Jingle Balls, Jingle Balls, Nerdy All the Way!

~Riss 

It's Christmas! Eddie and Rob are likely to bahumbug for the next month. Eddie moreso than Rob; I'm pretty sure he was the original inspiration for the Grinch. Regardless, I'm gonna celebrate anyway, so woohoo!

I decided to kick off the holiday season by inviting some friends over and making some ornaments. I've never painted ornaments before, but I'm always down for craft time. I went to JOANN fabrics and picked up a 25 pack of plastic ornaments for $9.99. I also grabbed an acrylic paint set for $12.99. Joann's has a great app and they always have fantastic coupons on there. 

After throwing in a couple coupons and tax I walked out for just under $18. I used some palettes from the dollar tree that came 6 for a dollar. So for under $20 we had the stuff for 25 ornaments. My friends and I winged it on a few. After a few snowflakes and basic stuff, I turned to my myriad of fandoms for inspiration on the rest. People tell me I watch too much TV, but I showed them! Eddie attempted to make one but gave up about halfway through. He may be many things but crafty is not one of them.
After they dried, I simply sprayed a clear coat of Modge Podge on the ornaments to protect the paint and the finished product is ready for the tree! Pictured are a few of our favorites.

Top: Wolverine, "Ho Ho Hodor", Kirby, TARDIS
Middle: Jack Skellington, Rocky Horror Lips, Stranger Things, Harry Potter, Baby Groot
Bottom: Buffy, (non fandom) Bird, Grinch, Boo, Sunflower

Alastor

~Edd

Most posts we do are for you. Sure we’re pandering to our own egos, but we genuinely thinks the things we say and do will be interesting, insightful, or at least entertaining for you, the audience. This one is for me.

My cat, Alastor, died this morning. It was unexpected. I woke up at about 7:30 AM, because he was meowing for me to feed him, as usual in the morning. I woke up, fed him, and went back to sleep. He was fine, and normal: Purring, bumping my hand out of the way when I put his food down like he was starving to death… fat little bastard. Around 11:30 AM my roommate wakes me up and says, “Eddie… I think Alastor passed away.” He was already stiff. There was nothing around his mouth, no injuries, nothing to indicate how he died. He had been eating fine, and acting completely normal… until he wasn’t acting at all.

I went to home depot and bought a shovel. That was one of the most melancholy drives I’ve taken in a long time. I came back and buried him in the back yard. The soundtrack to the movie The Fountain played while I dug a grave. It was overly dramatic and macabre, but fuck it. I was sad.

Named after the Harry Potter character, Alastor “Mad Eye” Moody was the one-eyed, ginger cat that I rescued about a year ago. Nobody knew at the rescue how he lost his eye, so I said he lost it in the Wizarding Wars, and that “you should see the other guy.” He spent the first 3 weeks with me under my bed, and the next 3 months jumping at shadows. After that, he got fat and it was constant tail-up happiness. He got to the point where he would approach strangers and was curious, not frightened, of visiting people and animals. He was happy. He was perfect.

I got Alastor because I wanted to help. Several days prior, Riss and Rob left my place, and called a little after and said that there was a cat with no face outside, it was a weird conversation.  Later that day I left for whatever reason, and the cat was still there. It was sitting, bread loaf style, facing away from traffic in the very middle of the street. I pulled up next to it, my tire literally about 8 inches from it. It didn’t move. I made some noises behind it, still it didn’t move. Then I reached out to touch it. When I touched its back, it turned its head to me and my heart died. Its face was gone, probably rotted away from a wound or something. It made a noise. Not a cry, or a hiss, more like a despondent and resigned sigh. I had intended to help the cat, or get it to move, but looking at it, and it “looking” at me, I realized it had chosen this place to die. It hoped to get hit by a car and end it. I nodded, knowing it didn’t see me, but I wanted it to know I understood and respected its decision. I drove away and tried to call animal control, shelters, the sheriff, 911. They were either closed or didn’t care. Nobody could help this faceless and pitiful creature. I came back later and the cat wasn’t where I had left him. I found it on the crosswalk not far from where it was before. It had gotten its wish.  I cried.

Purrfection

I’m gonna be really candid for a second, and tell you that this shit fucked me up. I had dreams about this poor cat. I thought about it for days. There was nothing I could do to help it, but I wanted to help. I looked online at some of the cat rescues in town, and what is the first damn cat I see? A one-eyed orange cat named Archie. It was like a sign. I couldn’t save the no-eyed cat, but I could save this one-eyed one, and that was a start. I met him, and was told that he hated to be held, and he was super skittish. After we coaxed him out and I had tentatively played with him for a bit, I picked him up and talked to him. He stressed for about 3 seconds, then relaxed into me. He knew what I was about. We had a mutual respect.

Alastor was derpy, and bossy, and fat, and I loved him very much. He was sweet, and loving, and only stank sometimes. He was the loudest purring cat I’ve ever met, and all it took was looking in his direction to set it off. His claws were sharp, but he hated them to be clipped, and my GOD did he shed! Everything I own has an orange patina. He would always rub up against my legs when I was still wet from the shower, so the inside of all my pants are fur-lined. He had zero chill, and would routinely watch me in the bathroom. I felt bad that I was gone a lot, but he was always happy to see me when I returned.  I have no idea how he died, but he didn’t seem to be sick, or in pain, or anything. He never complained about anything unless I was slow with his food. But I do know that he was loved, and he had a happy home, and that’s enough, I guess. I’ll miss you buddy.

Turducken: The Reason for the Season.

~Edd

Ah, Turducken: The meal, the myth, the legend. A turkey, stuffed with a duck, stuffed with a chicken. Rarely is humanity's victory and mastery over nature so clearly depicted. The hubris of it!  Last year we bought one, and it was delicious, but we wanted more. We needed to make one! I know what you're thinking: This post should've come before Thanksgiving so we can emulate you and your Meta-fowl escapades! Sorry, we were busy making a franken-bird.

*Disclaimer* If you're not a cook, but want to experience this marvel of culinary engineering, you can purchase them online and have them shipped. Occasionally you can find them around this time of year in grocery stores, also. A turducken roll is a few pounds of stuffed breast meat(s) and will typically run you about $40. Whole birds can easily be more than $100.

We were at Aldi, as most good stories start.
Rob and Riss looked at turkeys, along with the cart.
I have a deficit of attention, it's not something I've chosen,
So away I wandered, over to food that is frozen.
And what did I see with my little eye?
Cornish hens and whole ducks that were piled quite high!
The lightbulb went off. This idea was the best!
We'll make a turducken for our Friendsgiving Fest!
With a gobble, a cluck, and one mighty quack!
$35 later, we had our Turducken starter-pack.

When you cook this rare beast, one thing, it is known
The first thing to do is remove all the bones.
Riss and I took turns mangling the fowl.
Then rebuilding our monstrosity, with stuffing and trowel.
A small Cornish Hen is the bird we first cut
Mistakes here don't matter, since it's deep in the gut.
The duck lost her bones, as well as her skin.
Duck skin is too greasy to leave it within.
Then on to the gobbler, the largest of our birds.
The reality of this dish was becoming absurd.

Our stuffing was easy, simply sausage, onion, bread crumb,
Plus one handful of sage, measured pinky to thumb.
Mixed in a bowl, with a dash of broth for wetness.
This went between the layers of our meaty greatness.
Then once it was full, we stitched it back up!
This epic mountain of bird, it surely was stuffed!
Riss saw it was nude, a risk that can't be taken.
So she made it a bikini made entirely of bacon.
Between all the birds, we had so much gravy.
Why just thinking of it, makes my brain kind've hazy.

Bacon Bikinis: Because anything less would be lewd.

We went out drinking on Friendsgiving eve.
Returning at 2, which was great timing indeed.
Straight to the oven went our feast of Turducken,
Where it was all but ignored, for we were quite drunken.
No brining, no basting, no tending did it get.
But that's not a problem, the inside was still wet.
Sausage stuffing and duck are both a touch greasy,
Which means keeping the meat moist is really quite easy!
Just 200 degrees, for nearly 12 hours.
And when it was eaten, guests said we had powers!

So that is the story of our Friendsgiving Feast!
For questions and details, leave comments at least.

The Sanctity of What?

~Rob

So, I'm happily married. But you know that by now, as roughly half of these posts so far are about my wedding. I'm extremely happily married. I love my wife with everything I have, and will readily volunteer that information to every single person I come in contact with. At work, I randomly sigh out loud, and say "Man, I love my wife." No prompting, no context, just love. It's extremely irritating to co-workers, fyi. I routinely drive 500 miles round trip just to spend a few hours with her. No one can doubt my commitment. That is, unless I'm dressed in a Penguin onsie as a part of a bar crawl with some friends. Then apparently I look super ready to mingle. I'm not, but the penguin is a natural aphrodisiac. We began the bar crawl at a very cool taproom, known as Pour. If you want to hear more about Pour, we reviewed it here.

Something you should know about me going forward: I have absolutely no clue if women are hitting on me. Any time it happens, I just think "Wow, this lady is really nice. Maybe she'll like Carissa, too". In retrospect, she probably wouldn't.

So there we all are, dressed in our fuzzy outfits. I go to fetch a beer from one of the many taps, and some lady approaches me and begins talking to me. I think nothing of it, fully concerned with my beer, when my wife approaches. At this point the lady immediately turned away, and I continued about my night, still oblivious. Later, my wife mentioned that the lady had been giving her dirty looks from that point on. This was the last time my marriage would be respected or acknowledged for the rest of the night.

Pictured: Pure Sex

Eventually we make it to a crowded place that does karaoke on weekends. This is where things took a turn for the worst. At one point, I go to the bar to fetch some liquid singing juice. A woman in her mid-40's approaches me and strikes up a conversation. And by conversation, I mean she begins rubbing my chest. No warning, no permission, just a cougar \vigorously rubbing my pecs through my fuzzy penguin pajamas. Taking offense, I tell her that I'm sorry, but I'm married. She keeps rubbing and says "It's okay, I'm not doing anything wrong, right?". FUCKING YES, YOU ARE. BITCH, SWERVE. I move on down the bar.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Maybe he's just overreacting. They weren't possibly as horrid and thirsty as all that." At one point I stopped a girl and, once again, said that sorry, but I have a wife. She responded immediately: "That's fine, I have a boyfriend. Who cares?" DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELF?! I AM VERY CLEARLY MARRIED AND YOU HAVE A DAMN BOYFRIEND! Seriously, if even I can tell you're hitting on me, you're trying way too hard.

My pajamas of choice have a tail on the back, as penguins do. I'm nothing if not particular about the anatomical accuracy of my jammies. This tail however, quickly became the scourge of my evening. Women felt the need to grab it, pull it, aggressively fondle it, and use it as an excuse to touch my butt. It genuinely made no difference that I literally waved my ring in their face. At one point, I broke all sense of propriety and politeness and told a woman, "Look, my wife is six feet tall and will beat you. Leave me and my tail alone". My threat was hollow but at no point throughout my evening did any of this stop.

What happened to the sanctity of marriage? Are millennials over-sexualizing penguins? I haven't a clue, apparently. What I do know is this: if you plan to wear a penguin onsie out in public, prepare for the repercussions. And more importantly, I know that I believe in marriage. It is still very much real for me, and I don't think it is acceptable to hit on married men or women. And not just that, it isn't
acceptable to aggressively hit on and touch people after they ask you to stop.  I was sexually harassed literally all night and there is a certain amount of humor because I was obviously in zero danger but the lack of respect for another person is disappointing.

Fears of a Fat Bride

~Riss

Most people talk about their upcoming wedding day with excitement. I was not one of those people. I mean, I was excited to marry the love of my life and I was excited to spend the day celebrating with my best friends. There was one huge dark cloud hanging over my head, though, and that was the pictures. As a size 24, plus size woman I was terrified that I would look like the world's fanciest sack of potatoes no matter how hard I tried. Don't get it twisted...I don't think I am ugly by any means, this isn't a "woe is me" post. I can take a selfie like nobody's business, but it usually feels like I've got nine chins and a fivehead when someone else takes the photo.

Pictured: Expectations

I absolutely loved the dress I wore on my wedding day. I'd love to take credit for picking it, but I can't. I wanted to be cheap and "more sensible" because I was convinced it wouldn't make a difference in the pictures, just another potato sack. Rob on the other hand thinks that I can wear anything and had the dream of me wearing what he called "a big beautiful princess dress." Since I had no real attachment to a style, I figured I would at least entertain his vision. I didn't have many options in Wilmington, NC. The samples in my size were usually very limited and many were a bit
dated. I went with friends to try things but felt a little embarrassed by my lack of options and overwhelmed by their opinions on how I should look. This didn't help my confidence in the matter. David's bridal had the most selection, but the quality of the dress would have called for numerous added costs including alterations, custom corsets or extra length orders. The potato fear was alive and well.

Pictured: Reality

I was alone in a nearby town when I found the dress. Rob was at a Silkies Hike in Jacksonville, N.C and I had time to kill. I stopped in Classics and began to rummage through dozens of beautiful and modern gowns (in my size!). The first one I picked up made my face light up. I had wanted to try this particular style since my search began but couldn't find one in my size.
My expectations were set low as I wiggled into the dress. There was no dressing room mirror so I had go out and stand in front of the large triple mirror. The second I stepped into the pedestal my heart started pounding. I had minimal makeup and messy hair but when I looked at that mirror I felt like a princess. I took pics and walked away that day, but it haunted me for weeks until I came back for it. Rob drove me there, demanding I buy a dress he had never seen just because he had seen the look on my face when I talked about it. Sometimes I need an extra push.

Two of my bridesmaid are very talented cosmologists. They were doing my hair and my makeup for the wedding. They know exactly what I like and are very, very capable of making my dream a reality. At this point, I'm still convinced I won't like my pictures.

With the wedding on a cruise ship, I am aware that once I get on the ship I have done all that I can do. It's a freeing feeling in many ways. No super-last-minute shopping or mind-changing allowed. I have what I have. It's locked in, final answer. But what if I forget something? What if I need something and it's not there?

This is my 'brave face'

I built my confidence up as much as possible the days before the wedding but that all comes crashing down the morning of the big day. After dreaming that my front teeth fell out in my sleep, I awake nervous as Harvey Weinstein at a Women's Rights rally. My girls are ready to go with breakfast and mimosas and we jump right in. Having multiple people primping me only for dozens more to take photos of me is my worst nightmare but I try to put on a brave face. Unfortunately my acting skills are lacking. The mimosas helped.

Minutes before I'm set to leave we complete the final touches on my look. I've never been overly emotional or romantized my wedding day but the first time I looked in the mirror completely put together, I saw myself the way Rob always describes me. I made my shaky way down to my entrance and as my grandfather takes my arm to walk my down the aisle, my fears just melt away. I'm not worried about how I look or what it will look like in photos.. I'm just overwhelmingly happy. I feel the love in the room, and I see the love in his eyes, and I walk toward him. This is the only thing that matters. I'm so happy after the ceremony that I pay very little attention to all the photos we pose for. The pre-mimosas have also fully kicked in so I'm feeling a lot looser. We have photos before and after the ceremony. The after ones are a bit more turnt than we had originally planned, but everything was fun. The weight of the wedding was lifted and I felt 50 pounds lighter.

A day later we received a notice that our photos are ready to view. I've told myself that, by this point, hating the photos will just save me a ton of money anyway. I tell myself, "I had a great time and I'll have that forever. That's good enough." I sit down, fully braced to see dozens of unflattering photos of my happy day. I was wrong. I was wrong in so many ways. I loved every photo more than the last. I didn't look perfect in them, but I looked beautiful. My smiles were real and you could feel our love coming through the image. I realized how foolish I had been for the hell I had put myself through worrying about looking "perfect."
I was happy and it showed. The only downside to the entire ordeal was how much it cost us to buy everything. Since that day, I've taken many more less than perfect photos. It helped in ways I never expected. Happiness is beautiful and it was a hard lesson to learn.

Pretty Fly for a Fat Guy: The Importance of Pants

~Edd

In this episode of Pretty Fly for a Fat Guy, I learn a valuable lesson about pride versus reality.
So let me start with a question: how many of you are excited with going up a clothing size? Literally nobody? Alright, thought so.
Throughout my childhood, my mother always told me that my pants should fit at my natural waist. [Correct] She then proceeded to buy pants that did that, but sat about an inch above my ankle. [Incorrect] So I started wearing my pants lower to compensate, right under my childlike potbelly. This became habit, and right up until yesterday, this is how I wore my pants. There are come pros and cons of this.
Pro: My waist is significantly larger than the pant sizes you'll see at your average department store, so wearing them low means I can actually find pants.
Con: Wearing your pants too low results in plumbers' crack. We've all seen it, and the image cannot be scrubbed from our brains. It's an epidemic that plagues fat guys everywhere.
Pro: Finding an appropriately sized belt is also way easier.
Con: Sagging your pants super low causes what I like to call "dumpy butt." This is where the seat of your pants sags down, robbing you of a butt, and making it look like you took a dump in your shorts.

It looks like a weight loss photo, but it's just the pants!

 Apparently, wearing your pants below your stomach accentuates your stomach.
The top row shows the pants that I was wearing that day, where I've been wearing them for years. The bottom row is a much larger waist size, worn where they're SUPPOSED to be.
Riss had a hard time convincing me to go up that many sizes. I fought it tooth and nail. "I've never been that big," I whined, and other such bullshit excuses. Then I tried a pair that she gave me, and I said to myself, "self, you look damn fine." Trick was right...
I was so ashamed to go up to a real size, that I was making myself look, and feel, bigger. By sucking up my pride and buying the appropriate pair of pants for my body, I made a HUGE difference. As you can see from the picture, it smoothed out my lines, reduced the appearance of my stomach, and completely got rid of my muffin tops.
The pants I wore were 42x32, then pants I bought were Lee Extreme Motion, Straight Fit, size 48x42. The shirt is a Saddlebred 2XL (Long) botton-down collar shirt, and the sweater is a Chaps Cotton Mockneck 2X regular. Everything was purchased at Belk Big and Tall.

Pretty Fly for a Fat Guy

Intro

I'm gonna face facts: I'm not hot, and I never will be. I'm not saying I'm ugly, I'll just never have the traits that men need in this modern era to be classified as "hawt." I'll never have a chiseled jaw line, or 6 pack abs, or the little V line at your waist that says you're in great shape. I'll never have these because I don't intend to dedicate the time that they require. My lifestyle does not match with the amount of time and energy it would take to get "shredded." I like food too much to only eat the lean chicken and whey powder my diet would call for.

This was me in High School. You're welcome, ladies.

I'm 6'4", currently over 300 lbs. I'm a big dude. I'm working on that, but it takes time, and I'll never not be a big dude. So, knowing in my heart of at-risk-hearts that I won't look great with my clothes off, I like to look as good as possible with my clothes on. I haven't always thought this way. High school Edd wore silk dragon shirts, cargo pants, and literal rose-colored glasses. It was a dark time.
In college, Riss and another friend took me shopping. They made me get "outfits" and things that "matched" and didn't look "awful." What a nightmare that was! But then I got used to it, and I liked the way it looked, and then I went further, buying suits, and fancy socks, and ties, and shirts that fit, and fashionable shoes. It's a slippery slope. I may never be hot, but I can at the very least be stylish.
It's not easy being a stylish fat guy. The largest shirt you can find in department stores is a 2X, sometimes. The largest pants you can find is around a 40x32. And I'm saying you can FIND them, but not that they'll have anything resembling selection or variety. They're also going to cost extra much of the time, a fat tax. And if you're bigger than that, or it doesn't fit right? Good luck. You're relegated to awkward cuts, fewer choices, and/or tight, poorly-fitted clothing.
Lately I've seen a lot of body-positive stories surrounding plus-sized female models. This is great news, because it means that companies will finally start designing for plus-sized women, which has been a major issue for a long time. For the time being, big dudes still don't have that representation, so for now, we wait. The struggle is real.
Recently, I've discovered some things that help me stay ahead of the game, stay stylish. In this series I'll take you through the trials and tribulations of being a stylish fat guy, with tips, tricks, and photos.

Review: Empanada Harry's

~Edd

On the way down to the Port of Miami for the Cruise, I stopped at Empanada Harry’s in the West Kendall area of Miami. In a strip mall next to a questionable TexMex place and a Crossfit gym, I was skeptical, but the Google reviews were solid, so we gave it a try. I’m so glad we did! They have empanadas in the style of at least 5 different countries, croquetas, cachapas, arepas, pastries, and specialty coffees. The staff was fast and friendly, and the food was excellent! I ordered 2 empanadas, a cheese twist thing, and a cappuccino. It was $11. These were the best empanadas I’ve had possibly ever, and the coffee was great! 

Taste

4.5 out of 5.0

Price

4.0 out of 5.0

Final Verdict

4.0 out of 5.0

"Adults" at Dinner

On the first night of our cruise, one of the guys with us (who is 34 fucking years old) decided it would be fun/funny to throw bread at a different wedding guest at a different table during dinner. That shit's not cool, so I made him pick it up in front of everyone,  because 1) That's not how adults act at a nice dinner with cloth napkins, and 2) the wait staff will have to pick that shit up and let's not make their thankless job any worse by being assholes. Cheers and laughs and applause.
On the 6th night of our cruise, a groomsman comes to my table and hands me a chunk of bread and says that Guest A is throwing bread again. I stand up, breaking the bread into 2 little pieces as I do, and go over to the bread thrower. He's wearing a hat, so I take it off his head, put a piece of bread in it, and put it back on his head. "This is for being a child and throwing bread, again." Laughs and applause. I then go to the groomsman and do the same to him. "This is for tattling." More laughs and applause.
Morals of the story?
1. Public shaming is an acceptable form of punishment, and fun at any age
2. Snitches get stitches
3. Too bad I don't want kids, or else I'd make a decent parent.