The Super Bowl smoothie

Why don't I have a Michelin star yet?

Good evening, assbags! I say that with true affection.

Every year’s unofficial American holiday is about to roll around, and that’s right: It’s the Super Bowl!

I like to think of the Super Bowl as Thanksgiving Part 2: The Journey Continues. But, in a twist, it includes heavy greasy food that is designed to actually kill you, along with a metric shitload of cheap beer.

Personally, I’m not much of a sportsball fan, but that’s okay. I’m not here to take a dump on your happiness.

Live your life to the fullest. Watch people throw a ball, run around, and use that as an excuse to beat the shit out of each other. Then, in the middle of this mayhem, enjoy a poorly lip-synced musical act with lots of sparkly stuff happening. Shout at the television for three hours straight and complain about the fact that you didn’t enjoy the ads as much as you thought you would.

I secretly look forward to the Super Bowl because it means I can eat a disgusting amount of junk food all at once, and feel very sick by the time I get to bed.

I subject myself to this torture every year. There’s always so many choices, like forty types of dip, including that weird buffalo chicken dip that everyone claims to love, cheap pizza, beer, cookies, all that premature-death-inducing stuff, all on the same table. I almost always end up disappointed because I didn’t get to try a little of everything, since I usually get full too early.

So I thought, “Dannis Ree, culinary enemy of the people, how can you find a way to cram your favorite Super Bowl snacks all together so you are not sad later?”

I could make a smoothie.

A Super Bowl smoothie.

I am, how you say, a genious?

In order to make a smoothie, I’d need to employ the power of my arch nemesis in the kitchen: This giant piece of shit Ninja blender.

This thing is garbage. It’s terrifying, taller than me, has 18 blades for no reason, and it doesn’t do a very good job.

I hate you, Ninja blender. Go away.

There’s always that one person who brings a bread bowl full of spinach artichoke dip to the Super Bowl party, so I started with that.

Nothing says community like everybody’s grubby little hands tearing off chunks from the same ball of bread. This mayo and cream cheese-based dip usually sits out for hours at room temperature, and I keep eating it up until it’s way past its prime.

This is like Russian roulette, but with illness.

My personal favorite Super Bowl snack is buffalo wings.

I could seriously plow down 47 buffalo wings in one sitting. And I would happily run the risk of throwing up 47 of them in the very same sitting because I love them so much.

I bought these from the terrifying 7-Eleven down the street from our apartment. There’s frequently police officers outside of it sternly talking to people in the parking lot at all hours of the day. That’s also why it’s a wonderful 7-Eleven.

I purchased this slice of pizza from the very same 7-Eleven.

This may surprise you, coming from a professional pizzamaker, but I kinda like 7-Eleven pizza. It’s $2 for two slices, the sauce is very sweet, the cheese is rubbery, and the pizza is always dried out from sitting under a heat lamp for God knows how long.

Beauty comes in all forms. So does shame.

As my liquid component, I used the hipster Champagne of Beers, Miller High Life.

High Life is perfectly enjoyable. I particularly like buttchugging it. There’s something about all those bubbles that gives it such a wonderful assfeel.

Oh God.

As soon as I poured the beer in, a layer of cold fat and random particles rose to the top. This is what most toilet bowls will look like on Monday morning.

Why?

Why do I insist on doing this stuff? What’s wrong with me? I mean, I had a perfectly decent childhood.

The resulting smoothie looked kind of like lobster bisque.

Or vomit.

Some of you readers have either bailed or you feel really sick right now. It’s okay. Let yourself be overwhelmed. You’re being baptized by way of revulsion.

I took a cautious sip, then I frowned.

This Super Bowl smoothie wasn’t quite as bad as I’d imagined it was going to be. What was interesting was that there wasn’t really one distinguishing flavor other than the beer. I couldn’t taste the chicken, which was disappointing, though I could make out the spinach artichoke bits here and there. Because of the breading from the pizza, the entire thing became sort of like an emulsified creamy Spanish gazpacho. I cannot believe I just typed these sentences. It could have been worse, but on a scale of one to disgusting, it’s still disgusting.

In conclusion, I’m a real chef now. Suck it, Achatz.

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Here’s the boring stuff, yes, if you enjoyed this, share it on social media. Or forward it anonymously to your enemies because this one was pretty gnarly.

For some reason there’s two buttons, does this one do something different?

And yes, here’s the part where I ask you to subscribe to help fund this thing. Last time I counted, which was just now, I’ve written 23 newsletters since last August, which is pretty good!

Okay, if you’re still here with me, I have a question.

Would you guys be interested in Food is Stupid pins? I was thinking that getting pins made for paying subscribers would be fun since I haven’t done a whole lot of exclusive content yet.

That way you actually have a little physical thing to put on your backpack or your forehead. And yes, this includes those of you who already subscribed, retroactively, not just for new subscribers.

To get costs covered, I’d need a few extra paid subscribers, (literally like two or three, I think, just to be safe, but I’m not good at numbers). I already nosed around for some prices and I think I could make this happen!

Okay bye, for real this time.