Family at Prince George’s christening. Wow, Prince George! I want your life. Up next: Britney Spears’ You Drive Me Crazy.”

“I can’t help but hold my fingertips on my temples and wiggle my head when I hear that song. Okay, get the biggest Bill Murray fan you know in the room, because we’ve got some more information for you. According to Jonathan Pitt from New York City, Bill Murray just stopped to tie Mr. Pitt’s shoe and said, “Don’t trip.” What a riot. This lady is a little jelly of Mr. Pitt right now. This track goes out to you Jonathan—Gin Blossoms’ Hey Jealousy.”

“According to the official NORAD Murray Tracker on MT175.com, Bill Murray is heading towards the people of Indiana. If you’re good, he might just pay a visit. This song goes out to the Bill Murray fans in Indiana. It’s Dusty Springfield’s Wishin’ and Hopin’.”

“WHEEEEEERRREEE’SSS MURRAY?! Our Murray Tracker at MT175.3 says good ol’ Bill is currently pointing out a crack in the foundation of Mrs. Melon’s house in Indiana. He noticed the crack while riding down Hilltop Road on a tricycle. Now, Mr. Murray is telling Mrs. Melon she must leave her house because it’s about to collapse. Wow, would you look at that? The house did, in fact, collapse. Bill Murray got Mrs. Melon out just in time. What a guy, what a guy. And now, The Power of Love by Huey Lewis and The News.”

“Looks like Bill is in the White House playing hide and seek with Malia and Sasha. Girls, if you’re listening, he’s in the situation room, and he’s fallen asleep. Up next, a song that Pink sings.”

“The official NORAD Murray Tracker reports Bill Murray is steadily heading toward Russia, but will make a stop in Italy to give sex advice to ex-nuns. He’s truly amazing. Here’s another trivia question for all of our regulars: Which old WB show was loosely based on a story Bill Murray once told? You mull that over while I play I Feel The Earth Move by Carole King.”

“BREAKING NEWS: Bill Murray has diagnosed President Putin of Russia with cancer. UPDATE: Bill Murray has cured Putin’s cancer by making him laugh so hard his face froze in a smile. Putin has vowed to hug an American every day because of Mr. Murray’s heroic actions. Huzzah, Mr. Murray! For this momentous occasion I will play DJ MT’s mashup of the Russian and American National Anthems.

“Wow, I cried during that entire song, especially when the beat dropped. Now, back to the question I previously posed: Which WB show was loosely based on a story Bill Murray once told? The answer? Gilmore Girls.”

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Bon Chance Chapter 4: So Much for the Mission

Miguel Castro

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” -Edgar Allen Poe

4 – So Much for the Mission

Imagine this: You enter a side door and happen upon three naked women eating croissants at a small lunch table. Behind them, a soundman leans against a rattling refrigerator, peeling the crust off a flattened sandwich, the boom microphone resting in the crook of a tattooed arm. Then, ubiquitous: moaning women bouncing on male thighs. Ahead, a corridor lined with partially open doors, revealing poorly designed historical interiors. Here, two Greeks cavort at the foot of a column. A gentleman clenches his buttocks as he pounds a lady—a soundtrack to the motion picture, as it were. It’s too much to process at once, yet it persists like an endless shriek in time…

I was high. It certainly wasn’t my first time inside a studio but not after a whack of Peruvian Flake. I was emboldened, to say the least, acting on chemical impulses. Marduk and Elektra exchanged worried looks as I climbed on top of the table, kicking over uncapped water bottles to the women’s chagrin.

“Excuse me,” I bellowed, “I think you all know me as Red Rod, acclaimed performer of the adult screen. I’m here to cast for a major feature.”

At this the disgruntled women, now faced with an opportunity to make money, began to nod with false enthusiasm. They sat up in their chairs, emphasizing the prominence of their chests—successfully, I might add, because my throat seized up like a broken accordion. Elektra furrowed her brow and pulled me off the table, pushing me into a corner.

“How dare you gawk at these harlots!” she hissed.

Then, to the women: “He’s mine!”

Elektra’s jealousy didn’t surprise me. I noticed that she had taken a liking to me (literally) overnight. But I hadn’t expected to her to compromise the mission. I looked at Marduk for help, who instantly took hold of his acolyte. The women looked at us in confusion as Elektra struggled to break free.

“Would you excuse us?” I said, smiling apologetically. “Marduk, please help me escort the Sister outside.”

The women muttered amongst themselves. Elektra continued to fight against Marduk’s restraint even as we stumbled through the door. Once outside, Elektra broke loose and pounced on me like a feral animal. She clawed at my clothing and beat me with her fists. Marduk tried to intervene, but was quickly cast aside, debris during a storm. Elektra was implacable.

“Jesus, woman,” I said. “What’s your problem?”

She failed to answer me. A mad gleam colored her eyes. Feebly, I tried to kick her away, but she straddled me on the ground, directing her fury at my face. I put my hands up in defense, when I noticed that we had attracted an audience. Performers and production personnel had quit the studio to watch the spectacle. Marduk renewed his efforts to save me, to no avail. Elektra bloodied his nose with a stray fist. And then, suddenly, the eye of the hurricane; the eagle-clawed harpy fell beside me in tears. I got up in haste. I’d known women to be moody but never seen one become a pugilist. I turned to confront the assembled personnel, who had burst with laughter. “Get back to work!” I said, mustering what little air I had in my lungs. John emerged from his trailer, all sniffles, and repeated the command. The company dispersed. He glared at me with enormous, bloodshot eyes.

“What the fuck is going on, Rod?” he said,

Before I could speak, Elektra let out a wail.

“I didn’t get my period today!” she said, between tears.

“You knocked her up?” John said, looking at me more intently.

I recalled the previous evening’s orgy.

“No, wait,” I said, “There were nine of us.”

“Oh, give me a break!” John. “Fuck off, Rod. I don’t want to see you here again.”

John turned back to the trailer. I ran after him.

“John, come on. This is a mistake,” I said. “I’m really on to something!”

The eyes glared at me again. John pointed a deadly finger at me.

“It’s the second time you fuck up,” he said. “You’re never getting past that gate again.”

*

The three of us sat on the sidewalk outside the studio.  I called a taxi and waited for its arrival in silence. Elektra sat at a distance, sobbing. I have to admit her confession put a damper on my day, to say little of my newly acquired doubts concerning the future of our mission. We needed in at O-Face, and now we were banned for life.

This was my second misadventure on the property. The first ensured a temporary suspension of my professional activities with the company. John never really forgave me. I’m not entirely comfortable reiterating the sordid details of that episode, although I couldn’t deny Elektra or Marduk. I meant to tell them about it earlier: “Hey, um, they really don’t like me here, so let’s not make ourselves unwelcome.” Now I had no choice but to tell them, because our mission was effectively over.

I turned to Marduk, who still nursed a broken nose.

“I need you to leave when we get back to the condo,” I said.

Marduk looked up in surprise, holding a bloody napkin.

“What do you mean? We still need to—”

“I know,” I said, “but we’ll never get to Thule now. And it’s not Elektra’s fault (not entirely). This is second incident at the studio to bear my name. John will never let me in again.”

“I don’t understand,” Marduk said.

“Look, remember when I asked you guys to play it cool before we got here?  Well, it’s a long story, but I was never exactly welcome here.”

“What happened?”

Years ago I produced a film: Wild & Slutty Teens 6. Following the success of The King & I & His Wives, John decided I should have more control of what the studio released. I had the dubious distinction of being a “porn genius.” Wild & Slutty was my first solo attempt. I was responsible for the script, casting and directing. It was an incredible amount of work, and I was still in the flush of youth. I was drunk on success and drunk in general. In other words, John concocted a recipe for disaster. And he was forced to drink the bitter dregs after the casting call.

There was one girl. I don’t recall her name, but I will never forget what she looked like: a lithe but curvy redhead with high cheekbones and feline-green eyes. She was the last to be interviewed, and she insisted I hire her. I asked her why. By way of reply she kneeled before my chair and rested her cheek on my thigh. “Because,” she said, with puppy-dog eyes. Before long I had her bent over my desk, indecent and defrocked. She got the job and my personal phone number.

Days before the scheduled shoot, I received a call from her number.  I answered my phone expecting another liaison with the fair creature. To my surprise, however, a gruff masculine voice quickly asked for my name. Suspecting that a jealous lover had phoned me, I told the man I didn’t have time for courtesy calls, I was very busy.

“I think you do,” he said, “because I’m about to go to the police.”

The man was none other than the red-haired girl’s father.

“She’s a minor,” he said, “and you got her pregnant.”

It didn’t take long for Daddy Dearest to contact John and threaten legal action against the studio. And it didn’t long for John to contact me and threaten death if I didn’t reach a gentleman’s accord with the disgruntled paterfamilias. The grapevine would be my noose.

Daddy wanted money—enough to put his innocent baby girl through college several times over. I had no choice but to provide. John provided half since he had been, in his words, “dumb enough to trust you.” In exchange, however, I requested that the father take his daughter to an abortion clinic. My final words were “Get rid of it.”

“How can you be so callous?” Elektra said.

“I didn’t exactly like the idea. But I could never be a father.”

“And the girl?” Marduk asked.

“I never saw her again. Anyway, I doubt she feels nostalgic. From what I gathered, she was trying to piss off her parents. She was spoiled rotten.”

“Well, I don’t want to get rid of it,” Elektra said, “and I want you to be present as a father.”

“What makes you certain that you’re pregnant?” I said.

“Call it intuition, but I feel it.”

“ And what makes you certain that I’m the father?” I said.

“You were the only one who came inside me.”

*

When we arrived at the condo, the door was fixed and the interior restored to its former pristine condition. The altar remained in place, as the pious Guadalupe refused to touch the diabolic paraphernalia. She left a note on the kitchen countertop, written in a neat cursive script. It read:

Don Rod,

I do job best I can. I call my hermano and he fix the door. Please give me one-hundred dollars for today.  Thank you.

Guadalupe Jesus Vargas y Panza-Rodriguez del magnifico corazon de la Virgen Maria

I wrote a check for a thousand dollars and put it on top of the note.

I escorted Elektra to my bedroom, where she settled for the night. Just before I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of her rubbing her belly. A smile as equivocal as the Mona Lisa’s appeared on her tear-stained face.

On my way back to the kitchen I contemplated Elektra’s facial expression. How could anyone be happy in the present circumstances? The thought jarred me. And I wasn’t alone.

Marduk sat at the marble counter-top. Defeat hung heavily on his shoulders like a royal cape. His brow, too, wizened beyond reckoning, arranged itself in new whorls. It was a sorry sight. I could never stand the sight of suffering. So I quickly absconded to the balcony and lit a much-needed cigarette.

From the opulent height of the Hills, I felt a hollow in my chest. Oh god, I thought, is this what guilt feels like? The thought made me stagger back and trip against a lawn chair. I avoided the fall, but the realization was unavoidable. It was time. I had to fess up. After a long, anxious drag from the cigarette, I muttered my darkest secret: “Rod, you’re a fuck-up.”

I couldn’t deny it any longer. For all of my apparent success, I was about as mature as a candy-crazed toddler. The money didn’t make me happy. Yes, I could walk into any department store in America and purchase my bauble of choice. But I’d never fostered meaningful relationships. And it seemed to me, then, on the balcony, that I was about to miss another opportunity to change my life meaningfully. And the hollow in my chest deepened.

I walked back to the kitchen and took a stool beside Marduk.

“So what’s the plan now?” I said.

The old man shot a glance at me, confused.

“You mean…?” he said. “Oh, you won’t regret this! Everything will work out, you’ll see! I know this Englishman—Gerald—he knows what to do.”

Can you believe it? The old fart’s face lit up like a birthday cake.

Admit it. You like me.

Bon Chance Chapter 3

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Craigslist

Hannah Gutman

When Craig Newmark started emailing lists of upcoming local events to his friends in 1995 (because he still had a few years before the Hamster Dance would dominate the chain letter circuit), I doubt he imagined the world he would one day create. A world that brings people together, replacing the newspaper classifieds with simple columns chockfull of hyperlinks that make dreams come true. What other site can bring together lonely hearts, renters of unfurnished apartments and a gal who really needs to get rid of a couch? It’s soft, red and free if you come pick it up. Only a few stains. Serious replies only, please.

Craigslist has something for everyone. Online dating? Sure! Looking for something less serious? You’ll find no judgment here. Can’t seem to find a good deal on a used tuba? If you don’t want your son to resent you for crushing his hopes and dreams, you had better click “musical instruments” under the “for sale” column.

I love Craigslist’s simplicity. No fancy formatting. No logo. Not a capital letter to be found. A site this humble appeals to the people. I like visiting a homepage without thinking, “Oh, so you think you’re better than me with your fancy colors and your RSS feed?”

I have a special place in my heart for Craigslist. When I was sixteen, I found a desk on Craigslist. I had never picked out my own furniture, but I wanted that desk more than anything. Stubborn as I was, am, and always will be, I replied to the seller. Before long I had an address and convinced my mother to drive me the forty-five minutes to a small house covered in ivy and surrounded by flowers. My mom stayed in the car as I slowly approached the front door. I knocked. No response. I knocked again, but there was still no response. Dejected, I turned to leave and found myself face-to-face with an old woman covered in dirt. She smiled, missing several teeth and small-talked me all the way around to the backyard. She took me through the back door and into her living room. A part of me expected her to feed me to her parrot, but instead she offered me cookies and helped me carry the desk to the car.

I know, I know. You’ve heard the stories about predators and criminals trying to scam or lure users into bad, bad situations. Sadly, many of them are true, but I refuse to give up when there is good to be found! I recently packed my bags and Oregon-trailed my way to Las Vegas for the summer. Homeless, jobless and far from home I turned to Craigslist for help. I couldn’t believe how many great options there were for me to explore! Some of the posters specified exactly what they wanted in a roommate, which made it so much easier to narrow down my choices. One seeker wrote:

We are 4 guys, students, professional sports betters, even a street performer you would recognize, 20s, 30s, we have Wi-Fi, linens, not enough privacy for a female and if you are over 40 your self-esteem would not permit this. We’d hope you are educated, personable, honest, sense of humor, like us.

That upfront honesty saved me the embarrassment of admitting that I am a woman and the fear that I wouldn’t meet their standards. Imagine if I were a 42-year-old man without a sense of humor? Yikes.

I also found some Good Samaritans, like this fella:

Are you struggling, having a hard time, living paycheck to paycheck. I am too. Are you homeless or losing your place of residence? Perhaps we can help each other out. Share my 1 bedroom apartment rent-free. This might be only until you’re back on your feet or long term. I cannot help everyone. I have a desire to help a young woman in need of help is all. If you are seeking a sugar daddy please move on. This is only for an honest good gal.

Rent-free? What a deal! Being a relatively honest gal myself, an offer like this was hard to refuse. If only his apartment had been closer to my internship! Just my luck.

Once I’d found a place to live, it was time to find a job.  There were even more postings to peruse! Overwhelmed but excited, I dove right in, ventured first to the “tv/film/video/radio” jobs. Immediately the post titles called to me.

“CASTING BIKERS LOOKING FOR LOVE!”

“Are you in the middle of DRAMA that can be solved by a DNA test?”

“ Need a female who can answer the phone in a pizzeria.”

“ BUSINESSMAN SEEKS HOT DINNER DATE.”

“ Get a COOL job for the HOT summer!”

“Comedian/Actor to Play Rabbi at Live Events.”

“Girls that are new to Vegas & need help making $”

“ WOULD YOU SHAVE YOUR HEAD FOR $1,500 CASH?”

“New girls that have never bartended before to bartend at mansions.”

“Feet.”

There were so many people looking to hire dancers, actors, and models, too! It is so refreshing to find a community that really appreciates the arts. Much to my refrigerator’s disappointment, I am still unemployed. No job means plenty of time on my hands, but a gal can only beat Candy Crush so many times before craving something more. Okay, I still haven’t beaten Candy Crush, but I’ll get there someday, Mom! As I’ve learned from the city-centric sitcoms that raised me, it’s hard getting by without a buddy there for you when the rain starts to fall. I thought I’d be fine, since it never rains in Vegas, but I found myself wanting to go where everybody knows my name. Instead, I made my way back to Craigslist, where nobody knows your name unless you include it in your post. On any other occasion, I would have stayed in a galaxy far, far away from the “personals” category. Desperate for comrades to sharpen up my defunct trivia team, I clicked on the safest of the sketchy selections. As it turned out, “strictly platonic” was harmless. Much like my run-ins with “housing” and “jobs,” these lonely users seemed perfectly genuine in their search for friendship.

“Let’s Have a Fun Monday (Your Place)“

“Nothing Wrong With Being Friends!”

“Why is it hard to find good friends?”

“Tonight 420, Henney and red box movies.”

“Do True Friends Really Exist In Vegas?”

“I can help with your pain.”

“Do any Republican girls want to hang out?”

“What is wrong with everybody?”

“Do You Wanna Build A Snowman?”

“Potluck, anyone?”

Places to live, potential employers, a network of friends just waiting to meet you, and you can get it all for a few clicks on a keyboard? Bring me your men, your women, your young, your socially awkward, your fetishes, your unwanted dressers from IKEA and I will send them to one sacred haven.

The power is in your hands. Craigslist can cause problems. Craigslist can solve problems. Take Robert, a self-titled “Ghost Writer” in Palm Springs.

Want a Novel….Short Story….Auto Biography…?…..I’ll write it for you…your way…give me a call….Robert.”

Now there’s a guy who just wants to help people. Plain and simple, he asks for no recognition. He does good work out of the kindness of his heart. He may be a bit slow when it comes to meeting deadlines, but he has stuff going on. I don’t know, important stuff. Don’t worry about it.

You can’t always get what you want, but if you’re willing to sift through the sketch and the shady, you might just get what you need. Just be sure to tread lightly because a pervert may have written the post you’re reading. Or your grandpa. Or Robert. I should remind you that no part of this was written by Robert, but if you need any writing or you’re ever in Palm Springs, give me a call. Give him a call. Trust me, Craigslist is important. Why else would Weird Al write a song about it? So get yourself on there and post a classified of your own, but do not contact me with unsolicited services or offers. Thanks.

Love,

   Robert

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Additional Awkward Affairs

Andrew Michaels
Artwork by Kelsey Sartory

Unintentional Boob Grab

The Unintentional Boob Grab

Every man has been a “victim” of the unintentional boob grab. While there are men who use this incident to purposefully grab a love muffin, others find their hands in the wrong place at the wrong time. Most grabs occur in crowded areas, such as hallways, elevators or concert venues.

Say you are at a concert and land a decent spot on the floor right near the stage. Suddenly, a mosh fight breaks out. For those of you who don’t know what a mosh fight is, it consists of a large group of people shoving each other every which way for the hell of it.

As the shoving gets worse, you stand your ground with you hands at your chest, trying to avoid the constant bodies flying at you. But let’s face it; one is bound to hit you at some point. And, with your luck, that one is a woman with perky Pointer-Sisters. After “cuppage,” it is possible to redeem yourself.

How to proceed:

  1. Consider acting like you have no idea what happened. Don’t draw attention to yourself with worried looks. Just talk to a friend that is nearby or slowly walk away like you’ve got some place to be.
  2. Fess up. Explain what happened and that you didn’t mean to grab one of her puppies. If she still doesn’t believe you, insert additional details that will finalize the occurrence. You never know! One day, this could be the “how-we-met” story you tell your future children.

Umbrella Malfunction

The Umbrella Malfunction

The only thing worse than a rainy day is when you also have to drag around an umbrella. We all know there are smaller umbrellas that can fit in your purse or desk, but how efficient are they when the wind turns them inside out? So, after choosing an effective umbrella, you’ve managed to stay dry. On the other hand, you’re now equipped with a potential weapon.

Imagine you are in line at a local coffee shop. Since it’s raining, the soaked non-umbrella users are cramming into the store in need of a warm beverage. Meanwhile, you are squished in between a wet businessman and a mother and child. As you try to adjust your position, you accidently press the release button and your effective yet large umbrella discharges, smacking the child in his face. Now, you’ve gotten everyone’s attention.

How can you get out alive without feeling the wrath of a momma bear?

  1. Try to woo her. Buy the kid a cake pop or biscotti. Chances are he’ll ditch the tears for a sweet treat. Then, buy a drink for the lady. She’s probably heard the kid whine all day, so this really isn’t any different. Adult interaction is what she needs.
  2. Immediately let go of the umbrella and give it a subtle toss forward. After, look as shocked as everyone else in line and begin accusing the businessman for this incident. Through in a line or two about the “poor child” and just kept yelling. The businessman will give in to your words and confess.

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A Critical Analysis of Doritos’ Mystery Flavor #2653 (A.K.A. The Blue One)

Kevin Cole

AUTHOR’S NOTE: First of all, in the event that the Doritos Corporation should reveal the intended flavor before publication, I’d just like to say FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU DORITOS CORPORATION! YOU’VE RUINED ME! YOU’VE RUINED MY HOPES AND MY DREAMS! In the event that Mystery Flavor #2653 is still a mystery, disregard the above statement.

When I arrived at the local grocer with the intent of purchasing Doritos’ newest test flavors, I was greeted with only one option: #2653. This meant one of two things. Either this was the flavor that sold the most, prompting the grocer to stock only #2653, or this was the worst flavor and hadn’t sold at all.  This, of course, is the most egregious problem with capitalism. When the market dictates what is left on the shelf, how am I to know whether it’s good or bad?

Cracking open the bag, I discovered Doritos of a darker shade, heavily coated in brown powders with red undertones. I certainly wished they looked a little more appetizing. Hell, blue bag, why not have blue chips?

Prior to viewing the chips I considered the power of suggestion when it came to color. Perhaps bleu cheese? I thought. And with that, I made up my mind. They must be bleu cheese! They must be! There are no bleu cheese chips in existence yet, and it’s just wild enough to work in taste but not in marketing.

Upon biting into the chips, I discovered that they were very much not bleu cheese. Instead, the flavor was sweet and a bit tangy at first. A few seconds later, the taste gave way to something smokier, a bit harder to swallow. Soon the flavor gave way altogether, and I was left crunching a Dorito that had become a crispy shell of its former flavor explosion. I came to the conclusion that #2653 was nothing more than “Burnt Dorito”: the smoky flavor, with just a hint of traditional Dorito, mixed with the perfect coloration of a Dorito left in the chip oven for too long.

A few friends noted a chocolaty flavor, and the Huffington Post speculated that it might be “Mexican Hot Chocolate.” But that’s outrageous! To the team of taste testers at HuffPo I’d just like to say FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU HUFFPO TASTETESTERS! I WAS TOLD I WAS ONE OF THOSE SUPER TASTERS, SO STEP OFF! Obviously, “Burnt Dorito” is a flavor intended only for Doritos enthusiasts and was otherwise created as a decoy flavor to get customers to rally behind the true Doritos flavor, which I believe to hidden with the orange bag.

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