Fried-Ay: Norah Jones, Boston Marathons, and Easter Food…

Guys, guys, GUYS! It’s officially Friday, which means it’s Fried-ay, which means I’m blasting Norah Jones’ 2002 Come Away With Me album as a part of something I’ve called Norah Jones Fridays, or more appropriately, Norah Jones Fried-ays.

For those of you familiar with Fried-ay, dismiss the next few sentences; for those of you unfamiliar with Fried-ay, you’re probably a well rounded contributing cog of society but I still need to explain myself a bit. Fried-ay is a blog I write every Friday because my brain is fried from a week of unsubscribing from promotional emails and ignoring Pornhub friend requests. It’s where I dump a laundry list of ideas/concepts deemed unfit for an individual blog post and refuse to string them together with any sense of continuity. In others words, it’s just a onslaught of run-on sentences.

I don’t have much today, however, the Boston Marathon took place on Monday and I have some thoughts… For the record, everyone knows I’m a world class athlete. I don’t like to publicize it or talk about myself but I most likely would be in 2-3 separate professional sports’ Hall of Fames if it weren’t for the fact I sprained my ankle during 4th grade football.

That said, don’t cry for me Saigon. There are a lot of things that I have done in my spare time since the injury to fill that void. I’m a competitor, which is why I treat my body like a temple, filling it with only the finest cheap vodka and frozen pizza. I hit the gym twice a day and Planet Fitness literally shuts down. People come long and far to catch a glimpse of me chewing up and spitting out 7-minute miles on the treadmill.

In other words, I was born for a days like Monday. The Boston Marathon is known for two things: the resiliency of the human spirit and fucking dope track jackets. For the record, I’m the breathing embodiment of both. I have viciously fought through the adversity of my sprained ankle with the intensity of a ravenous cobra; as for the dope track jacket aspect of all this, I actually have one. I didn’t get one for running the marathon though because I’m not some soft serve, candy coated, participation trophy-earning cuck. I won it in a closest-to-the-pin challenge at a golf tournament. 140-yard Par 3 that I parked within a couple centimeters of the cup.

So yeah, I wanted to run. I wanted to win, but I had work that day and life is about sacrifice. Would it have been great to assert myself as “The Great White Hope” and win one for Boston/Ben Affleck? Of course, however, I harbor an allegiance to occupational integrity. As much as Boston deserves this win, they aren’t signing my paycheck so I have adhere to priority on this one.

Easter is this Sunday for all of you Jews, Muslims, [insert whatever religion doesn’t celebrate Easter] out there, you’re missing out. For the record, Christmas is and always will be king, however, I’d be hardpressed to suggest Easter isn’t my second favorite holiday.

For starters, I dominate Easter Egg hunts, but since I’ve already wrote my annual blog on that, I’ll stick to what’s most important: the food. Outside of ham (which is dope), there really isn’t any traditional meal that all families are bullied into making. For the record, Thanksgiving food SUCKS. Stuffing is repulsive and if you eat it you’re a pedophile. In fact, the only good thing on Thanksgiving is turkey, which inevitably puts me in a coma before I can even strikeout my little cousins in wiffleball (they’re hacks).

Long story short, what I eat on Easter is essentially dealer’s choice, which is a great thing. Italians have their pros and cons but Italian food is widely regarded as pretty awesome. Just a shitload of carbs on top of carbs and the Italian side of my family is pretty good at it. I plan on euthanizing 4-5 bowls of cavetellis and dying during the Celtics’ eventual sweep of the Pacers, only to wake up around 5 PM to catch the Sox blow yet another divisional game against the Rays. Can’t beat that.

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)