Fried-Ay: Italian Food, Italian Food, and Self Checkouts…

Okay, so it’s currently Friday, which means it’s Fried-ay, which means it’s finally time to get back into the swing of the greatest running blog in the history of running blogs that are posted once every Monday, Tuesday, Saturday, or even Friday.

For those unfamiliar, Fried-ay is a blog where I just dump a bunch of ideas that fell in that little slot where your seat belt buckle is. Near the end of the week, I pull the lever and readjust my seat so it’s kissing the steering wheel, throw on my iPhone flashlight, check underneath and pull them out for the world (all three of you) to read. Anyway, let’s get into it…

I just made spicy pasta with cajun andouille sausage because I’m a fucking savage and I realized that I’ll never go out for Italian food. For the record, I love Italian food (it’s my favorite type of food) but going out for Italian is an astronomical waste of money.

Number one: To get really good Italian food, you most likely need to head “into town.” For people who live in Boston, that means the North End. The only problem with heading into the North End is that you need to head into the North End, which means you’re dropping about $50 to park, and that’s only after you spent 2 hours navigating every side street, arguing with your significant other over whether or not your hatchback could’ve fit in that 3-foot sliver of hope near the hydrant on Union St. The answer to that question is ultimately always a no; however, to a passenger, the prospect of it serves as valuable argumentative leverage for the next three hours.

Number two: The Italian food experience is expensive as fuck, and part of that reason is that you’re paying for the “ambience.” In other words, you’re dropping nearly two bills for your waiter shows up with a mediterranean bronze and a white towel hanging from his/her forearm. Also, they come around with pitchers of water, pouring it in a glass for you because obviously that’s something you can’t do yourself.

Number Three: Italian food is pretty cheap and easy to make. For those keeping score at home, I’m no Rachel Ray. I stick to the basics when I “cook.” That said, it doesn’t take Anthony Bourdain to boil spaghetti. If you want puttanesca, you’re looking at a $26 minimum, whereas if you got off your lazy ass and ripped a trip to Stop N’ Shop, you’re looking at roughly $6 worth of ingredients. Pasta’s cheap as shit. You can buy roughly 12 boxes of of it with whatever you can scrum together from your ash tray. If I dedicated a weekly pay check to angel hair, I could probably solve world hunger and shut that clown, Sara McLachlin, up for the next decade.

On that note, when I bought the pasta this morning, I came to the conclusion that there is a large swath of the population that needs to go. Population control is administered for a number of animals on this planet, but no one’s governing us.

What I’m referring to when I bring this up are the people that lug a shitload of items into the self check-out/13 items or less line. I understand the sign says 13 Items or less, but I consider that a friendly guideline. If you bring anywhere near 13 items into that line, you’re an asshole. Those lines are exclusively reserved for those with 8 or less items. If not, get to the back of the line with the 60+ year old woman with a pocket book overflowing with coupons. That’s what you get for flirting with the line. Get in and get out. That’s the name of the game over here. Play by the rules…

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)

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