Monday evening I ordered a “Yumbo” brand burger from “Hungry Jacks”. Inside the restaurant there were about 10 delivery riders which got me thinking - how fucked up can your life be to order delivery Hungry Jacks on a Monday at 7:45 PM? $30 bags of fucking misery being shuttled out the door; like culinary nails in the miserable coffins of the lives of the biggest pieces of shit in inner Sydney? Further to this, I thought, who has the real power in this transaction? Miss fucked-up-her-life and her incoming quadruple hash brown baconator deluxe meal deal? Or some bloke who gets paid to ride around on his bike all day?? I say keep ordering your little UberEats you pathetic cunts - everyone loses, but the biggest loser, by far, is you.
So anyway, they called out my number and I grabbed my ““Yumbo”” (lol), and, I will say this, the guy in the kitchen who was manning the Yumbo station, I am 99% sure he was crying just a wee little bit. His red eyes had been kissed by a genuine sorrow, a solemn sadness gripped the lad from within - the weight of a thousand whoppers lay waste in that miserable minimum wage worker’s heart - which is totally understandable, as I would stick a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger if I had to make something called a “Yumbo” for someone like me.
Conceptually, the Yumbo itself does not make sense. Ham and cheese on a Hungry Jack’s burger bun. Like a small boy in a van at night, or George Christensen in the Philippines; it’s not technically illegal, but it really probably should be. The temperature of the ham itself was concerning, it wasn’t cold, nor hot - it was about the temperature of a semi erect cock. Similar texture as well. Actually the whole thing was very cock-like - the Yumbo really pays homage to the cock.
The saving grace is the $3 price point because scoring lunch in the $0-$5 range is some big tight arse energy. It’s up there with the Woolies tinned tuna / ham and bacon roll combo as a big fuck you middle finger to dining economic inequality. Life is somewhat of a non-linear journey on how much you are paying for lunch. $5-$10, meh, cheapish, but not very fun, the pork roll bracket - sort your fucking life out. $10-$20 range, mostly a good range, this is the pub special territory, enjoy these days, they’ll be some of the best of your life. The biggest shit cunts in the world spend $20-$35 on lunch - it’s the Kia Sorento range for people who shop at The Iconic. $35-$70 is good stuff - you’re either eating very well or getting quite pissed, or ordering a dessert - ordering a dessert after lunch is a proper flex. $70+ is a bit too much, things get a bit Liberal Party/ Woolloomooloo Wharf around this mark and the likelihood someone has a bag of yummy sniffies diminishes rapidly.
In conclusion, the Yumbo is absolutely disgusting and an insult to the mighty ham and cheese toastie. A McDonalds cheeseburger is lightyears ahead of this fucking question mark on a bun; Hungry Jacks should be fucking ashamed of themselves, and I award the Yumbo 0.25/10
Don’t cook when you can create” hmmm, you see, people praise the term “create” like it’s a positive word but it’s not. It carries weight - Hitler created the The Nazi party and , well, there was a bit of an incident in Europe as we know - and yet you and your shit friends go to your Tuesday night social painting class and create a series of derivative watercolours and think you’re any different ?
Stop creating. Stop broadcasting so much shit mediocre content, you and your little creations. Just go to mcdonalds, or the pub, or yum cha or whatever - stop making such a shit flex about everything, it’s 2020 everything that can be pickled has been pickled, ENOUGH!!! ALL THE POINTS HAVE BEEN MADE. Creating something exceptional, for example, Lana Del Rey’s last album or the pork roll from Alex n Rolls Marrickville, Sydney, is a very rare occurrence. Please stop doing shit things like bouldering, not eating bread, giving your newborn children mullets and playing mini golf at pretend bars.
That’s why our dumb cunt grandparents have stopped cooking tea cakes and installing viruses on their internet browsers and now froth on Andrew Bolt and are scared of windmills. You’ve taught them how to do it, this is on all of us. They’re bored shitless with your dogshit internet presence and this is their version of listening to My Chemical Romance and smoking bongs. Go hang out with them and sort this shit out.
we’ve been locked down for 6 months to save the lives of these people how about you show us all some GODDAMN RESPECT
Have you ever briefly scanned back over the last, say, 6 months of your existence and realised how much fucking garbage you’ve put into your life? Absolute garbage. You wake up and you’re fucking tired as shit and you look like shit and you don’t have time for that delicious avocado on sourdough bullshit society negs you about for apparently having every day. Then you’re on some fucked train/tram sucking back some rancid ludicrously priced jo served by some chipper cunt of a barista, and it tastes like carpet and you’re fucking starving but didn’t have time to eat, or so you think (you do, no one cares if you’re late) and then you get to your dogshit job, and that is fine, I guess. I mean, you’re not going to kill yourself over it, not today anyway, and then you starve some more, then lunchtime comes and you’re too exhausted to leave your desk, not because you’re particularly busy but because your life is so shit and pointless that you figure you don’t deserve to eat and possibly be happy or anything, and then the afternoon comes and you start promising yourself you won’t fuck up your life again tomorrow (you will totally fuck it up again tomorrow) and then you finish work and you’re exhausted and you guzzle some rancid wine and watch a repeat of some increasingly culturally irrelevant television show and eat something delusional like this that a fucking psychopath would serve their impending victims to trick them into thinking they are a completely normal human person before he boils them alive in a fucking bathtub and consumes their flesh. P.S more than one bottle of the same soft drink is a cry for help
People spend a lot of their life coming to grips with who they are. Cause that’s kind of life isn’t it? Accepting yourself. Accepting your imperfections - internally repackaging your flaws and externally projecting them as quirks that define you. The simple fact of the matter is, you are disgusting. Everyone is just so inherently disgusting and your personality is simply an unwashed version of the person you wish you were but never become. Look in the mirror - you don’t like it do you? Something isn’t quite right - what could it be? Do you need a haircut? Go on, go get your haircut you miserable cunt. It’s not quite right is it? They took too much off - “I told them not to cut my fringe, I don’t like this” you will say, trying to blame the hairdresser. But it’s not their fault - because you know what? It’s not the fringe that’s right, it’s that they’ve exposed more of you and it’s YOU that is wrong. You fucking PIG. Shitting and eating and shitting and eating like a fucking animal. Everything you do, every natural instinct just makes you more and more incorrect and you will never be happy with what you will fail to become. fucking PIG!!!!
Review Huxtaburger - Redfern
When people talk about the neoliberal hellhole we live in right now, we can summarise it all quite nicely as the parasitic, uninspiring attributes that are now eternally apparent - casualisation of the workforce, fast fashion, fake dive bars, subscription based endless mini series, pointless news for woke people, dangerous politics for dumb people - we have the deflating hegemony of the tech boom - a subculture that spins the satire of films like RoboCop into eerie prophecy.
But neoliberalism’s most despicable culinary shit-stain on the world is burger culture. Embodying everything that is wrong with this fucked up world is the new Huxtaburger store in Redfern. Upon entering this store, you’re immediately confronted with imitation tagging on the feature wall [nb: i think it’s imitation, if it’s real it’s much worse] - it’s authenticity has been both appropriated and locked up behind perspex glass. Instead of hiring some fuckwit with white-dreadlocks to do some bullshit banksy-esque burger mural, they’ve just completely appropriated artwork synonymous with the class the store has displaces. It’s not that cutesy colourful horseshit “street art” that fuckwit couples in Randwick apartments love, it’s the street level variety, but don’t worry, it’s behind glass, incarcerated, like the Kings Cross police presence allows for Boomer authenticity (“Love the cross! Look at all the wacky junkies on heroin! this cafe used to be a brothel!”)
Approaching the counter, I ask the guy if they do your standard “Meal” deal. The floor staff chugged along like your standard Maccas set up, so why not? They don’t? Of course they don’t, that would make sense. Okay I’ll get the “Huxtaburger” with “Chips” and a diet coke. $20 or so dollars, whatever, I don’t care. I was then met with some chipper little fuck directing me to the cola dispenser in this absurdly incompetent childlike way - these weren’t deluded yet passionate hipster employees going through a well disguised mid life crisis, these were children. Children being paid, I imagine, fuck all; being tasked with providing an experience that equated to something more than what they are capable of delivering. I call Bullshit Huxtaburger, at least McDonald’s doesn’t have the fucking gall to attempt to pretend what they do is something more than what it is. Actually I lie, McDonald’s now do this as well, they all do it (Red Rooster still holding out, carn the tropicana pack!) - authentic casual dining has been married with the most dumbshit food ever - burgers. Who are the losers here? You all are you greasy dogs, chatting away online about your stupid fucking different buns and sauces, feeding this disgusting greasy misery machine. And those at the top of this chain want a slice - everyone wants a slice, why wouldn’t you? Selling $20 burgers to miserable fucking idiots, what a time to be alive.
I sit down and am told about 7 times that my food will be there any minute: “relax” i end up saying, “no rush” - the poor fucker looked like she was one burnt chippie away from being fired. I approach the obligatory hot sauce stand and take one called “Shit the bed” because what’s a hot sauce without a foul reference to an inflamed burning anus and/or explosive diarrhea. Lovely. The burger comes out (quite quickly I will ad, so given the apologetic stance the waitstaff had taken earlier, their bread and butter clientele must be needy little grubs). It was a burger. It tasted just like a burger and I enjoyed the burger. I washed it down with my beverage of choice and enjoyed the chips. It wasn’t epic or on another level or any of that horseshit people think it is. It was just a nice burger. I rolled a cigarette at the table which seemed to terrify the patrons more than the abrasive cultural artifacts on display on the wall. I left the busy Huxtaburger which will be full of people forever and walked to the empty pub up the road for a beer.
Back home from a hard day at work doing fuck all at the fuckhead factory or wherever it is you work and it’s snack time is it? You thirsty, peckish little grub and your fucking garbage furniture on your toilet floor (or marrickville lounge room floor, same thing usually) - where’s are the plates? Where’s the bowls for the chips? Chippies go in bowls you fucking pig, you’ve stood up for your dumb photo - gotta make sure you get the red wine in there don’t you Bukowski!? I know EXACTLY what you did when you opened that half drunken bottle. You had a little sniff didn’t you? A little sniffy. New rule: if you do the sniff, you have to put it in a mug. Basically there are 3 outcomes of the sniff. The first is that warm, buttery “fuck, this is actually completely fine!” feeling of joy which never happens, there’s that slight shiver and mild pins and needles feeling where you sorta wince a bit and think “I can probably drink this” and decide how fucked your life is at that very moment in time before you make the plunge, then there’s the straight up dry reach where you throw it out, or you hold it up to the light and check for cigarette butts if you’re a total fuckup. Like a self conscious tubby kid at a public pool, the mug is a rashie for shit wine, and you, my friend, need a rashie, not a wine glass.
To give this dickhead credit, they’ve unintentionally illustrated a core problem with every single person on this fucking disgusting planet we live: what you think you’re worth and what you actually deserve, the distance between thee is vast. You think you live a life that warrants hors d'oeuvres and wine in wine glasses and happiness etc, but the reality is there are very few people who deserve this. Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner. That’s it. Want a snack? Have a fucking banana or a mintie or a peanut you fucking NOBODY. Who the fuck do you think you are? It’s Wednesday night, you’re not some celebrity at a fucking social mixer, you go to work every day. Throw that shit in the bin - you’ve got work in the morning - what are you doing? Have a (quick) shower, a glass of water and go to bed RIGHT NOW you fucking FRAUD.
gday plastic bag fans @ Coles and Woolworths (and wherever else, who fucking cares). a few tips, trix & ‘life hacks’ to get you through the current everest climb of inconvenience that is goin’ down to the shops:
- construct a small fire under your trolley for a makeshift bbq grill and simply cook and consume your meals in the supermarket to get around the plastic bag ban
- simply don’t go to the supermarket anymore. eat out every day - with the money you waste you won’t be able to go on bullshit self indulgent overseas holidays every year further reducing your carbon footprint
- by eliminating household waste you will now be able to take your clean wheelie bin (AKA the people’s trolley) to the shops and simply fill it up with more fresh fruit, veg and produce than any pissy little plastic bag (AKA the coward’s sack) could ever dream of holding
- instead of being a fucking crybaby coward how about you patriotically take out your plastic bag ban anger by swimming out into the ocean and personally beating the shit out of members of the flourishing marine creature community now threatening our great nation’s sovereignty ???
cheers,
cs
tfw you move to the inner west of sydney and spend all morning talking to shit cunt lifestyle hobby farmers at the Marrickville markets sourcing bespoke ingredients followed by 6 hours of preparing pasta from scratch for the WOKEST meal based on the one time you went to northern Italy but yr only dinner guests are your dickhead mates who’ve turned up drunk with doritos, coles brand hommus and oyster bay sav blanc
I’m in two minds with international travel. growing up in rural Queensland all you desire is an exit from the misery that is country QLD. Something about old blokes smoking bongs at BMX parks makes you think “jeez maybe there’s more to this depressing world and I should perhaps leave this place”. Then you do your best and move to Sydney or whatever and you realise travel is sort of a yuck class thing, from deadshit jet ski Bali bros to educated shitheads who finger themselves over the various pissing contests that exist in Europe.
Hey guess what? No one gives a shit how north or south or east you went. You’re as much of a basic cunt as old mate Tennile or whoever it was from school that did the perspective based photo at pisa.
… this isn’t a classist thing but I think overseas travel should be reserved for people who have to save up for like fuckin 5 years or something. How dare we go overseas? We can walk into so many buildings and just ask someone to make us a drink. Or cook us a bespoke meal, we can ask for ANYTHING. We can text some cunt driving a skyline and get a bag of drugs within 30 minutes, even the biggest moron can do this in 2018 - how sad are you that you need to go to India, on mum and dad’s dime, to find more from life?? you fucking loser!!! Fuck!
Anyway this dish is a classic example of your standard ex mate from school who has come back from Italy who now does “spreads”