Saturday at the club

​Saturday at the Club 

A rotisserie chicken package lies on the top layer of a pallet of tortilla chips. It won’t be discovered for three more hours when it will then need to be thrown away. An abandoned shopping cart sits nearby—its contents, two crushed packages of ground beef underneath a forty-pound case of bottled water. The juices from the meat drip onto the concrete floor. A man passes by eating a footlong hotdog. He stops momentarily, burps loudly, and continues on his way, his burp lingering still. A woman screams, “Kayden!” 

Three different boys all look her way, but none of them is the right Kayden. “Kayden!” She shouts again, frantically stomping around looking for her child, searching between pallets and inside trash cans. She’s wearing an oversized leather tactical soccer mom backpack packed to the brim with thermoses, applesauce pouches, baby wipes, diapers, a change of clothes, sunblock, bug spray, bear mace, needle-nose pliers, an extra phone charger, an iPad, and a pair of binoculars. This woman is prepared for any and everything the universe could possibly throw at her, and her only oversight was forgetting to actually keep an eye on her child. “Kayden!” She calls out a third time in exasperation. He is located a minute later, three aisles away, karate chopping loaves of bread. 

A man viciously coughs directly into his hands, then touches eleven different jars of mayonnaise before deciding it would be better for him to buy a smaller one at the regular grocery store.   

A woman places a box of noodles in her cart, crosses another item off her list, and giddily asks her husband if they can go look at granola bars. He nods his head approvingly but appears to be miles away. On the inside, he’s yearning for the golf course. Longing for that joyful feeling he gets on the green hanging out with his boys while soaking up the sun and crushing cans of Coors Light. But their marriage counselor suggested spending more time together, so instead of an 11:00 a.m. tee time, he’s here shopping for noodles. “Want to get frozen yogurt after this?” His wife inquires. He nods his head again and dies a little inside. 

A woman shakes her fist in the air and tells at no one in particular, “Where the hell did you move the coffee to this time, you bastards!” You don’t react because she seems unhinged, but wait a moment or too before proceeding on the off chance that someone nearby knows the answer, as you also can’t find the coffee. 

An elderly man sits down on a pallet of Dr.Pepper and rests his head against a steel beam. The excitement of the day evidently too much for him to bear. 

A child blows his nose and sets the tissue on an end-cap. A bird flies overhead. How long has it been inside? No one quite knows for sure.

Two long-lost friends reunite in the middle of the bread aisle and stand there for twenty minutes reminiscing about earlier times when they stood in everyone’s way. 

An Instacart employee scans a carton of eggs and recklessly tosses them on a flatbed. The customer won’t discover they’ve been pre-scrambled until much later after the tip has already been paid. 

A man spits out at a free sample on the floor right next to a trash can. A woman coming from the other direction steps in it, then uses a wet floor sign left out from a previous spill to scrape it off her shoe. The hot dog guy from earlier watches this incident with a look of disgust on his face, then tosses his hot dog wrapper on a pallet of macaroni and cheese. 

Kayden sprints past you, once again unsupervised and nearly collides with your cart. A baby awakes and begins to cry. In the distance, sirens sound. Is this an emergency? Should you evacuate? Is the building on fire? No one seems to know or care. The chaos ensues. A few more babies begins to cry. A young man near you calls his girlfriend and reminds her to take her birth control. 

A man sneezes on an entire tray of free samples. Evidently this is a routine occurrence as the old lady doling out the samples doesn’t blink an eye. She simply tosses the whole tray away and begins filling it again.  An oblivious lady talking way too loudly on her Bluetooth crashes her cart into a pallet of EVOO. Dozens of bottles crash to the floor. A woman slips and falls. Someone shouts out, “Dear God!” Oil is everywhere. 

The cacophony of crying babies has intensified. You estimate that as many as 70 babies are now screaming at the top of their lungs. Your anxiety is through the roof. You must escape. Taking a risk, you abandon your cart and leap over the oil spill, bust a spin move around a guy wearing overalls eating a Slim Jim, and sidestep your way through the center of the store near the patio furniture and gardening equipment. You sigh in disbelief. What were you thinking coming here? It’s Saturday afternoon for chrissakes, you should know better. A veteran napping on a patio swing display startles himself awake, and his service animal nips at your heels, almost causing you to fall. You somehow manage to maintain your balance, veer left, take a few steps, and stop dead in your tracks. 

“Who do you have for cell service?” 

“Hey, what’s up? We’re helping out members today.” 

“Come here, let me holla at you a minute.”

Oh no. In your haste, you accidentally walked right into the gauntlet of super aggressive cell-phone salespeople! 

“I don’t even have a phone!” You shout, much to their consternation. “Never had one!” You continue. “I still use messenger pigeons.” 

Then the most serendipitous thing happens. The bird from before, or maybe a different bird, Lord knows how many birds are inside this building, nevertheless, a bird flies overhead taking the attention of all three cell phone goons, giving you the perfect opportunity to slip away. A few aisles later, you tuck yourself behind an endcap. Enough of this, you think to yourself. Just leave. Try again another day. Suddenly, a gust of air blows on the back of your neck, and you turn to find one of those cool looking globe fans that rotate both vertically and horizontally. Standing there, staring in awe at this amazing appliance bobbing up and down and side to side, the cool breeze softly caressing your cheek, you feel a wave of inspiration washing over you. What an innovative piece of technology. You decide it would make a terrific addition to your living room, pick one up, and make a decision. You’re going back for your cart. No more messing around! You’re finishing this shopping trip. Your redemption arc starts now. 

You check your phone to read a text and an elderly woman on a motorized cart nearly side-swipes you, causing you to leap three feet backwards. “No, no,” you whisper to yourself. “Not today, Satan.” Courageously, you carry on. 

You blast back through the center section, the cool-down from the globe fan literally giving you a second wind, squeezing between two slow walkers, then zig-zagging around a married couple having a domestic dispute over which kind of barbecue sauce to buy. One by one, you begin checking items off your list. Tortillas, check. Peanut butter, check. Cheerios, check. You’re on a roll. Rounding the corner of the cereal aisle, you encounter the man in overalls eating a Slim Jim from before, only now he is with his whole family, walking four abreast down the center of the main aisle. Moving in perfect synchrony, at a glacial pace, they have all the time in the world and what appears to be an unlimited supply of Slim Jims. 

Trailing them cautiously, you merge from side to side with the precision of a Formula One driver desperately looking for a seam. Finally, after twenty agonizing seconds, one of them turns into an aisle to more closely examine a family-size pack of ramen, giving you the narrowest path to escape. You accelerate past them and continue your mission. Apple Juice, check. Capri-Suns, check. Coffee (hooray, you found it), check. One item left to go, and it’s all the way in the back of the store. 

You stride to the back, moving with a sense of purpose and an intolerance for nonsense. A large mass of people crowd around a free sample station in front of the freezer section, blocking access to the back of the building. Evidently, the tray of Perdue chicken nuggets is empty but only for a few more seconds. As the free sample worker begins piling the freshly cooked nuggets onto the tray, the swarms of salivating savages hungrily advance like pigs at a trough. 

“Excuse me!” You bellow while pushing through the ruckus. Enough is enough. You have no more time for shenanigans. An employee breezes past you, pulling a pallet of bottled water. You slam on the brakes and veer right around a man on the phone who appears to be in the midst of a nervous breakdown over paper plates. “Should I buy the Dixie or the Chinets?” He pleads to his wife. His indecisiveness disgusts you. You slam an economy-size pack of paper towels on the bottom tray of your cart, spin on your heels, and head back straight for checkout. Side to side, right to left, back and forth, you glide through the havoc with the elusiveness of Pac-Man evading the ghosts. “Peace out, losers!” You call out to the legions of shoppers left behind in your wake. It is only once you reach the front that you realize the line to checkout starts back where you had just come from. Swallowing your pride, you scurry back, pretending that you had forgotten something important. A few people stare, but you avoid making eye contact. Let them judge. It’s fine. Anyone could have made that mistake, you tell yourself. Move past it. 

Once again, you are at the back of the store, hundreds of yards from the exit. Who knows how much longer you’ll be stuck here. Your stomach rumbles. Fortunately for you, a fresh tray of chicken was just put out, and you pop a steaming hot nugget into your mouth. Chewing carefully, trying to avoid scalding the roof of your mouth, you survey the line ahead of you. It seems endless. It reminds you of a TSA line at the airport during a busy holiday weekend, and even though everyone is wearing shoes, it still smells like feet. The person behind you bumps their cart into your heel. “Sorry.” They mumble under their breath, but they do not sound sincere. 

Slowly but surely, you make your way to the front. Four people ahead, three people ahead, two people ahead… Finally, you’re on deck. You’re next up. Nothing can stop you now, you naively tell yourself while watching the cashier flag over a supervisor. Oh no! It’s a coupon discrepancy. The elderly woman in front of you is evidently attempting to pay for a case of Coke with an expired Pepsi coupon that’s only good for online purchases at a completely different store. Your heart sinks into your chest, and you feel like screaming! How could this be? Eventually, after what seems like an eternity, she understands her mistake and decides to forgo the Coke altogether, explaining that it was her husband’s idea to use the coupon so it wasn’t her fault. He’s the one that drinks most of the soda, and besides, she has plenty of tea at home anyway. The cashier listens to her ramblings with the same detached look you imagine rests on your face while what little energy you have remaining slowly deflates from your body. The cashier tells the old bag her total, and you breathe a sigh of relief. OK, you tell yourself. That was an ordeal, but it’s over now, and…Oh-my-fucking-god! She’s writing a check! 

Fumes burn inside you with the fury of a thousand fires, and you’re not sure if that’s the result of the burrito you had for lunch or the existential dread engulfing you that you’ll never leave this building alive. Hours pass, or perhaps only minutes. At this point, time is an illusion. Nearby, someone aggressively clears their throat. You snap out of your trance and see Grandma Moses slowly exiting the checkout line. This is it! It’s finally your turn. You cross your fingers, hoping for the best. May the items all scan. May there be no need for price checks. May the receipt printer not need to be reloaded. May this process be quick and easy. And it is! It only takes about twenty seconds. The cashier hands you your receipt and wishes you a good day, despite clearly not meaning it, and just like that, you’re on your way. 

However, there is one last obstacle. The receipt checker at the exit door. Not only do you need permission to enter this god forsaken place, but you need permission to exit, and exiting is a lot more stressful. The woman working the door gives you an ocular assessment as you approach. Like, some kind of cyborg, she’s already counted all  the items in your cart, including the KY Jelly you attempted to hide in between the Capri-Sun and Coffee, and is currently silently judging you for your indiscretions. You hand her the receipt and hold your breath. Your heart beats wildly, and the shopping cart practically quivers under the scrutiny of her penetrating gaze. She draws a line through the receipt with a Sharpie and brusquely hands it back to you. 

That’s it! You’re done! You continue towards the vestibule, nearly colliding with 13 other people attempting to enter, and zig-zag your way outside. The great outdoors! Finally, you meet again. Trees and sunshine, and birds! Outside birds! Where they belong! You take a deep breath and take in all the fresh air. Now, if you could only remember where you parked. 

Pizza Passport 2025

Earlier this year, we purchased a Pizza Passport for the low cost of $35. With the passport in hand, we were able to explore the region and receive 50% off a pizza of any size and toppings combination from over 40 participating pizza locations. 

And we did exactly that. Over the course of the last 6 months or so, we’ve dined in twenty different pizza places all over the STL: some good, some not so good, some incredibly good, some thin crust, some thick, some mozzarella, some that all too familiar eclectic mix of Swiss, Provolone, Cheddar, Liquid Smoke, and a plethora of preservatives and emulsifiers that technically (at least according to the FDA) classify it not as cheese per se, but rather as “Processed Cheese Product.” Oh well, at least it has the word cheese in the name, right? And if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t care if they discovered plutonium in Provel. I’m still going to eat it. It’s delicious. 

Keep in mind, I visited each and every one of these restaurants exactly one time and therefore am evaluating them based on a sole experience. An experience that usually consisted of a basic one topping pepperoni, because you can’t exactly compare supreme pizza from one place with buffalo chicken from another. I suppose some of these experiences could be chalked up as anomalies. Perhaps they were understaffed on the day I arrived and prepared my pizza in haste. Maybe the crust didn’t proof properly, or the sauce didn’t blend right, or perhaps the dishwasher brought in some really potent weed and they all had trouble focusing for a while. Nevertheless, here are my reviews. I’ve indexed these in Drake order so we’ll be starting from the bottom.

20.

GOOD NEWS BREWING (O FALLON)

Nothing but bad news here. Good News serves up 9” pizzas (think the size of a normal paper plate) with a thin, undercooked crust, topped with dry sauce, and bland toppings. At $15 a pop, even with a half-off discount, it seems criminally overpriced. If I had to say a nice thing about them… the beer was good. 

Outdoor seating. 

18.

SCHOTTZIE’S (SOUTH COUNTY)

Schottzie’s is an ordinary bar with ordinary food. The only thing extraordinary about this place is the incompetence of the staff. It took our waitress 15 minutes to bring us our waters. She also forgot to submit half of our order and only after finally dropping off our pizza, did she realize that she had never given us plates or silverware. “Oops,” she said lackadaisically. She then moseyed to the server station, a mere six feet away from us,  proceeded to pull out a bag of Jalapeño Crunchy Cheetos from behind the computer and deposited two huge handfuls into her fat mouth, before grabbing a stack of plates with her gross, disgusting Cheeto fingers and carelessly tossing the plates on our table. This. Chick. Was. The. Worst. 

But enough about that. This isn’t about the service. It’s about the quality of the pizza and the quality was low. I’m not sure if they were using a Provel/Mozzarella blend or what they were using but the cheese tasted a little strange. It tasted like one of those times when you pull a Jack’s frozen pizza out of the freezer late at night, usually while drunk, and decide that there’s not enough cheese on it so you pull whatever shredded cheese you happen to have in the fridge and layer it on top, only to find out fifteen minutes later that your additions made no improvements to the pizza, and if anything it made it worse because the cheese melted inconsistently and now the crust is kind of soggy. 

17.

PIO’S (SAINT CHARLES)

A block away from Historic Downtown Saint Charles sits a dilapidated structure in the same spot it’s resided for the last 50 years. If the food were better, you could refer to the state of the building as charming and timeless, but with the mediocre fare they serve, it’s more accurate to label it as antiquated and worn-down. The sauce is stale and the cheese is flavorless; it’s an all-around lackluster pizza. I didn’t even finish the leftovers.

17.

SAUCY’S (HIGH RIDGE)

If you were to take the sauce and crust from Domino’s, layer it with cheese from Little Caesar’s, and drizzle garlic butter seasoning from Papa John’s on top, you will have successfully constructed a pie from Saucy’s Pizzeria. Nothing special, really. It’s the kind of pizza that serves its purpose but fails to leave a lasting impression. Good, not great. Adequate, yet appetizing. Filling, yet forgettable. Which really speaks as a testament to the preeminence of pizza because even when it’s just okay, it’s better than most other meals. So, if you’re in High Ridge and have a hankering for pizza, stop by Saucy’s, or don’t. I don’t care what you do. 

16.

NANCY’S (O FALLON)

Nancy’s serves up a flaky deep dish crust topped with mozzarella and layers of toppings which are then doused in roughly one and a half to two gallons of marinara sauce, and it is at this point that it ceases being pizza and morphs into some sort of lasagna with pepperoni. It is my assertion that pizza is not meant to be eaten with a knife and fork, and if you find yourself needing the aid of utensils to eat one, something must have gone horribly wrong during the baking process. I’d rate this place lower but it would be unfair. After all, they specialize in authentic Chicago style pizza and by all accounts, they’ve delivered on that promise. It just so happens to not be my cup of tea. I prefer actual pizza, not whatever this was supposed to be. 

*Carryout only

15.

RED OVEN WOOD FIRED PIZZA (FLORISSANT)

Situated in the heart of downtown Florissant in a refurbished two story brick building is Red Oven Pizzeria. An immaculately clean, well-decorated, and elegant restaurant that at first, appeared to be operated exclusively by an 11-year-old boy. After about twenty minutes or so of exchanging looks of concern and befuddlement with the other guests in the dining room, the owner emerged from the kitchen to assist with taking orders, and delivering drinks, thus sparing me from making the difficult decision between choosing to call Child Protective Services or IMO’s.

Red Oven’s mission is to serve authentic Neapolitan pizza and since I’ve never been to Naples, I’m just going to have to take their word for it. The wood fired oven cast a light char on a chewy crust, coated with a tangy and flavorful sauce. The pizzas are offered in one size (12”) only, so we ordered two. My wife’s Margherita was bland and underwhelming. My pepperoni was better. But both seemed light on cheese, and neither one was hot when delivered to our table. They were warm but not hot, and the only thing worse than waiting 35 minutes for a meal is waiting 35 minutes for a meal that isn’t even fresh. 

Clearly we caught them on an off night and if we lived closer, I’d be willing to give them a second chance because we were looking forward to this place and it was a bit of a letdown. My expectations were higher. 

14.

PIZZA WORLD (CREVE COUER)

This is a very greasy pizza. I’d rate it one notch, maybe a notch and a half above Costco Pizza. It’s definitely more flavorful and topped with savory seasonings. Also, they have a pizza challenge. If you and a friend can eat a 24” inch pizza in a half hour, you can win a free T-shirt. So, if you have a ravenous appetite and a desperate need for a free T-shirt… this is your place.

13.

MONTE BELLO (LEMAY TOWNSHIP)

Tucked away on a tiny corner in Lemay Township rests the charming and timeless Monte Bello pizzeria. At first glance, it appears to be an abandoned residence. A suspicion that’s eerily confirmed with a quick peek through the window. But as you bravely push through your fears of being murdered and descend the staircase into the dimly lit basement below, the aromas from the kitchen waft upwards, and tendrils of freshly cooked dough and vibrant marinara seep into your nostrils, giving the nerve endings in your nose a gentle little hug. 

You reach the bottom to an array of tables clustered together so closely it’s difficult to get in and out of your seat. Try your hardest not to be tall when you visit as the ceilings are quite low. Yes, you could describe the accommodations as a little cramped, at least before you try the food that is, after the fact, you’ll realize that the word you were looking for instead was, “Cozy”. 

The oldest existing pizzeria in Saint Louis, established in 1950, it practically predates the invention of Provel, not that they use it anyway. Monte Bello uses a 4-cheese blend complemented by a robust spice mixture that’s been a family secret for half a century. My one qualm with the quality is the abundance of cornmeal stuck to the bottom of an otherwise delicious crust. This place is extremely busy and the kitchen is still operating with the original oven that was installed in the fifties so the pizzas take a little longer to cook. Reservations aren’t required but are recommended and even with one, you’ll still probably have to wait a while. 

12.

LILIANA’S (COTTLEVILLE)

We were unable to make it to the OG Liliana’s off Tesson Ferry but did manage to visit their second location in Cottleville, which is in a building that is much bigger than it needs to be. It used to be a Mexican restaurant, and then after that it was something else. Then it was vacant for several years, or it was either a Crossfit gym or a church? No one really knows for sure what this place was between 2019 - 2023, but now it is Liliana’s. Having said all this, the pizza was pretty tasty, with the lone exception of the mounds of cornmeal stuck to the bottom of the crust that you already know displeases me. I’d rate this place to be about on par with Stefanina’s—the clear-cut best of the three major STL style chains. If you know, you know. Translation for the youngsters, IYKYK. In other words, if Cecil Whittakers is Jay Leno and IMO’s is David Letterman, then Stefanina’s is Conan O’Brien. Translation for the youngsters, if Seth Meyers is Cecil Whittakers and Jimmy Fallon is IMO’s, then Stefanina’s is Conan O’Brien.

11.

Mama Mel’s (Lemay) 

This place presented us with quite the quandary as they offer both STL and Detroit-style pizza. Not wanting to make the wrong decision,  we went with one of each. The Detroit-style wasn’t the best. Frankly, it seems like the thicker the crust, the less likely I am to enjoy it, and Detroit Pizza is as thick as it comes. The STL was much better. The sauce was tangy. The cheese was just the right amount of burnt, and the crust was nice and crispy. 

10.

MONICAL’S (O Fallon)

Pasted on a glass window of this O Fallon storefront are big, bold white letters that read, “Voted best pizza in St.Louis” And while I don’t think that’s true at all, it is quite tasty. Perhaps a more accurate statement would be to say, “Best pizza in this particular strip mall” or “Second best pizza on Highway K” (Ami’s). But I digress. Monical’s has a spacious dining room with a full bar, extensive menu, and several specialty pizzas, including “The Point.”

The Point sports a sweeter sauce with extra toppings. It’s also shaped like a triangle. Is it gimmicky? Yes. Is it delicious? Also, yes. 

9.

That’sa Nice’a Pizza (South County) 

This aptly named storefront in Concord offers a crunchy thin crust with a fiercely sweet sauce that pairs perfectly with mozzarella cheese. Provel is available upon request but isn’t as agreeable to the sauce, so go with the mozzarella. Trust me on this. 

*Carryout only

8.

HOT PIZZA COLD BEER (SAINT LOUIS)

Brought to you by the same innovative minds behind Sugarfire Smokehouse and Hi-Point Drive-in comes a fresh new eatery off Washington Ave that will indulge your taste buds’ two most primal desires. Hot Pizza, Cold Beer, sounds like a dream and delivers as promised. With its crispy crust and zesty sauce, each enormous New York slice sends bursts of dopamine surging through your system, bite after mouthwatering bite

*Metered street parking

7.

DOUBLE D’S PIZZERIA (SOUTH COUNTY)

First, work up an appetite, browsing for treasure at the South County antique mall, then head next door to a pizzeria that will satisfy your hunger and titillate your taste buds. Double D’s boasts loads of flavorful cheese layered atop a zesty sauce covered with delicious peppery seasonings. The one downside was that the crust was a little on the doughier side, but altogether it was still a fabulous pizza. 

6.

NICK AND ELENA’S (BRECKINRIDGE HILLS)

If you want Provel in its purest form, take a trip down to Breckinridge Hills and visit Nick and Elena’s, where the cheese sports an orangish hue and each bite delivers a spicy kick. This is quintessential Saint Louis-style pizza. The type of pie that would make a New Yorker so angry he’d chuck the box at an oncoming taxi. With its crispy cracker crust, piquant sauce, and perfectly melted cheese, it’s a masterpiece in culinary achievement. I’d say it’s on par or perhaps a notch above Pirrone’s pizza, which, prior to this passport endeavor, I considered to be the best pizza in town. 

5.

NUBBY’S (OAKVILLE)

I normally stray away from comparing food to sex, but with Nubby’s, I’m willing to make an exception. The moment you enter the front door, the sweet, smoky aroma sends shivers down your spine and stimulates your most tender senses. All that meat being pulled in the kitchen is likely to put you in the mood to masticate, and you won’t even care who sees. For a place known for its BBQ, Nubby’s has no business baking a pizza this damn delicious. They offer both a hand-tossed and a STL style thin crust. We ordered the thin crust, and it hit like a vintage Mike Tyson knockout punch. I have no doubt that the hand-tossed slaps as well. 

With several big screen TV’s, Nubby’s seems like a good place to watch sports, but you’re not going to care about the game. No, the only thing you’ll be focusing on is the feeling of pure bliss as you sink your teeth into each savory slice. So, stuff your guts, get your fill, and leave yearning for more. 

4.

CAFE PIAZZA (SAINT LOUIS)

Directly across the street from the Anheuser-Busch brewery is a resplendent little hole in the wall that will curtail your hunger and cure your blues. Leave your troubles behind as you enter the threshold of Café Piazza; grab a seat and immerse yourself in its aura of nonchalance. This whole place is a vibe.  The interior is visually striking. An intricate mural sprawls across the ceiling. Various paintings adorn the walls. But the real work of art… The real masterpiece… is what’s cooking in the kitchen! 

The canvas, an impeccable hand-tossed crust, baked to crisp perfection, covered with brushstrokes of tantalizingly bold tomato sauce, and splattered with fresh mozzarella and robust seasonings. 

This pizza’s beauty knows no boundaries. It belongs on the covers of magazines. Slap a pair of denim jeans on a pie from Café Piazza, and American Eagle will forget Sydney Sweeney ever existed. Each mouthwatering bite whips your taste buds into a frenzy like a group of preteen girls at a Taylor Swift concert. Once you’re finished, venture into the arcade behind the bar and play one of the twenty or so pinball machines on site and leave with an equally satisfied stomach and soul. 

*Street parking only 

3.

UNCLE LEO’S (CONCORD)

Another South County gem that lives up to the hype. This is a magnificent pizza and one of the best STL style I’ve ever had. The ingredients work together all too well. It’s more than a partnership. It’s a divine union. A glorious harmonization of flavors. An irresistible arrangement of thick pepperonis blanketed in layers of gooey Provel, complemented by an expertly seasoned savory sauce. It’s the kind of pizza you can’t stop eating. You just keep telling yourself, “One more slice… One more slice…” and the next thing you know, you’re staring at an empty box with a couple of balled-up napkins and a desperate need for a bottle of Tums. It’s worth it though. Trust me. The indigestion won’t be enough to wipe the satisfying grin off your face. 

*No dining room; a few outdoor tables. Otherwise, carryout only. 

2.

AFFTON PIZZA COMPANY (AFFTON)

On the corner of a small strip mall off Reavis Barracks Road sits what is perhaps the most slept-on pizza place in Saint Louis County. We arrived on a Saturday evening, much to our surprise, to a completely empty dining room. That’s okay, we thought. More food for us. They are evidently known for their garlic breads, but we opted instead for chicken tenders, fries, and mozzarella sticks the size of hot dogs. I was almost ready to tap out until the pizza arrived. My heart nearly skipped a beat as my gaze surveyed its majestic beauty. It was covered head to toe in juicy pepperonis generously piled high, captivating me with its alluring aroma. Steam steadily rose from the hot, gooey cheese, leaving me as enchanted as a cartoon wolf in the presence of a hot lady. “Awooooo!” I unleashed a primitive howl. My jaw dropped to the floor, and my tongue rolled out of my mouth the entire length of the table while my eyes briefly transformed into slot machines, landing on ❤️❤️, which then popped out of my head to absurd dimensions. Suddenly, a train whistle magically appeared at the table. I pulled it, and a horn blared while steam began pouring out of my ears. I started to levitate in the air, unable to resist the urge to pound my fists on the table, rattling all the plates and cups. I tried to compose myself but had no control over my vocal cords. I just floated there midair, muttering, “Hummina Hummina, Hummina, Hummina!” at a comically fast pace. After a few awkward moments, I regained control of my senses, my tongue and eyes fell back to their original proportions, and gravity returned, settling me back into my chair. “Well, that was weird.” I remarked to my wife and child, who were both staring at me with their usual looks of embarrassment and disapproval. To sum things up, Affton Pizza Company is very, very good!

1.

BUD’S PIZZA AND BEER (SAINT LOUIS)

Buds serves exquisite New York Style pizza with wide, sturdy slices of flavorful cheese, delectable sauce, and crispy pepperonis that curl up on the edges. We ordered a full pizza because of the passport, but they also sell by the slice and have great happy hour and beer specials throughout the day. I’m telling you this pizza was flawless. It looked so good it could have started a 10-year war. The “Helen of Troy” of pizzas. 

I just can’t say enough nice things about this restaurant. The aesthetic is on point: the red plush leather booths, the vintage Budweiser signs, even the music they played while we were there seemed like it was handpicked to complement my tastes. Like the entire place was built specifically for me. I took one final swig of my $3 Bud Light draft and leaned back in my seat, shifting my gaze from side to side trying to soak in the electric ambience. Bearing an expression of wide-eyed astonishment, I perhaps mimicked the countenance of the late, great Ray Liotta when he portrayed Shoeless Joe Jackson visiting Ray Kinsella’s farm for the first time in the iconic movie, “Field of Dreams.”

“Is this heaven?” I startled, suddenly aware of the fact that I had just spoken out loud. 

“No,” our server replied jovially. “It’s Buds. Can I get you another beer?” 

No parking lot. 

Metered parking only. 

Strange interactions.

I am not a male model. If you’ve ever seen me, you’ll render this claim as undeniable as if I were to say, I am not Santa Claus, or I am not a mongoose. I am neither of those things and I am also not a male model. Which is Ok. I’ve come to terms with it. Although, nothing makes me feel less like Santa Claus or a Mongoose and more like a male model than the way I look in the dressing rooms at Kohl’s. 

They must have highly trained engineers come in and design these rooms with just the precise lighting fixtures, calculating the exact wattage needed, which combined with the sheen off the mirror, transforms the reflection of an Average Joe into a Hunky pile of man meat. When I see myself in those mirrors I like what I see. I mean, I look good. Almost too good. So good I fear for my safety and well-being. My knowledge of the law is rudimentary at best but I figure it’s gotta be illegal to be this sexy. And not only do I have to worry about the cops but also of the flocks of females likely waiting for me in the parking lot. I’ll have to sprint to my car to avoid all the wild, sex-crazed, maniacal women lunging at my genitals and showering me with their panties. 

But I won’t allow my head to balloon up with an inflated sense of desirability. Not again. I’ve fallen victim to these mirrors before. It’s the same song and dance every time. By the time you make it home and try on the shirt for a second time, it’s as massive a disappointment as the finished product on a microwaveable dinner. Your mouth waters while examining the picture of a scrumptious looking Chicken Parmesan on the Lean Cuisine box, but once you pull the steaming hot tray out of the microwave, the succulent, juicy chicken breast you thought you’d be eating appears, dry, flavorless, cold and somehow also overcooked. 

I know now that while standing before this mirror in this dressing room, I may appear to be a legit snack, while in reality I most likely better resemble last week’s leftovers. I know this now. 

But at the time, I was a young, vain, impressionable 18 year old kid, whose top priorities were being cool, keeping it real and looking real cool. I was fresh out of high school working as a pizza delivery driver and like most 18 year olds, I had a lot of free time. Free time I spent socializing and partying as much as possible. Mingling, meeting new people, getting fucked-up, and, graciously accepting compliments on my crispy new T-shirts. 

Of course, the same T-shirt size discrepancy always presents itself. As far as T-shirt sizes go, medium and large, which represent 70% of consumers, often jump too much between the two sizes. This is especially apparent at Kohl’s as the folks at the Urban Pipeline clothing company seem to lump all men into two categories. You’re either a David Spade or a Chris Farley body type. There is no in between. Which puts me in quite the quandary. Do I go with the medium which fits a little more snugly than I’d prefer on the off chance that it won’t shrink a bit, or do I opt for the much larger shirt, the one that makes me look like a toddler, on the off chance that it will shrink abundantly, and may actually fit? Of course, the third, and most regrettable option, is to forgo the purchase altogether which only gives me seven minutes to search for a replacement. 

I allow myself fifteen minutes in clothing stores to locate whatever fetching piece of garment happens to attract my attention. Fifteen minutes, and it’s already been eight. To make matters worse, I have $20 of Kohl’s cash that expires tomorrow. I have seven minutes remaining to find a new addition to my wardrobe.  Once my time has elapsed, I leave, as it simply wasn’t to be. My process is methodical. I enter the store, head straight towards the men’s department and continue moving, never stopping to browse or mingle, always on the go, traversing through the clothing racks with the tenacity of a Great White shark stalking a school of otters. Starting in the middle, I move outward in concentric circles, swiveling my head from side-to-side until something reaches out and tickles my fancy. If by the end of the fifteen minutes, nothing has tickled my fancy, I leave, and my fancy remains untickled. Numb and dull, feeling no sensations whatsoever. I head toward the parking lot. My fancy yearning for a tickling. 
I exited the dressing room, taking note of the time with one shirt in my left hand reserved as a “Maybe” and the two different sized shirts in my right hand, hoping I’d make a decision on which one to choose by the time I made it back to the rack to return one when I was startled by the presence of an unexpected visitor. 

An army man. A marine, to be more specific.  Semper Fi. But I didn’t know that yet. I was 18. I didn’t know who was what in terms of serviceman. All I saw was an army man in an army uniform. An intimidating figure. And he was looking right at me like he was waiting for me. He was short, but also big. Not stout, but compact. If I had to guess, I’d say he was 5’6” 190 pounds. A pint size, cube of muscles and aftershave with jet black hair, cut razor thin, a rugged jaw line, piercing blue eyes and a neck as thick as a Redwood. He stood before me with rigid posture, his hands folded into each other at his waistline, with a uniform so crisp and clean, you couldn’t detect a speck of lint with a telescope. “Young man,” he shouted more loudly than was necessary. “Have you given any thought into serving your country and joining the marines?” 

Now, I’ve been caught off guard plenty of times in my life. I once encountered a woman at Costco with a service kangaroo. A cab driver once asked me if I knew how to get any heroin while flying down the interstate at an alarmingly fast speed. I once ran into Daryl Strawberry right by the strawberries in the produce section of a grocery store. But I can’t think of a more random occurrence than the one you’re currently reading. 

Had I given any thought into joining the marines? No, I can honestly say that I hadn’t.  Enlisting in the Marines was the furthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t even sure if I could pull off a V-neck shirt yet. How was I expected to make a massive, life-changing commitment like joining the military. I had seen, “Full Metal Jacket” and that was enough to alienate me from that lifestyle forever. The notion of all my insecurities being exploited and eviserated by an irate drill seargant in an attempt to mold me into a cold-blooded, merciless killing machine, seemed like it would be both horrible and ineffective. Not only would I hate every second of it,  but I’d probably also become increasingly unfocused, distraught, and self-conscious. How am I supposed to drive a tank over a bunch of Palestinian children with the constant distraction of whether or not my camouflage was unflattering or if my crew cut made me look gay. 

At this point, I realized hadn’t said anything at all for about thirty seconds. I was speechless. A typical reaction to being caught off guard. After encountering the service kangaroo, I didn’t speak for eleven days. I had seen army recruiters before. They used to stand behind a table with pamphlets on it in the high school cafeteria. There was a recruiting office next door to the Subway I’d go to on occasion. And I had one call my house before. Thank god for Caller ID. At least in that scenario, I could pretend not to be home. However, there was no escaping this conversation, as much as I desperately wanted to. Not wanting Army man to mistake my silence for contemplation, I forced myself to mumble these three words,

 “No thanks, man.” 

Those three words, must have been the detonation code for the chamber of fury and outrage that lay dormant in Army man’s soul. An unlit furnace waiting for its opportunity to explode onto the earth, decimating anything in its path.

“I guess you just want to sit in your mom and dad’s basement all day long playing video games and eating Funjuns!” Army man snarled with a sharp and intense vigor. Quiet enough not to raise suspicion from Kohl’s security but fierce enough to scare the ever living shit out of me. His face tense, nostrils flaring, eyebrows etched into a permanent slant, eyes fixed on me with a gaze so menacing it would have made Medusa blush. “At some point you’re going to have to grow up! Can’t play video games in Mom’s basement the rest of your life. Time to get a job! Be a man!” 

For the second time, he’s mentioned video games. I don’t even play video games. Nor do I eat Funjuns. It’s almost like his whole speech was intended for somebody else. Plus, I had a job. A good one. I made lots of tip money delivering pizza. Although in hindsight, telling that to Army man was a error in judgment. As it only threw more fuel on the inferno of rage boiling inside of him. 

“What a fucking loser you are!” He snapped. “Waste of oxygen! That’s what you are!” He added with his fists clenched and chest puffed out like he was ready to absorb a cannonball blast. 

Now, I’m not an expert in reading body language, but it seemed pretty obvious at that point that Army man wanted to something terrible to me like fashion an open bear trap around my neck on a timer that would clamp my face off unless I found the key, or stick me in a maze lined with barbed wire and watch me rip myself apart trying to escape. I had just seen the movie, “Saw” a few days earlier and still hadn’t processed my emotions. 

The more plausible action for him would be to fold me up like an accordion and slam me on the ground, leaving me half the size of my current self, which would help me with my T-shirt dilemma but wouldn’t bode well for my low threshold for pain. I knew I needed to do something fast, so I side stepped once to the left then spun back to the right in a slippery maneuver that left Army man frozen in the mud. Although, looking back, I’m fairly sure he didn’t try to stop me, but I like to think I would have gotten around him even if he had. 

With one minute remaining, I reached the checkout counter with one V-neck shirt in my hands. This was it. I was finally doing it. Upon being handed my receipt, I politely thanked the cashier and cautiously walked into the parking lot, knowing that he still might be out there, lurking in the bushes, waiting for his chance to pounce. What was with him anyway? Why was he such a dick? So I declined his offer, so what. Surely, that can’t be the first time that’s happened. What kind of emotionally unstable operation was this guy running. Joining the military is a huge commitment. Huge. And after hearing the word, “No” once, he immediately went on the offensive. No second attempt was ever even made to entice me to reconsider. It took several minutes of convincing for me to sign up for The Kohl’s credit card. Yet, this guy thought I jump at the opportunity for four years of combat, a lifetime of PTSD and possible death. Just so we’re clear, I’m not against the military. I’m simply against me being in the military. 

Twenty years later, I can still say with confidence that I made the right decision.  It never would’ve worked. 
As I pulled out of my parking spot and turned down the row to the main road I saw him standing along the sidewalk on the far edge of the building smoking a cigarette. Even from a distance, I could tell that he was still brooding from my rejection of his offer, and as I passed him by, he glared into the car with the same look of contempt, that terrified me minutes earlier outside of that dressing room. 
On the drive home, I pondered over that interaction wondering if perhaps I did anything to provoke him. I replayed the whole ordeal over and over again in my head and couldn’t find any cause for his overreaction. Unless of course, it wasn’t an overreaction at all, but rather the same sales pitch he gives to everybody. An unconventional approach that I highly doubt is effective. Like, Good cop, bad cop, without the good cop. Army man’s strategy seemed to be to berate recruits into signing contracts under duress. I wondered how often that worked and became skeptical that it ever did. Then for a brief moment, I felt bad for Army man. Here was a guy who was just trying to do his job. Maybe he had a mean boss. Maybe he was under performance probation, and was in desperate need of a recruit to meet his quota. Maybe that day was the last straw and he knew he’d be fired upon returning to the office that day, yet again, empty-handed. This wouldn’t excuse his behavior. But it could potentially explain it. 

Years later, at a Super Bowl party, the doorbell rang, and the host of the party asked if I could answer it for him while he ran off to get his wallet. Not wanting to miss any commercials, I briefly considered passing that responsibility on to somebody else, but ultimately decided to do what was asked of me. And I’m glad I did, because when I opened that door,  guess who I saw standing there, muscles bulging, rugged jaw line,  jet black hair peeking out the top of a visor, holding a Pizza Hut bag? 

Just kidding. That part never happened. Would’ve been funny it did though. Can you imagine! 

My retirement from recreational basketball.

One-armed men have been the demise of many figures throughout history— Dr. Richard Kimble, anyone who faced Angels Pitcher, Jim Abbott in the 90’s, and unfortunately, yours truly. 

This story takes place about 7 years ago inside a Gold’s Gym. I was planning on working out my arms, but decided to stop inside the basketball court first to shoot around. Nothing too intense, just a little warm-up to get the blood flowing. 

Upon entering the gym, I noticed one other baller on the court— an overweight Cuban fella, who looked sort of like Fat Joe. I never caught his name and he wasn’t quite as big as Fat Joe, so we’ll just refer to him as Stocky Joe. Stocky Joe was hoisting up 3’s on the far basket. I took the near basket and began working on my mid-range game. 

A few minutes later, the door flung open and in walked the man who would soon end my recreational basketball career, and convert me into a guy who uses ellipticals. He was a tall skinny guy with a medium build, bald head, one arm, and handlebar mustache. His name was Daryl. What Daryl lacked in appendages, he made up for in swag. This guy must have been sponsored by Under Armour. He had all the gear. I’m talking, shoes, tank top, headband, leg sleeves, wristbands, etc. He even wore a wristband on his chicken wing arm, which I thought was strange. But I just figured they came in two packs, and he didn’t want to waste one. 

Daryl dropped his Under Armour duffel bag on the ground, and shouted in a loud booming voice, “Ya’ll wanna play bucket?”

Bucket, AKA, 21 is a classic playground basketball game. It’s perfect for when you have an odd number of players, as it’s essentially, one on one on one, etc. The objective of the game is to be the first to score 21 points. It’s also known as “Tips” to some people. Although in “Tips” you can tip in a missed shot and subsequently take the shooter’s points back to zero, while gaining two points yourself. But all that does is encourage cherry-picking. Also, only scrubs play Tips.

We all agreed to play a man’s game. First to 21 wins, no tips, and you’ve got to take the ball back on every possession. 

“I’ll break” shouted Daryl, before stepping back and effortlessly sinking a thirty-foot 3-pointer. 

By the way, this was the very first shot he took. He didn’t warm up at all. He literally entered the gym and immediately challenged every person on the court. Stocky Joe and I exchanged nervous glances. Neither one of us seemed prepared for this level of competition. Who was this guy? Why’s he so confident? What happened to his other arm? 

That last question may seem inappropriate, but don’t act like you’ve never wondered the same thing when interacting with a person with a physical deformity  Were they born that way? Did they get attacked by a shark? Was it some kind of a freak vending machine accident, and he stuck his arm up there because it wouldn’t dispense his Twix? All those questions would soon take a backseat to the more important question? Who taught this man how to play? 

Daryl started the game from the top of the key, and checked me the ball. I checked it back and got in the defensive stance. He then jab-stepped to the left and dribbled once to the right, and then just disappeared. I literally heard the ball swish through the net while still facing the opposite direction. “What the fuck!” I muttered under my breath. “Is this guy The Flash? How’s he so fast?” 

On his second possession. He did the same thing. I stayed with him for about half a second before watching him blow by me for an uncontested shot, which he decided would be a completely unnecessary 360 reverse layup. 

After that, he hit me with a stutter step which almost caused me to fall down. He then streaked across the paint and hit a floater 

Next, almost out of boredom, he heaved up a thirty-foot fade-away which bounced off the back of the rim. I snagged the rebound and took it to the top of the key. I could tell Daryl was toying with us. He thought we were both bums, and while I couldn’t speak for Stocky Joe, I was determined to prove him wrong. Now’s my time to shine, I thought to myself, eager to display my athleticism. 

For my first possession, I dribbled down to the right block, stopped on a dime, and pivoted hard to the left. Then I quickly pivoted back to the right and faked a hook shot. 

Now, this usually gets the defender to go airborne. Not always, but usually. 

Once this happens, I tuck the ball back towards my body, wait for the defender to soar past me, and shoot the easy, uncontested layup. This was a move I had been using since junior high. I have perfected it over the years and it worked like a charm almost every time. It wasn’t something I could do every play, but once or twice a game, I could usually pull it off with a high success rate. Once again, I say usually. Unfortunately for me, this wasn’t one of those times. Daryl must have had the scouting report on me because he didn’t jump on the pump fake. He didn’t even flinch.

My move was similar to Hakeem Olajuwon's Dream Shake, with the only exception being his move worked and mine was terrible.

This put me in a precarious position. I now had my back turned to the basket and had already picked up my dribble. In a game situation, I’d simply pass the ball back out to the wing, but this was different. I had to try to hoist up a shot somehow. I had no other option. So, that’s what I did. I jumped backwards while simultaneously turning to shoot. Much to my dismay, once I turned I was making direct eye contact with Daryl’s crotch. He had also jumped, and he jumped much higher than me. 

Now I’ve had my shot blocked before but this was different. This wasn’t so much a block as it was a spike. Daryl slammed the ball into the floor so ferociously, I thought the hardwood was going to open up and create a black hole. My thought process was them temporarily delayed while I crashed to the ground. I’m pretty sure my head slammed on the floor, but the only pain I could feel was to my pride. It had been broken. What I experienced that day was likely the most embarrassing scenario in all of sports. This was like getting tackled by the punter, or giving up a home run to the opposing teams batboy. 

I contemplated faking an injury so I could get the hell out of there, but Daryl was quick to lend me a hand and help me up. Of course he exhibits good sportsmanship, I thought to myself. Is this guy determined to be better than me at everything!  

As I sprung back up to my feet, my eyes caught Stocky Joe smirking at me with condescension. It was as if he was trying to say “Really, Bruh” with his eyes. 

I shrugged and shook it off. It was tough though. Because fuck that guy! It wasn’t like he provided me with any help defense earlier. 

The rest of the game went as you’ve likely already predicted. With Daryl dominating every step of the way. He scored on me at will. The final score was 21 to 3 to 0. I put up the goose egg. Again, I scored no points at all. Zero. Even that lazy asshole, Stocky Joe managed to sink a lucky shot at one point. 

“Ya’ll wanna run again!” Daryl shouted out. 

Stocky Joe passed on the opportunity to continue standing there, not playing defense, and I politely declined. I decided at that moment that I was done with basketball, not only for the day, but for the rest of my life. Unless I wind up with Alzheimer’s later on and forget about that humiliating beat down I had just endured. 

On the drive home that day, I considered several new hobbies to replace basketball. Hobbies that don’t require athleticism, as it was clear my best days were behind me. Bowling, darts, scrap-booking... maybe I could get into bird-watching, I thought to myself. 

Sometimes, when I look back on the events that transpired that day, I kick myself for not accepting Daryl’s offer for a rematch. Did I give up too easily? Was there a chance I could’ve redeemed myself? Why didn’t I try to force him to his weak side? He had no left hand. 

Ultimately, I feel like I made the correct call. I was clearly outmatched, and leaving when I did certainly spared me additional embarrassment. Maybe one day in the future, I’ll get my confidence back and enter a pickup game, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I just saw a Ruby-Throated Hummingbird out my window, and I need to log it in my journal. 

13 Books to read before you watch another shitty reality show.

Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman

I, admittedly don’t read many fantasy novels, but I also don’t have a reason to, as I can’t imagine any of them being as good as Neverwhere. The author once referred to this work as, Alice and the Wonderland for adults and I can’t think of a more apt description. In the book, the protagonist, Richard, stops to help a mysterious wounded girl on the streets of London and subsequently gets swept underground into the London below —  A ghastly, ominous setting filled with immortal assassins, talking rats, and demons. It’s an enthralling read that’s funny and shockingly wholesome. 

Anxious People - Fredrik Bachman. 

The first 10-15 pages of this book might turn you off as it tries way too hard to be funny. Fortunately, the forced humor quickly dissipates and the book takes on a more natural flow about a botched bank robbery which clumsily transforms into a hostage situation at an apartment viewing. This book has no antagonist. And it’s not even clear who the main character is supposed to be. It does, however, have an entertaining ensemble of all walks of life who despite their differences, come together when it’s truly needed. Because no matter how strong-willed a person might act, no matter how resilient they may seem, no matter how bold and  unafraid, everyone needs someone else to lean on. This is a beautifully written book. It will make you laugh, make you cry, make you reach out to a loved one, and make you want to read it again. 

The Hit List - Richard Belzer 

Fifty-six years before Jeffrey Epstein didn’t kill himself, Lee Harvey-Oswald didn’t act as the lone conspirator in the Kennedy assassination. I feel like that’s a fairly uncontroversial opinion. Most people would agree there was foul play amiss, the magnitude of which has yet to be determined and likely never will. That’s because anyone who witnessed or knew of anything unusual about that day died under mysterious circumstances. In the Hit List, Richard Belzer ( Yes, the same Richard Belzer) analyzes the tragic demise of 50 separate people who either knew too much, said too much, or simply saw something they weren’t supposed to see. And he does so, with that familiar, unbridled Detective John Munch, snark. 

Recursion/Dark Matter - Blake Crouch

Some books are slow to get out of the gate. Blake Crouch’s books are not. They blast out of the starting block like Usain Bolt on rocket skates. I couldn’t decide between Dark matter or Recursion so I decided to include them both. And while they deal with different subject matters they share the same intricate storylines, mesmerizing plot twists and frenetic pace. If you like Sci-fi thrillers, these books are for you. And if you don’t, read them anyway because I told you to. 

The murder of Roger Ackroyd - Agatha Christie

On December 3rd 1926, renowned author, Agatha Christie, vanished off the face of the earth. What soon followed, was at the time, the largest search in human history. A nationwide manhunt. This was headline news. Hundreds of people scoured the forests for days.  Aeroplanes were used in the search for the first time ever. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle even hired a psychic in an attempt to discover her whereabouts. Their search came up empty. She was eventually discovered 11 days later at a hotel a couple hundred miles away. Claiming amnesia, Agatha could provide no details as to how she got there, or what she had been doing all that time. Upon returning home, she never spoke of the disappearance again. How fitting for such a mysterious event to occur to such a revered mystery writer. All we know for sure is that right before this she wrote, ‘The murder of Roger Ackroyd’ otherwise known as the greatest mystery novel ever written. A compelling premise with a slew of suspicious characters in a riveting novel that keeps you guessing until the very end. 

Choke - Chuck Palahniuk 

The same author that brought you Fight Club brings you another deranged tale about a depraved medical school dropout named, Victor Mancini. This book is lewd and obscene, and quite possibly the funniest book ever written. 

Station Eleven - Emily St. John Mandel 


Station Eleven is a multiple perspective account of an apocalyptic future after a deadly virus wipes out a majority of the population. Reading this at the start of the Covid shutdown was a little surreal. Not that the author could’ve predicted the utter shit-show that would encapsulate the world a full year after her book was published. Still, Station Eleven is a brilliantly written tale that makes you think about     how you would react to the end of times. 

A walk in the woods - Bill Bryson 


Bill Bryson is an amazing writer. Read anything he’s written and you won’t be disappointed. My favorite so far is, ‘A walk in the woods’ A hilarious autobiographical account of his attempt at hiking the Appalachian trail. 

Foe - Iain Reid 



In the not-so-distant future, a young couple living in isolation on a farm in the country receive  a visit from a stranger who gives them unsettling news. The same author who brought you, ‘I’m thinking of ending things’ brings you another menacing psychological thriller that will bend your mind in ways you didn’t think possible. 

Stoner - John Williams 


This is not a book about marijuana. Sorry to disappoint. Instead, it’s a book about a guy named William Stoner who enters the University of Missouri in 1910 at the age of 19. He later becomes a teacher. He marries the wrong woman. His life is quiet and after his death his colleagues remember him rarely. On the surface it seems like it would be incredibly boring. The type of story you’d need marijuana for in order to make it interesting. But it’s an exceptionally well-told, flawlessly written novel that you’re sure to enjoy whether your stoned or not. I highly recommend it. 

Based on a true story, not a memoir - Norm Macdonald 


I usually stray away from celebrity memoirs as they tend to hit a wall after 100 pages or so. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever finished one. This book, however, is a departure from the Norm. 
By page 1, it becomes immediately clear that not only is this not based on a true story, but rather, nothing in the book is even remotely close to being true at all. In typical fashion, he hilariously rambles on from one implausible occurrence to another in a manner that only Norm Macdonald can achieve. Side note: For all Audiobook fans, you can actually buy this book in Norm Macdonald’s voice, which is just the bee’s knees. 

What to regret when you’re expecting? - Ryan Shaw 


The same author who brought you, ‘The customer is always right?’ Brings you another mildly humorous book. Evidently, not only is this guy an expert on consumer relations, he is also adept in parenting and shameless self promotion. Don’t miss your chance to read the book that’s received three (Yeah, that’s right) three, 5 star reviews on Amazon. 

Breakfast food sucks. Lunch is much better

I don’t know how people can eat entire meals first thing in the morning. I have to be awake for at least 60 minutes before I’m even hungry. I’ve always been that way. Then when I am hungry, I’m hungry for lunch, not breakfast. Breakfast sucks. 

I don’t like sausage and I don’t care for eggs. Biscuits are good, but only as a sidekick for country fried steak, or fried chicken. Eating biscuits and gravy only, seems really strange to me. Same with bagels. If I’m having a bagel, there better be pizza toppings on it, ya feel me. 

Sure, pancakes and waffles are good, but only because I find the other breakfast options so undesirable. Put it this way— if I went to a continental breakfast and my options were waffles or street tacos. I’m going with street tacos every time. I don’t care that it’s 9am, and I don’t care that the street tacos at the Holiday Inn Express are probably subpar. If I’m hungry, I want my hunger satisfied by the best foods available. 

Which brings me to the problem. The best food,

in my opinion, isn’t readily available. I work the early shift. I start at 3:30am, and my lunch break is around 8am. Is it too much to ask for some chicken nuggets at that hour? Honestly? 

Everyone lauded McDonald’s for their decision to offer their breakfast menu all day. But what about lunch? Can lunch get a little respect? If they can make an Egg McMuffin at 8pm, they should be able to make a Big Mac at 8am. What’s the difference? Worst case scenario is that would take longer than usual. Which would be fine with me. I can pull around and wait a few extra minutes. I’m not going to complain for the fresh food. 

They say it’s the most important meal of the day, but isn’t that because it’s the first thing you eat? And doesn’t burning those calories throughout the day give you the energy to give it 35% at work? 

Eating is my second favorite thing to do. Sleeping is first. And I don’t know about you, but when my appetite starts pumping, I don’t get a hankering for scrambled eggs. I get a craving for a spicy chicken sandwich with a side of pepperoni pizza. 

P.S. I forgot about bacon. Obviously, bacon is amazing.

Turd Sandwich Association (TSA)

I only flew once prior to 9/11. I was nine years old and have no recollection of that flight whatsoever. But from what I’ve read and seen in old movies, airports used to be way more relaxed than they are now. Nowadays, you can’t run wildly through the terminal like the McCallister ( minus Kevin of course) family. Those shenanigans would get you detained in a heartbeat. 

It’s crazy to think that there was once a time when you could walk right onto an airplane without removing your shoes, belt, watch, and dignity. When security did their jobs quickly and efficiently, and the process wasn’t unnecessarily stressful. A time when calling things the “bomb” didn’t freak people out and getting to the airport two hours early was only something you did if you worked on the plane. 

Last summer we flew to Orlando. It was our first plane ride as a family of four— Disneyworld! A trip that was sure to be draining, both mentally, and financially. 

I began loosening my belt as we approached the security line. I knew the drill. I’ve done this before. I had not, however, done this before, with children. We managed to make it through the turnstile and as we began corralling through the roped off barriers, I noticed TSA agents stationed every ten feet along the way, loudly shouting at us to, move along!  As if that wasn’t the obvious intended route.

 ‘Oh, you mean follow the crowd through the clearly defined path? How would we ever have figured that out on our own?’

And they say it with this smug authoritativeness completely void of human decency, which only serves to highlight their uselessness to society. Why do these people exist? We already have stanchions with retractable belts to guide us through the maze. I could do without these dipshits every ten feet stating the obvious. It seems to me like each airport could operate just fine with half the amount of agents at security. I say this confidently because at least half of them do absolutely nothing.

As we got closer to the screening Simon began throwing a tantrum. While Becca consoled him, Sophie decided that the burden of carrying her backpack was too much for her shoulders to bear. So, now, I was responsible for both carry-on suitcases, a backpack, a carry-on bag, and a stroller. I walked up to the conveyor belt fumbling our bags while simultaneously trying to empty my pockets and take off my shoes. 

“There’s no way this ends well,” I muttered to myself as I dropped my cell phone and my boarding pass while trying to load one of the suitcases on the conveyor belt. I was in over my head. Like Michael J Fox trying to juggle machetes, I was destined to fail and I’m surprised I didn’t injure myself in the process. 

I managed to get both suitcases on the belt, and was in the process of loading our electronics in a separate bin when I noticed another TSA agent staring at me as if I was wasting his time. I was clearly having issues and could’ve used some assistance, but instead of helping me load up any of the bags, you wanna know what this dumb asshole did? He looked at me with his fat, stupid face and said, “Sir, please place all your bags on the belt and push them through.”

I’m working on it fuckface!

My brain almost exploded. What was this guy’s problem. I wonder what he would do if he was a lifeguard and someone in the pool was drowning. Would he jump in and save them? Would he throw them a buoy? Or would he remain seated and curtly remind them to swim. “Sir, I’m going to need you to stop splashing around and swim already!” 

All I had to do at this point was fold up the stroller and place it on the belt. Folding a stroller is an easy thing to do, unless you need to do it in a hurry, then suddenly it’s as difficult as solving a Rubik’s cube while riding a roller-coaster. “Sir, please go through the scanner,” the TSA said in a rather dickish tone. 

I took two steps to the left to get in line for the body-scan machine, when the same TSA agent yelled at me again, “Sir, you need to push your bags all the way through the belt!” 

Look dude. Either wait for me to push all by bags through and then I’ll get in line. Or push my bags through for me. I can’t do both things at once.  Meanwhile, I can’t help but notice that you’re doing zero things. And aren’t you’re on the clock? I mean, shouldn’t you be doing something? Anything? 

Now I have no idea what this guy’s official job title was, but I can’t imagine what he tells people he does. He probably brags about saving people’s lives and thwarting terrorist attacks by seizing tubes of nail polish and small bottles of water. The people at road construction sites that hold the STOP/SLOW sign work harder than these jack-wagons. Where do they get their confidence from? How can these people who do, literally nothing, behave so pompously, as if they’re vital, important members of society. “Move along!” They arrogantly shout, oblivious of their insignificance. Delusions of grandeur. These morons make Brendan Dassey look like Neal Degrasse Tyson, but in their minds, they’re Captain fucking Planet. 

In haste, I entered the body-scan machine before completely emptying my pockets. “What’s that in your right pocket?” A different TSA inquired. 

At that point I realized what I had done. In my pocket was a tube of Zipfizz. If you’re not familiar with Zipfizz, it’s an energy supplement that you mix with water. It’s a powder. I brought a powdery substance with me. I brought a powdery substance with me through airport security. I was fucked. 

My heart sank through my stomach. This was a mistake that would’ve been easily explainable to a rational human being. But that’s rarely the case in airports. I was momentarily detained while the agent ran a red wand over my hands and tested the tube of powder for combustible/flammable components. I mentally prepared myself for a prolonged detention filled with vigorous full-cavity examinations. The cost of the airfare already had me feeling taken advantage of, but this was going to be the rectal equivalent of spending $300 for zero leg room. “Sir, you’re good to go,” The Agent said in a condescending tone. 

I let out a huge sigh of relief. I had survived the TSA.

It was over. I was free. Sure, I lost a few thousand brain cells in the process, but you always have to expect casualties when dealing with the Turd Sandwich Association (TSA). The only thing that they can do to you after you pass security, is subject you to a completely unnecessary, “random bag check”

A random bag check essentially means, that they’ll catch you in line right before you enter the plane, open up one of your bags and fuck up all your neatly folded clothes for no reason. Which they did, by the way. But hey, if wrinkling up all my shirts, somehow equates to a safer flight, then I’m glad to make the sacrifice. Thanks for keeping me safe, TSA.