You want an Egg McMuffin? Fuck you. Or: Why all-day breakfast menus bring out the worst in me

1. You want an Egg McMuffin after one PM? Fuck you.Consider the type of people who want to eat Egg McMuffins in the afternoon. Would you trust them with your small children? Would you trust them with any major financial decisions? The answer is NO, because these people traditionally woke up just an hour ago. They are probably still fucked up from yesterday. They smell like whisky sweat and the kind of regret that only happens in your mid to late twenties. No one spends at least four hours at their reasonable and well-paying adult job before thinking, “Gosh, I’d love an Egg McMuffin right now.” They are too busy thinking about salads and responsibility. That fast food breakfast shit is for the degenerates, the drunks, the hungovers, the baristas and bartenders who make too little to put up with this shit. No reasonable accountant or otherwise accountable person thinks to themselves, “Gosh, you know what I would like? Breakfast for lunch.” I’m sorry. It’s just unacceptable. Which leads me to…

2. Fuck you for thinking, “Wait! I’d love an Egg McMuffin for lunch, and I thought that the whole time I read the last paragraph.” It won’t work out for you, padre, and here’s why. You have REAL JOB PRIVILEGE. What does that mean? You haven’t sold your soul so completely that you deserve an Egg McMuffin. Let’s be honest: you haven’t ever been willing to wake up before 7 AM  even on the good days. Overtime? You insist on compensation. Healthcare has been real for you at least once in the past six months. (That means someone else mostly paid for your weird lumps.) You probably even work for a young and hip start-up that pays for your cell phone and believes in “parental leave”. (How liberated!) When these factors are combined, they mostly mean that the least you manage is combing your hair every other day, rushing to work, and probably eating the gross instant oatmeal you keep in your office drawer. You routinely tumble into your practical car and drive to your practical job and you never have time to sit in the drive-thru line for a goddamn Egg McMuffin. So you’re not allowed to hop back into your great-mileage Suburu at lunchtime and get a fucking breakfast sandwich. That’s just not how this works, you rich motherfucker. Get Lupe to cook you some real fucking breakfast.

#4 – STILL LIFE WITH BABY’S ARM: a critical analysis of the modern art of the dick pic

This week, Drunk in a Midnight Choir celebrates our One Year Anniversary! Since we launched on February 6, 2014, we’ve had the great privilege of publishing a whole lot of amazing work, from a wide array of talented contributors. All week, we’ll be catching you up on some highlights from the last year. Here we present to you the top ten most-read posts of the year, counting down from ten.

This was our first big-time smash-hit. Eirean’s (amazingly great) “Field Guide to Being Day Drunk in Your Hometown” had established early on a pretty high mark for views, garnering hundreds of them the day it went up.  This one blew all of us off the map, becoming an instant phenomenon. It had dropped into my inbox a few days before, forwarded by Eirean, and his message had ended with: “We’re so lucky we get to publish this stuff!” He was right. Reading through it the first time, I laughed and cringed with equal force, and it was obvious we had a winner. When I asked Katy if she had any pictures for the piece, I guess I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was when she sent some of the actual photos she’d been discussing. I got a little bit of vicarious shock myself in opening up an email to find them there, sprawled out in all their glory. The one that made it into the piece, down toward the end, reminded me a little bit of the reveal at the end of Boogie Nights. Except, you know, way more hilarious and disturbing.

-tg

 

When Robert (32, Thornton, CO) sent me a picture of his genitals, I admit that I clicked on the thumbnail without much more than mild curiosity. Having received more than my fair share of these manly self-portraits over the years, I must admit I’ve developed a keen and discerning eye when it comes to the male anatomy. Honestly, I think no girl is better versed in the art of dick-pic deciphering than one who has attempted online dating several times. No matter how earnest or sweet you make your profile, you will wind up with at least a couple of penises in your inbox. Men seem to love nothing more than grabbing their hard-on, snapping a selfie, and sending it to me. What was remarkable about Robert’s dick-pic was that he had included a TV remote for scale. There his hard-on was, veiny and straining against the skin that contained it, a hairy hand barely visible in the bottom of the frame, some kind of watch cut off by the camera angle. And right next to Robert’s throbbing monster was his universal TV remote, obviously designed to handle flat-screen, plasma television, cable, blue-ray, high-definition, etc. What struck me about this strange (and for me, heretofore un-encountered) juxtaposition was the situation Robert must have found himself in: no access to a ruler, glancing wildly around his living room for something to make his dick look big. I pictured him, this man who used his first and last name in his email address but neglected to send me a picture of his face. He was probably watching a ball game on his clearly elaborate media setup. I imagined his hairy arms brushing against his dick once, twice, and finally he decides to masturbate. Was he masturbating to my personal ad? I don’t know. But I do know that once he reached his full, turgid glory, Robert slapped his dick down next to his TV remote and took a picture to send to me.

DMC Mixtapes Vol. 1: Songs To Drunkenly Tinder To

It used to be you could only make one terrible drunken decision a night. Now, thanks to technology, you can make hundreds in under a minute! I’m talking, of course, about Tinder– drunken Tinder specifically: the invigorating hobby that is taking the nation by storm. As a lonely and insecure individual carefully navigating the ambiguous sea of adulthood, it could be that you too have had one too many and decided to squint at your iPhone screen, swiping right at anyone who seems remotely attractive. The only thing you’re missing, my friend, is a soundtrack.

Crafted by a verifiable expert, “Songs to Drunkenly Tinder To” is guaranteed to enhance your wine-fueled attempts at online dating. Drawing from a wide range of artistic modes, each song has been carefully and skillfully chosen for its complex lyrical attention to the tenuous pleasures and perils of online hook-up culture. Additionally, each song has been rated by at least one lonely drunk person on qualities such as: singalongability, emotional impact, nostalgia, association with exes, and whether or not the song allows the listener to safely dance with a corkscrew in hand, although by song 7 or about 32 minutes into your Drunk Tinder experience you will want to make sure that the corkscrew is as far from your neck as possible.

I Would Tell Betty Freidan to Suck It But I Am Pretty Sure I Got There First: A Modern Ethical Slut vs. TheFeminine Mystique

Untitled Film Still No. 3, Cindy Sherman

“The problem lay buried, unspoken , for many years in the minds of American women. It was a strange stirring, a sense of dissatisfaction, a yearning that women suffered…”

This summer, I found myself confronted with an unusually long period of completely intimidating free time. Once summer classes ended, the only activity I had scheduled for July and August was sitting in the empty coffee shop I worked at, gazing longingly into the distance, and possibly reading books. As someone who is perpetually paralyzed by the thought of boredom, those swaths of summertime read like a gaping maw threatening to swallow my entire existence, tempting me with time-wastes and binge-drinking. I knew that if I wasn’t proactive, my only recollections of this summer would be wearing all the sweat-pants and watching Oprah.

I wish I could blame my attempt to read The Feminine Mystique on the suggestion of an educated and well-meaning friend, but the impulse came from one too many feminist theory classes and my lifelong ambition to be the most interesting person in the room. So, settling into my patio one evening in late June, a glass of Pinot Grigio in hand, I cracked open Betty Friedan, entirely prepared to have impressed upon me the full weight of white women’s issues in mid-century America.

STILL LIFE WITH BABY’S ARM: a critical analysis of the modern art of the dick pic

When Robert (32, Thornton, CO) sent me a picture of his genitals, I admit that I clicked on the thumbnail without much more than mild curiosity. Having received more than my fair share of these manly self-portraits over the years, I must admit I’ve developed a keen and discerning eye when it comes to the male anatomy. Honestly, I think no girl is better versed in the art of dick-pic deciphering than one who has attempted online dating several times. No matter how earnest or sweet you make your profile, you will wind up with at least a couple of penises in your inbox. Men seem to love nothing more than grabbing their hard-on, snapping a selfie, and sending it to me. What was remarkable about Robert’s dick-pic was that he had included a TV remote for scale. There his hard-on was, veiny and straining against the skin that contained it, a hairy hand barely visible in the bottom of the frame, some kind of watch cut off by the camera angle. And right next to Robert’s throbbing monster was his universal TV remote, obviously designed to handle flat-screen, plasma television, cable, blue-ray, high-definition, etc. What struck me about this strange (and for me, heretofore un-encountered) juxtaposition was the situation Robert must have found himself in: no access to a ruler, glancing wildly around his living room for something to make his dick look big. I pictured him, this man who used his first and last name in his email address but neglected to send me a picture of his face. He was probably watching a ball game on his clearly elaborate media setup. I imagined his hairy arms brushing against his dick once, twice, and finally he decides to masturbate. Was he masturbating to my personal ad? I don’t know. But I do know that once he reached his full, turgid glory, Robert slapped his dick down next to his TV remote and took a picture to send to me.

Most dick pics are fairly standard. Once in awhile, you get a glimpse of abs or t-shirt (tangentially, I feel there must be some statistic that correlates Hollister brand shirts with likelihood to send an internet stranger a dick-pic, because Hollister is disproportionately represented), but usually it is just a sad, strange, lonely dick, weirdly curving against the blurry background of some dude’s messy bedroom. Placed side by side, lined up in rows that make quick comparisons easy, one is struck by how similar most dick-pics are. Of course, there are variances between size and tilt, girth, whether or not he is circumcised, and especially treatment of pubic hair, but most men take their dick-pics from the same angle: laying down, dick in foreground, camera angled up to capture the majesty of their cocks.