Fried-Ay: Taylor Swift, Trail Mix, And Exterminators…

Guys, guys, GUYS!!! It’s Friday, which means it’s Fried-ay, which means it’s time for me to make up for missing last week with a flurry of thoughts and opinions that have been brewing within the confines of my cerebellum for the last 22 seconds.

For those unfamiliar with Fried-ay, avoid any fret because I explain the gist of it every week. Fried-ay is the blogosphere’s golden retriever. It wags its tail, sleeps when it wants, and loves you unconditionally. It’s carefree, yet thoughtful, full of youthful exuberance—the personification of joy and naïveté. Essentially, it’s a blog I just show up and pump out on the spot with no intent to make sense whatsoever.

I’ve never been a huge Taylor Swift fan. Normally, given her polarity, I would have a pretty radical opinion on Tay Swift. I would either love her or hate her but I just flat out don’t know what to think here. On one hand, I should love the fact she’s awkward and just rips into her exes and blah blah blah but I don’t. The reason for that, I believe, is that I think she knows it. I think her “schtick” was once genuine, but once you become self aware and start living the gimmick, you lose that shimmer.

All that said, her new album is absolute SMOKE, which was a breath of fresh air because her last single—that look what you made me do shit—nearly gave me a stroke. Great but still not as good as that Kesha album that came out of nowhere a year or so ago and blew a hole through the o-zone layer. Best songs: “Lover” (naturally), “I Forgot That You Existed,” and “Paper Rings.”

So until further notice, I will be working nothing but night shifts. It’s honestly not that bad but one of the drawbacks is finding something to eat at 4 AM in the morning; therefore, I’ve reverted to crushing reprehensible amounts of trail mix.

Here’s the deal though: Is there anyone worse than the person who brags about bringing their own trail mix? It’s nauseating. Anytime I buy a bag of Planters, there’s always someone in the dining hall that feels the need to deliver a 5-minute soliloquy on why they implement the assortment of dried fruit and nuts that they do. Like Donna, no one gives a fuck you sometimes “cheat” and add Reese’s Pieces. You’re not Anthony Bourdain. You threw a bunch of pistachios in a bag. Shut the fuck up and go back to the Sudoku you’ve been working on since Monday…

I came home to my apartment yesterday and saw a note pinned to our door. When I opened up the note, the first line of the letter informed me that the “exterminator would be arriving at our place” the next day around 10 AM. I can’t lie, I was a little spooked. I thought I did something wrong. I thought I was in for some Game of Thrones shit.

That was, however, until I remembered that we had a mice problem and that’s just what they call dudes who kill mice professionally. Quick question: Is there any cooler sounding profession or position than exterminator? The only thing I can think of is Grand Wizard, but that refers to the head of the KKK which believe is problematic these days. Fuckin’ liberals smh…

Anyway, I’m now sort of pumped for tomorrow. I want to catch a glimpse of this savage. I hope he’s a fucking badass who rolls up in a black Pontiac Grand Am with flames on the side blaring Billy Idol. Then he steps out in a beekeeper costume complete with a blood-stained welder’s mask and says something out of a 1980s Stallone movie.

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)