The ScotchSquatch

It’s been a while, but I’m back inside a PF Changs opening unclaimed mail with a samurai sword.

In an unrelated note, can someone iron my green screen for me?

I will remember you, will you remember me? Don’t let your life pass you by. Weep not for the memories

Well, this is probably the worst thing to happen in the past four years.

My favorite childhood snack has been ripped out of my hands. All because you people didn’t know what you had until it was too late.

I watched you all eat your Drumsticks, your SpongeBob pops and your Screwballs like fucking idiots while I dripped ice cream and got taco shrapnel all over my clothes. And did I complain? Sure probably a little bit. But I kept going and kept eating those Choco Tacos every time the ice cream man came by or if I was stoned in a 7/11.

I’ll miss the crunch of that weirdly brown taco shell, filled perfectly with vanilla ice cream, fudge and peanuts. And if that wasn’t enough they gingerly dipped it into some kind of vat filled with chocolate, giving it the most perfectly thin chocolate shell. I’ll miss that the most.

I remember my first Choco Taco just as well as my last. As it was unaltered by time, like Hillary Clinton’s fashion sense or Kevin Spaceys sexual taste in men.

There are a few perfect things in this world, and one of them just disappeared.

Here I am five years ago eating a Choco Taco in some nice cargo shorts, something else that was taken away from me.

Seriously though God, why? Couldn’t you have taken the lady down the street who gives me dirty looks for smoking my very legal weed on my front porch. Couldn’t you strike her down while she fans her hand in front of her face like the smoke is having any effect on her 100 feet away?

Rest in paradise Choco Taco. We had one hell of a ride.

Listen, I wish rising gas prices didn’t make me so horny, but they do. It’s a shitty reality we have to accept. Like having bad knees as an adult or people pretending to like when Ellen Degeneres dances.

I am absolutely shocked, that as a nation of people who regularly shame the poor, that we are this sad about the rising cost of gas.

I mean, driving is a privilege, not a right. No one has the right to get to work safely, or the right to drive around this town and let the cops chase us around. I’ve heard of people acting like they’re born with a privilege, but nothing as bad as I’m seeing now with these people who think they should be able to afford to drive. George Washington didn’t write about driving in the constitution. Aborham Lincoln didn’t abolish people not being allowed to drive. Alexander Hamilton didn’t even rap about driving.

You do however have a right to party, and you’d better fight for that right. Rest in peace MCA.

I mean, imagine if the roads were only driven by us 1 percenters? That would make life so much easier. Less traffic, less littering, and less pollution in general. People lived thousands of years riding horses. If gas is too expensive for you, sell your Saturn and buy a horse. Horses don’t need gas. I think they eat grass and carrots and I don’t know probably dirt or something. And if you can’t afford those things then I don’t know; you’ve fucked up somewhere along the line real bad and you don’t belong on the road with the rest of us.

In this weeks episode I learned how green screen needs to be ironed properly before you use it. Also that it’s hard to edit videos after half a bottle of scotch.

Anyway, this weeks haul was pretty solid. Also, I don’t know why the audio is so low in the first few seconds, but it all works out.

We are coming at you folks live this week from Buffalo Wild Wings.

Shout out to my man Corey, the GM of Buffalo Wild Wings for letting us set up shop inside there this afternoon. Thank you for the pot stickers. You and your staff went above and beyond for me and the rest of my production crew.

Anywho, let’s get to this weeks findings.

As you can see, huge improvement from last weeks video games, which is just the motivation I need to keep buying unclaimed mail from sketchy sources.

Huge shout out to my good luck mahalo sweet potato for providing the good vibes. And sorry to two girls out there who I promised dildos or dresses if I were to receive any. Hoping for some in the next package.

On January 26th 2022 my life changed in the best way imaginable. No, I didn’t meet my soulmate, I think she’s still with Machine Gun Kelly. But I did discover that you can buy unclaimed mail. And that brings us to today, February 1st.

The eagle has landed folks. My package is currently sitting next to me, totally unopened. What could it be? Diamond earrings, a dildo, maybe gift cards to the liquor store? Who knows. I have a friend who really wants it to be a dildo. So right now, as the package sits, it could be anything. It could actually be a dildo. Or it could not. I’m living a real life Shrodinger’s Dildo.

Here is the big unveiling, enjoy.

Here is the note that came in the package.

I could use a few more sponsors for this website, I’ve got bills to pay, I am awaiting your generous offer PornHub.

As this video uploads I’ve already bought another unclaimed mail package. I am addicted to unclaimed mail.

I’ve noticed the past few months that there are just an absolute fuck ton of morons out there. So, as everyone’s resident ‘smartest person in the room’, I’m here to teach you wonderful folks a few things. And what better thing to start off with than the hot subject of NFTs.

When I first heard of an NFTs, I, just like everyone else thought it just meant Nice Fuckin Titties. Like, “Oh man did you see Jenna? She’s got some NFTs for sure.” And then the table next to me at Fridays doesn’t have to know I’m a pervert and me and the boys get to talk about yabos.

Turns out that it’s not what it means, in most circles anyway.

So much like anyone who posts a Facebook status lately, I did a little research of my own.

NFT stands for Non-Fungible Token. A non-fungible token is a non-interchangeable unit of data stored on a blockchain, a form of digital ledger. Think about the dollar, you can replace it with another dollar, and it’s worth the exact same amount. Now with an NFT there is nothing on earth that you can replace it with. It’s quite literally one of a kind. It is a totally unique piece of digital art work. Like how two pieces of shit are never the same.

Now sure, you can take a screenshot of it, and it will look the same, but, no rich person has a poster of a Picasso in their house. That’s some poor people shit.

Personally, I think NFTs are stupid. I bet in 20 years NFTs are gonna be like Beanie babies. If your friends find out you still have them they’re gonna call you a fucking loser.

Let’s just for one second think about how preposterous it is that people who aren’t professional food writers take time out of their day to not get paid to write two thousand words about a restaurant on Facebook. While we’re at it, lets think about how preposterous it is that people put literally any kind of value on these long drawn out reviews.

What a world we live in.

Here is an example of a good food review:

“Food was great. All fresh ingredients prepared well. Will definitely be back.”

Or

“Everything tasted like it was frozen. Did not enjoy.”

Now, here is an example of a not good food review:

“My husband Bryce and I looked forward all week to dining out, as he recently finished battling adult acne and he was finally feeling comfortable leaving the house again. The day was warm and the skies were clear, there was the laughter of children in the air-which we didn’t exactly love, as we were hoping for a night out without the kids.

I was in the mood for shrimp parmigiana, but they didn’t have any, even though there was a fried shrimp option on the menu and there was a children’s spaghetti option, so they probably could have made it work. Lazy maybe???

My husband ordered the steak au poivre between medium rare and medium and the steak came out just a touch more on the medium side. The pieces of peppercorn were not really strewn about the sauce evenly.

I ordered the salmon with a garlic caper butter and the sauce served on-top of it was unimaginative and just lacked a certain, je ne sais quoi.

We didn’t stay for dessert because Bryce’s mouth was on fire from the few pieces of peppercorn that were obviously not broken down enough. Not sure if we will back. Our waitress had some hand tattoos as well. Did NOT enjoy that, what if our children saw it?”

Now while you read that and think, “well that one is preposterous”, spend enough time perusing Facebook, and you will surely find a review or two on that level.

Now listen, I love Anthony Bourdain just as much as the next guy, but YOU ARE NOT HIM. Absolutely no one cares about your day or wants to read you waxing poetic about how the corn on the cob reminds you of your boyfriend in the summer of 96.

Imagine if someone showed up at your boring data entry job and wrote a review on your profession, a profession they know nothing about. “The way Carol entered in this quarters numbers was boring, lazy and fell totally flat. The way she hit the space bar five times instead of the tab key once was unimaginative and out of touch.”

Taco Bell has fucked my order up a million times, and still, I eat Taco Bell. And why? Because maybe next time will be better. And that’s what America was built on, hope that next time might be a little better, maybe.

So next time you’re gonna leave a 1500 word diatribe about your local mom and pop restaurant on Facebook, don’t. Literally do anything else. Paint a picture. Read a book. Ride a bike blindfolded. I don’t care, and nobody else does either.

Listen.

No one loves Taco Bell more than I do. It’s been the only real constant in my life thus far, and at one point, I would have done anything for Taco Bell. I’ve even gone as far as to publicly bash its competitors.

Now, a few days ago I Door Dashed some taco bell, like I usually do when battling a severe hangover, as my body relies on frozen Baja Blasts as an essential vitamin. I got my usual order. Two Crunchwrap Supremes with the addition of Creamy Jalapeno sauce (that delicious spicy sauce on the quesadilla- get it on everything, it’s a revelation).

I sat patiently, as my head pounded at a steady pace. As if the one armed drummer from Def Leppard was banging on my cranium as revenge for all the jokes I’ve made at his expense. The food arrived a prompt 25 minutes later.

I blasted my straw through the perforated hole in my Frozen Baja Blasts cup and threw the straw in my mouth and sucked until my head hurt. That’s when I ripped the bag open and pulled it out faster than I did on prom night. I unwrapped my circlular-ish shaped lil piece of heaven. Placed in back down gently on the wrapping paper. I grabbed some fire sauce and squirted all over, just like I did on prom night, most of it getting where it needed too. I grabbed my crunchwrap and dipped the edge and took a big bite…

No crunch.

What?

I took another bite. Once again, no crunch.

I put it back down and unwrapped it. They forgot to put the crunch part in. How on earth does that happen? And more importantly, why would this happen to me?

Devastated, I grabbed the other one and unwrapped it, ripping the burnt side wide open and once again, NO FUCKING SHELL.

Was this some kind of joke? Was Astchum Kitcher gonna jump out of my coat closet and tell me I’ve been Prunk’d?

Well he didn’t. And I wasn’t.

I guess God just hates me. Which makes, sense, I’ve seen the signs.

So I’ve been tweeting this to taco bell every day. This picture, a picture that would not be possible if it there WAS THE CRUNCH PART OF MY CRUNCHWRAP SUPREME.

So to say I’m mad might be the understatement of a lifetime. I’m inconsolable. I’m an actual nightmare to be around.