Welcome to Literally the Worst, an occasional column wherein I shit on all the shit that’s shitty. This week: Fantasy football, bullshit kitchen gadgets, the NFL and a regretful mother. Got ideas? Of course you do. Send them to me at email@example.com
This is my first year playing fantasy football, and Goddammit is it an awful thing. It sounds like fun: You mock “draft” some players, you get to pretend you’re a coach by setting your lineup, you get to shit talk your friends when your team plays theirs and you have a reason to care about all or most of the 45,756,887 games played every week. Except, none of it works that way. I missed my league’s draft, and my team is shit. Choosing starters from my shitty pool of players is like having to choose which Wayans brother you want to fuck you in the ass. My best player? Aaron fucking Rodgers who, as a Bears fan, I am contractually obligated to hate. But I can’t hate him this year, because if he sucks, I suck. Forcing a fan to root for players on rival teams should be a fucking war crime.
I’m convinced that FX’s “The League” is funded entirely by the NFL to trick people like me into thinking fantasy football is a good idea. Fuck fantasy football with a socket wrench. I’d quit, but GODDAMMIT I PAID $10 FOR THIS.
Speaking of football…
Goddamn, guys, get your shit together. At this rate the super bowl champion will just be whatever team manages to have enough players not suspended or in jail to field a full squad.
Bullshit Kitchen Gadgets
Atop my fridge, I have a box of “steamer bags,” which are ziplock bags that you can use in the microwave. I’ve seen on infomercials more permanent products that do a similar thing: “Steam food right in your microwave!” SO CONVENIENT.
Bullshit. You can’t steam food in the microwave, you can only microwave food in the microwave. Sure, there may be some steam, but that’s a byproduct of the appliance nuking the shit out of the water molecules in my food until they boil and steam out. The water that condenses on the top of the little cooker thing? That’s not moisture that’s “locked in,” that’s moisture that should be in my fucking food but is instead not.
Also on this list? Anything that purports to use “infrared technology” to cook your food. You know what else uses “infrared technology?” My fucking toaster.
“Farm-to-table” means, near as I can tell, that the food prepared in the restaurant was purchased directly from the source and not through a distributor. Good for them, I guess? Do you want kudos for cutting out a middleman, which should ostensibly lower both costs and prices but somehow doesn’t?
The point of a restaurant is to do things to food that I either can’t do in the home or are too time/cost intensive for me to want to attempt. If you’re trying to sell me an “organic, grass-fed ribeye minimally prepared with a side of fresh-picked greens,” go fist yourself. I can do that at home. I’m paying you to make my food taste wonderful, which is usually done by augmenting it with the several metric tons of fat and salt that I wouldn’t allow myself to use at home.
The Great Recession had a lot of horrible effects, but one of them was giving restaurateurs a viable way of convincing customers that paying the same amount of money for less is actually somehow the “better” thing to do.
News flash – Being a mom is hard, and sometimes you wonder if it was ever worth the trouble:
“I dreaded her dependence; resented the time she would consume, and that like parasites, both my children would continue to take from me and give nothing meaningful back in return.”
Look lady, no one is going to argue that being a mom is the hardest job in the world. Sometimes, you’d literally give one of your children away if it meant 15 minutes for yourself. Sometimes, you genuinely wish, if only for a moment, that you’d never embarked on this journey to propagate the human race. Lots of moms probably feel the same. You can confide in them and others close to you if it helps you get by. You know what you can’t do?
WRITE AN ESSAY IN A MAJOR PUBLICATION WHEREIN YOU STATE THAT YOU REGRET HAVING CHILDREN
Your kids could read that, you know. Cunt.
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