by Adam Carolla
Maybe we should commandeer the bread bowls from clam chowder and give them to tomato soup. Clam chowder is the one soup that doesn’t need the bread bowl. It stands alone. It’s not like you get the crock of clam chowder and toss it on the floor saying, “What the hell is this crap? Why is this not being contained by sourdough?!” Chowder is atop the soup pyramid. It’s almost a stew, which is the highest compliment you can give a soup.
CELERY AND CARROTS: These are just something they put on the side of buffalo wings to make fat guys feel okay about eating them. You tell me if there’s a bigger contrast than that. Wings are nothing but grease, fat, and bones dipped in ranch or blue (pardon me, bleu) cheese dressing. There’s nothing worse you could put in your body, but it always comes with a couple of celery and carrot sticks. Has anyone ever had a plate of wings delivered and gone for the celery first? Never. In. The. History. Of. Man.
PLANTAINS: These divide our nation. They’re tearing us apart. We’ve got to get rid of them. You can take all of humanity and split it into two categories—people who love plantains and people who hate them. If you go out for Cuban food with a friend, you either have to eat them for him or fend him off from taking yours. I’m convinced this rift has been the cause of innumerable divorces.
Plus they’re Cuban. This is essentially a communist banana. Not in my America.
VEGETARIANS: Last year I was at a shitty house in Covina shooting my Spike TV pilot, which is really the only reason anyone should be in Covina. We were breaking for lunch and someone had run to the Quiznos to grab food for the crew. He got the usual suspects—roast beef and turkey club. But among them was the box of veggie sandwiches. A whole box of vegetarian subs.
A veggie sub is somehow worse than just vegetables thrown on the floor. It’s some wilted lettuce and a bell pepper in stale bread with some mayonnaise slathered on it. But here’s the point—even though way less than 2 percent of the crew were vegetarians, 33 percent of the sandwiches were. And of course what happens? The turkey and the roast beef get devoured immediately and we’re left with a dozen veggie subs.
If you’re vegetarian you should have to bring your own shit to work. We’re going on a sandwich run; we’re getting meat and bread. That’s what a sandwich is: meat SANDWICHED in between two pieces of bread. We could possibly consider a grilled cheese in the mix, if you’ve been good. But we’re not going to get an extra box of crap just because your skinny vegan ass hates food and your stepdad, I assume, molested you and then enjoyed a nice T-bone steak, thus your aversion.
It got worse a couple days later on the same set when I found out the lunch was vegetarian chili. I asked where the regular chili was for the regular people. There was none. Just the five-gallon vat of vegetarian slop.
This was an attack. I don’t eat nearly enough chili. I’m putting it up there with fish and chips, Bugles, and rice pudding in the Mount Rushmore of foods I love but never eat. (Note to self: Invent Bugles stuffed with chili.) I average a teaspoon of chili a year. So to have that intoxicating smell and mouthwatering visual put in front of me only to be robbed of the meaty climax was a tragedy.
There’s no such thing as vegetarian chili. Chili needs parts of something that formerly had hooves on it. Vegetarian chili is like smokeless cigarettes, nonalcoholic beer, and decaf. You’ve removed the best part, the essence of the thing. I want my shit to have shit in it. If I get a hooker I want her to come with a vagina.
Of course I couldn’t let this travesty go unnoted. As the saying goes, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” I ranted and raved at the crew until one guy from the carpentry crew (yes, a carpenter, one of my own) admitted he was a vegetarian. He only added to my rage by saying there was another vegetarian guy on the staff but he wasn’t there that day. I got the assistant director to tally the crew. There were thirty-plus crew members and among them one vegetarian.
And I don’t even consider this traitor a vegetarian. I don’t think vegetarians even exist. There are omnivores like me, and narcissists who need you to know they don’t eat meat. They’re not vegetarians because they love cows and pigs, it’s because they love attention.
I ran into one of these “vegetarians” at Carney’s in L.A. This is a hot-dog-and-burger joint shaped like a train car. Once a month I take my son there. He calls it “the hot-dog train,” which I tell him not to do because it sounds pretty gay. They do a good hot dog and a pretty good burger. That’s what they do—burgers and dogs. Of course, when I took the kids there, I got stuck in line behind the guy who decided he needed to order the veggie burger. The chick behind the counter was confused. It was probably the first veggie burger that had ever been ordered there. This gummed up the whole works. That place is essentially a hot-dog assembly line. What the fuck are you doing there if you want a veggie burger? Get that shit from Whole Foods and cook it at home in a shroud of shame. But hey, you got written about in a book. I noticed you. Mission accomplished.
In my administration we will start tagging these vegetarians and tracking them. That way when they show up to the jobsite, they get handed a green beanie. Then, if they get out of line and start making lunch demands, they’re going to be put on an island where eventually they would start eating meat—each other’s flesh!
These are the same hypochondriacs who blather about toxins. They have to work it into every conversation. You can say to them, “I need a ride to the airport,” and they’ll follow it with, “Well, I’m on day four of a cleanse to get the toxins out of my body.” I didn’t ask you to take me to Arby’s. This is a topic that drives Dr. Drew nuts. We’d always take calls from these assholes on Loveline who would say, “You know your body is basically a sponge that absorbs toxins, right? We live in a toxic environment. Do you ever wake up in the morning and feel tired? That’s your body storing toxins. Ever get tired around three or four in the afternoon and can’t focus? Toxins.” Drew would always challenge them. He’d say, “Tell me what the molecule is. What is the chemical formula for this toxin that you’re speaking of?” Of course they wouldn’t have an answer. What they would have is a stupid metaphor they don’t actually understand like, “You know how your car has a radiator. It’s filled with gunk and residue and you need to clean it out. It’s just like that with your body.” Thank you, Sanjay Gupta. What the fuck are you talking about? You got put on academic probation at junior college. You’re just spouting a bunch of bullshit you heard from another stoner at a drum circle.
Before I move on from vegetables to other areas covered by the USDA, I ought to name a Secretary of Agriculture. I’m going with Terry Schiavo. Not just because she was the world’s most famous vegetable but because she’s no longer with us and I’m committed to reducing the size of government.
MEAT AND CHEESE
There was a lot of hand-wringing and paranoia a year or two ago when they found some horsemeat being sold in Europe as beef. At the time I thought, “Who cares?” Why do we prioritize some animals over others as far as what is fit for us to consume? It’s all just protein. No matter what it is, you’re going to shit it out in fifteen hours anyway.
What’s the different between a cow and a horse? They’ve both got four legs, hooves, and eat grass. If you showed someone from a different planet a picture of a cow and a Clydesdale and asked, “Which would you rather eat?” I bet they’d go with the Clydesdale. It looks like it has more lean meat and it comes with its own beer.
Was there some agreement reached between man and horse back in the Stone Age? The horses were like, “We’ll let you ride us, but only if you promise not to eat us. Agree?” And we came back with, “Yes, but occasionally some guy in Florida is going to want to fuck you.” “Okay, deal.”
On to cheese. I think we need to have a bleu ribbon panel convened to get us all on the same cheese page. We need clarity. I’ll tell you the triggering incident for this.
I was waiting for my buddy Kevin at a diner. We were going to work on a script together. I beat him the
re by a little bit, so I ordered an omelet with peppers, turkey sausage, and Jack cheese. It came out and upon first bite I knew something was off. It was pepper jack. Pepper jack is not a real cheese. It’s the synthesized, pepper-infused knockoff of real Jack cheese. I was blindsided by this, because you expect the rubbery synthesized prepackaged slice of American or Swiss, which is why I specifically ordered Jack with my omelet. I don’t want that fake shit. That crap doesn’t come from a cow, it comes from canola oil and a laboratory.
This stuff is always way too salty, ruins the taste, and doesn’t act like real cheese. It doesn’t melt properly. For example, you can’t put real cheese into hot dogs or stuffed-crust pizza. Only fake cheese can be injected into those pieces of retard chow.
After Kevin arrived and I spouted at him for ten minutes, I went up to the counter to get my cheese situation sorted out. There were six people in line and, I shit you not, while I was behind them someone ordered a pepper jack pizza. As far as my Justice Department is concerned, this is a felony offense. Eventually I got to the front and talked to the chick who had initially taken my order. I told her what had happened and asked politely if I could have it remade with regular Jack cheese. She said this fake pepper jack was the only Jack cheese they carry. How about that information up front, bitch? When I order Jack cheese you should probably warn me that the only variety you have is the one that was made in a lab and tastes like a Mexican wiped his ass with it.
Dejected, I told her, “You should probably tell people that.” And she had the gall to say, “I’m pretty sure I told you.”
This incident points to a bigger issue beyond cheese. Whatever happened to “I’m sorry, sir, we’ll fix that right away, our apologies.” This is the Nike “It’s Your World” generation at work. She even followed it up when I contradicted her, with, “Well, I heard it somewhere.” I then had to warn the other people in line that I was going to be a dick and possibly reach across the counter and beat her with a skillet. I was furious. Don’t push this back on me, lady. This is your horrible decision; don’t pretend that I didn’t ask correctly.
Don’t get me wrong; there is a time and a place for American cheese. Just not an omelet. The grilled cheese is the one place where I like American cheese more than cheddar or Jack. American cheese melted on some toasted buttery white bread is great. But American cheese melted in a quesadilla is an abortion. You must go with cheddar or Jack (NOT pepper jack) in the quesadilla. Why? Both are just slices of carbs made from flour encasing some melted cheese. Why so great a chasm?
While we’re talking quesadillas I have a quick mandate for tortilla manufacturers. One out of every four must have a picture of Jesus on it. It’ll just be fun to fuck with the Latinos.
Before we move on from Mexicans and cheese, let’s talk nachos. It is hereby federal law that the pump squirt of Velveeta goo you get on nachos at a ballpark or the movies is banned. It is not cheese. It feels like Dow makes it. If it were green instead of orange and sold by Mattel instead of Kraft, there’d be a warning sticker on the container it came in saying, “Do Not Ingest and Do Not Expose to Open Flame.”
We need to address nachos in general. Nachos have an incredibly short window in which you can enjoy them. Is there anything that starts better and ends worse? Pizza, when you let it sit around for a while, goes from a nine to a seven. Nachos go from a ten to a negative twelve. They go from the world’s greatest food to a soggy pile of hippo flop before you even know it. At some point the chips are like “I can’t take the weight of this guacamole another second. Oh shit, here comes some sour cream! Fuck it, I’m going back to being a tortilla. I can’t stay solid anymore.” There’s no such thing as a nacho doggy bag.
We have overshot the mark with the nachos. We started piling on too much stuff. For years it was, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s take some tortilla chips and melt cheese on them and maybe a couple jalapeños on the side.” But somewhere along the line it became, “How about we add a snow-shovel worth of fake guacamole, a chub pack of ground beef, and top it off with a bucket of sour cream.” At a certain point this perfect dish went from nachos to a nacho sundae.
But this isn’t an issue if you eat your nachos right away. That comes with a completely different problem. Nacho cheese ends cold and congealed, but starts magma hot. If you eat them too soon you burn the roof of your mouth.
What did God have in mind with the roof of the mouth? Feet are tough. I could go out and walk my dog barefoot because the skin on my feet is tough. We’re designed that way. Our feet and our hands are tougher because they make contact with hot, cold, and sharp things all the time. So why is it that the roof of your mouth is such a pussy? A cup of Top Ramen that was in the microwave eight seconds too long will fuck you up for a week. Why is the roof of your mouth as soft as a baby’s bottom? Why did God make that the most sensitive part of our body when it takes the most punishment? It should be like the shell of a horseshoe crab. I should be able to wash down a fistful of the world’s sharpest object—dry Cap’n Crunch—with a pot of hot coffee, while laughing the whole time.
My last straw with the fake cheese is the little packets of Parmesan at pizza places. The sixteen-inch-diameter disc covered in mozzarella isn’t enough cheese for you? You have to sprinkle on a weird packet of white dried-out sawdust passing itself off as Parmesan?
As a proud Italian American, I find this offensive. Parmesan is great and doesn’t need its reputation sullied by this impostor. I love Parmesan. I’ve often fantasized about opening a theme restaurant called More Parmesan. Every time you go out to the Italian joint the waiter stops by and asks if you’d like Parmesan. He either then sprinkles it on with a spoon, or even better, grinds it fresh onto your plate. But eventually he slows down and asks if that is enough. You feel weird and don’t want to be fat, so you say yes. But three bites in, you need more. At More Parmesan the waiters will constantly be coming by—in fact they may never leave the tableside; they’ll just sit there and grind Parmesan on your pasta. Hell, they’ll put it in your martini unless you tell them not to.
I’ll wrap up with this food-related observation and rallying cry. I was thinking about the decline of this country and how everyone just spits their gum everywhere and blows snot rockets on the sidewalk or leaves pubes on top of the urinal, and then it occurred to me what the issue was. You know what we’re missing? Stew and casserole. If you had a graph charting stew and casserole consumption and America’s greatness, the line of decline for both would be the same. (By the way, Stew and Casserole would also make a great eighties cop show. Thurston “Stew” Stewart plays by the rules and wears a bow tie, but his partner, John “Casserole” Cassorelli, is a loose cannon in a leather jacket.) I say we get back to eating some hearty stews and casseroles. About the time we started eating wraps is when things started to take a shit in this country. And then when smoothies came in it was all over. All I know is this—the heroes who stormed the beaches of Normandy didn’t have a peach-guava smoothie in their belly. So Mamas, let the word go forth from this time and place—get in that kitchen and start rattling them pots and pans. Let’s make this country great again.
THE SECRET SERVICE
I don’t know what the budget is for the Secret Service but I think I can significantly cut down the cost. As President Carolla, I won’t need a bunch of guys in sunglasses and black suits. I just need some crows. A flock of attack crows would be the ultimate in security.
These are the meanest, smartest animals on the planet. Pigeons are ten times dumber than crows, and we can train pigeons. We are clearly not utilizing a valuable resource here. I once heard that crows are second in weight-to-brain-size ratio behind humans, and are number one if those humans are from Florida.
Those K-9 unit German shepherds are thirty-grand worth of training and breeding down the drain when the meth head in his underpants waving a machete around at a 7–Eleven slashes the dog just before the police finally Taser the idiot. Not the case with crows. They’re cheap and abundant. Th
ey could live on the White House roof and all we’d have to do is put out a can of corn once a week. Then, whenever the motorcade left, they’d follow along. And if anybody got too close to me they would swoop down in a sea of black wings and razor-sharp beaks and talons. Death from above.
I don’t care who you are or how crazy you are, when an angry gang of crows comes at your head, all you can do is run and scream like a girl.
They can fly forty miles an hour, they’re black, and they’re stealthy. Plus a group of crows is called a “murder.” How badass is that? This is my new security detail. If John F. Kennedy had had my attack crows on that fateful day in 1963, he’d still be alive today. (Actually, he would probably have been claimed by syphilis in the seventies, but you get my point.)
9
THE DEPARTMENT OF
THE INTERIOR AND THE
NATIONAL PARKS SERVICE
A good president is an environmentalist, sportsman, and historian because he has the solemn and sacred duty to be a steward to our majestic national parks and historical sites. He must protect the land and the noble creatures that inhabit it and preserve the birthright our forefathers bequeathed to future generations.
With this in mind, we’re fucked. Everything I know about our park system and historic landmarks I learned from the National Treasure movies. I don’t have stream water running through my veins. It wasn’t like the Carollas were packing up the family truckster to head out and see Old Faithful. I was well into my thirties before I owned a sleeping bag. (By the way, I’ve always thought “sleeping bag” was up there with “toaster oven” for least creative name. “What is this?” “It’s a bag that you sleep in.” “What shall we call it?” “Um . . . a sleeping bag?” “Cool, let’s hit the Quiznos.” I’m glad these guys didn’t name the coffin or the condom.)