You thought that we had forgotten about chicken and rice, didn’t you? You thought that we had left the blog to stagnate and fade in a cyber-world that would simply envelope it in other forgotten sites, a relic among relics, a standalone among forsaken user-created geocities pages. Well, friends, this was all part of an elaborate scheme 10 months in the making. And you’ve been had!

How could anyone forget about chicken and rice, let alone its writers? Hilarious!

We hope you’ve learned your lesson, and that you will never doubt us (or our flawlessly executed absences) again. Seriously, those who doubt chicken and rice have no business reading our amazing material, and probably don’t even get the joke that we just played on them.

It is quite possibly the least appropriate name Monster could have chosen for an energy drink. Intended to evoke thoughts of hangover-shedding (or perhaps more shrewdly, The Hangover), the energy drink’s back story is set in Las Vegas. Specifically, the writer says he received the inspiration for the beverage while “chillin’ at the Vegas Rehab pool party, contemplating a cure for cotton mouth, admiring the flesh parade, and pondering the wisdom of doubling down when the dealer shows a face card.”

What, you may ask given this setup, is actually in a Monster Rehab? It is a mixture of iced tea, lemonade, and chemicals (or if you believe the can, tea, lemonade, and energy). Aside from a full day’s worth of B vitamins, the drink appears to offer very little. That is, until you find, at the bottom of the supplement facts, the “Rehab Energy Blend,” which consists of glucose, black tea extract, caffeine, L-carnitine, glucuronolactone, guarana, inositol, acai extract, goji berry extract, and mangosteen extract. We are not told how much of any one ingredient is in the drink, only that there are 6415mg of the entire blend present in each can– which gives cause to wonder about the delicate balance with which these ingredients are mixed, as 6 grams of several of these ingredients taken individually would be enough to kill someone.

But the broader point is that we are still infatuated with the cycle of binging and recovering. Monster Rehab reinforces the idea that we can be as irresponsible as we like, so long as we have a lemonade/tea beverage the next morning to cleanse us and get us ready for another night of debauchery. If we use this model and substitute decades for days, fuzzy AAA bond ratings for Vegas partying, and short term economic recovery plans (be they stimulus spending or tax cuts) for the Monster Rehab, we arrive at an exact replica of our current economic standing.

Binge. Recover. Binge. Recover. Binge. Recover. As if this oscillation were sustainable. As if we are riding a stable sine wave. Mark my words, this wave is anything but stable, and when our luck runs out, it will crush us completely. And so, drawing inspiration from a similar yet classier beverage, I propose a new name for the grossly inappropriately labeled Monster Rehab: the Arnold Facepalmer.

Say what you will, but the data does not lie. Yes friends, through the ancient science of statistics, we have proven with 99.99% confidence that over the last 6 months, you have increased your blood pressure, gained weight, damaged your liver, blackened your lungs, killed your brain cells, lost weight, or have aged considerably. Try as we might to discount the results, science does not lie.

The solution–more rice. Hearty and delicious, it was something that you were sorely lacking as your body slowly but surely shut down during our little experiment. I cannot with a clean conscience allow this experiment to continue any longer. Friends, let the trumpeters issue the call. Rice has returned.

But, in fairness, the Greeks got three things right: democracy, food, and making a ton of money by peddling said food to us non-Greeks. And each of these three things came into play when I tried the Greek dessert καταιφι (kataifi).

I knew they got their food right because it was delicious. And I knew they were good at peddling it to non-Greeks because I spent a ridiculous amount of money buying pastries. But the democracy part took me by surprise, as the very ideal of democracy was embedded in the preparation– nay– the design of the food.

The most interesting thing about kataifi is that it appears to have very little substance. It is comprised of countless pieces of what we might call “shredded wheat,” wrapped around pine nuts (or walnuts or pistachios in some cases) and smothered in honey.

Each strand of dough is separate, twists and bends in its own way, and stands apart from the whole. Yet each contributes to the whole through its uniqueness, as the disparate and sometimes random microshapes add a new dimension to the flavor, enhancing the dessert through a sense of unpredictability. And yet all of these strands are united around the core of pine nuts. When you take a bite, you could swear you had eaten something denser and more flavorful than was actually the case. And in this dynamic dichotomy– the interplay between part and whole, individual and community, randomness and order– we find the profound Greek understanding of the democratic ideals that they introduced thousands of years ago, an experiment in governing that continues to this day.

And that rapturous revelation may be just enough for us to forgive them for Zach Galifianakis.

Luckily for us all, your opinion matters very little. So very little–when we have so much data. And so our research team will work throughout the night, doing the things that research teams do best, and in the morning, we will see which food groups belong at the base of the pyramid.

Good day. My name is pi. I understand you all liking pie, but must you constantly denigrate me to display your appreciation for food? As you may know, today is my day, pi day, 3/14, and at 1:59 p.m. EST, I’d like you to post this letter.

You often call me an irrational number. However, an irrational number is a real number that cannot be expressed as a fraction. I am expressed as circumference divided by diameter, or c/d. This means that I am expressed only as a fraction. My very essence is a fraction. Therefore I am a supremely rational number. Alas, your haphazard, jury-rigged system of mathematics does not realize this because you insist on the unnatural use of integers. √2 is irrational. I, however, am divine.

On this day, I ask that you join me in appreciating pi for what it is. Stop baking pies, stop ordering pizzas with pepperonis arranged in my likeness, stop making pie campaign videos, and stop posting about pies learning of evolution. I am evolution. This day is not about pie. It is about me, the supremely rational number. Pie may be delicious, but I am necessary to the advancement of your species and its understanding of the universe.

Thank you for your time. I will check back to ensure that you have posted this letter, so that my message may be read by your audience and instantly reach the masses.

Lolz. Pi, this pi’s for you.

We slowly mixed– She knew no haste
And I had put away
My Oster and my KitchenAid,
For her Placidity–

We put the Pan upon the Stove–
Pushed creases– in the Dough–
We used the mealy Barley Grain–
We used the Lecithin–

Or rather– It used us–
The Muse stood– though kneading, still–
For only Countertop, her Canvas–
Her Throne was just a Stool–

We paused before the Oven steamed–
The Bread rose– slowly browned–
The Wheat was scarcely visible–
The Yeast– lost in the Mound–

Since then– ’tis Years have passed– and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first realized that Beth had found
The perfect Recipe–

2 slices rye bread
3 pounds amazing corned beef

1. Place one slice of rye bread on flat counter top.
2. Pile on all the corned beef.
3. Top with second slice of rye bread.
4. Cut in half to give the illusion that you serve manageable portions.
5. Serve with no extras, sides, condiments, or garnishes.
6. Rake in serious dough. And by dough, I mean money.

I had taken the subway from Penn Station to Carnegie Deli. But the only viable return course, after eating several pounds of meat, was to walk into Central Park, by Strawberry Fields, to the American Museum of Natural History, up to 81st Street, back through the park, around the lake, to the Plaza Hotel, across the street to the Apple Store (play with an iPad for 5 minutes), back over to 6th Avenue, down to 34th Street, and over to the train station.

This is precisely what I did. And I still burned off only a fraction of the sandwich. I have no plans to return to the Carnegie Deli anytime soon. Once is enough for even the strongest of constitutions to endure a challenge of such epic magnitude. I dare say, no one has ever returned to the Carnegie Deli after their first meal there. Except for Larry King, who– judging from the pictures on the wall– has eaten there many times.

Oy gevalt! What a clever title! Unfortunately, I can’t take credit for it. The title of this post is the menu listing for the impressively pungent bagel pictured above. Just north of Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square is a little deli called Rachael’s Nosheri. And while their coffee is somewhat weak, their bagels strong-arm their way into your heart and stomach.

As if an everything bagel wasn’t flavorful enough, you get lox, the wonderfully cured fillet of salmon on a bed of cream cheese. Then, to add bite, they sneak in a red onion, which– in addition to the fish– makes for the freshest of breath. To garnish and add even more flavor, the chefs at Rachael’s add an olive on a toothpick to each half of the bagel. The first bite is tantamount to a blast of cold water in your face, a blast of cold, salmony, oniony water. Continuing through the bagel, your taste buds begin to acclimate themselves to the onslaught of zest.

But perhaps the best part of my trip to Rachael’s Nosheri was that I got to enjoy my bagel with a friend of mine, a real live Jew named Rachel. While she is in fact from New York (not Philadelphia) and spells her name differently, Rachel gave her whole-hearted endorsement of Rachael’s bagels. And that stamp of approval was good enough to convince me to keep eating, even after the first bite nearly knocked the wind out of me.

After my harrowing experience with the Double Down, I needed some time to collect myself, ponder the meaning of such reckless grease, and find the motivation to continue with my investigation. I recently returned to the same KFC/Taco Bell to experience another terrifying day of life outside the bun. The next subject: Taco Bell’s XXL Chalupa.

Some things are just too big for their own good. I like to think of these things as, much like the Roman Empire, too big not to fail. Two such things are the XXL Chalupa and the New York Yankees. Perhaps that’s why Yankees manager Joe Girardi and Yankees closer Mariano Rivera star in a commercial for the XXL Chalupa. The commercial centers around the difficulty people have with finishing the XXL. Well I can tell you first hand that the difficulty comes not in finishing the chalupa, but in reconciling yourself with what you eventually realize you just ate.

When you open the box, the XXL appears by no means insurmountable. It is roughly the size of two regular chalupas. And while it takes a little longer to eat, you don’t feel full at the end (you don’t feel satisfied either, but that’s true of many things at Taco Bell). Only about ten minutes after you finish do you realize your folly. Like a compressed file, it unzips and extracts itself upon entering your stomach. You begin to wonder how much ground beef and fried-something-or-other you actually just consumed.

Because of this unique trait, the XXL is better suited, in my opinion, for another purpose. Instead of nourishment, it should be used as a weapon. First we confuse our enemies by giving them what looks to be a free meal. After they consume said meal, they become incapacitated by nausea, stomach aches, and indigestion. We could end wars without firing a single shot. We could apprehend our enemies, as they would be throwing themselves at our feet, begging for some sort of medical attention. Yes, friends, the XXL is the Trojan Horse of chalupas, and it should be wielded as such.

But with great power comes great responsibility– which is why I am disappointed that Taco Bell has recklessly introduced the XXL to the general public when it truly belongs in C-17s en route to combat zones. In the wrong hands, this toxic agent presents a danger to society and a threat to our way of life. So please join me in asking Taco Bell to remove this powerful weapon from their menu, so that it may serve our country without being served to our country.