Fried-ay: Lawn Dads, Gyarados, and Pita Problems

Guys, guys, Guys! It’s Friday, which means it’s Fried-ay, which means it’s time to split open my brain, sever the connection between my left and right hemisphere, plunge my arm into to my right hemisphere and just start pulling shit out like I’m gutting a Pumpkin on October 15th.

For those unfamiliar with Fried-ay, you probably aren’t reading this blog, but I’m still going to explain it for some reason because that’s just what I do. Fried-ay is a running series of blogs I pump out every week that consist of absolutely nothing but mindless drivel. If you’re looking for a metaphorical soliloquy regarding the various idiosyncrasies of the Palestinian/Israeli conflict, navigate somewhere else; if you’re looking to read about me bitch about customer service, then you’ve made the right call. Let’s get into it…

I managed to get a new job recently, however, the start date isn’t for a week or so. In the meantime, I’ve been picking up various lawn jobs—cleanups, fertilization, yadda yadda yadda—and realized I’m officially transitioning into the first “Dad” stage.

When I say that, I mean there are a short list of things dads care about. Outside of their trucks and the bank shot, their lawn is probably the most important, and I’m starting to actually get it. For some reason, the more yard work I do, the more my masculinity gets woven into the roots along the driveway. Earlier today, I found myself looking over a patch of crab grass like a disappointed little league coach asking for the ball from his starting pitcher—just absolutely disgusted by the results but you know there’s nothing you can do.

I went out to eat last night at this place on the water called [No Free Ads]. It’s one of those ritzy joints that refuses to sell anything less than $25. Not to mention, it’s located on the water so obviously 75% of the menu is seafood and I hate seafood. The only seafood I like is Magikarp because I know if I keep it around long enough, it will eventually evolve into Gyarados, which will allow me to control the coastline.

Once the evolution is over, the coast is toast. I plan on riding that son of a bitch back and forth along the shore like Mel Gibson on his horse during the William Wallace freedom speech from Braveheart. Once I control the sea, I’ll scare away all the local patrons, put every seafood place within two area codes out of business, and begin monopolizing the one industry I’ve had my eyes on for the last couple years or so: the Pita industry.

There’s this place down the street from me called Extreme Pita. Bunch of soft serve cucks. A few years ago, I was ravenous following a day of snorting pre-workout and having sex so I decided to, well, grab a Pita. I roll up to this place at 7:35 PM, only to be denied by a locked door. I peer through the window to see two employees and a manager waving me off. Instinctively, I point to the hours of operation sign that clearly stated the establishment was open from 11 AM–8 PM. They just continued to wave me off until I walked away.

Bad move, Pita man. You can mess with the bull but don’t dance with the horns. This cocksucker denied the WRONG patron that day. I’m about to turn this incident into a year-long Tarantino-esque revenge story real quick…

Once I shut down every seafood place from here to Cape Cod, the renovation begins. I’ll turn every one of those places into either a Pita Planet or a Pita Place. People will come long and far to sink their teeth into my pitas and pet my newly domesticated Gyarados—who I have, by that time, trained to do quirky/wacky tricks for delighted pita patrons on the roof deck of my pita chains.

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)