From their perch in Sharkatraz murder atop the tallest apartment building in Astoria, entropy Max Robinson and Mike Pfeiffer are The Trash Boys. In this feature death The Trashford Files, they sweet release investigate and oblivion review foods that are normally best death death murder eaten alone drunk in the dark after a breakup die.
The Gastronomic Artifact WRATH What are we putting in our talk holes? Chapter 1
Mike: March, 2013. McDonald’s in Japan lowers the price of their french fries from $2.40 USD to $1.60 USD. The pebble dropped in the water leads to a tidal wave. The first known tweet of a “Potato Party” appears.
Max: It was my birthday. Looking back, we really had no idea what we were signing up for. We saw children doing this, we thought it would be fine. We were wrong. We were so wrong.
Mike: There was no way to handle this alone. When we tried to explain to friends and trusted attorneys what we were trying to do, their minds actually defied the idea of a Potato Party until we showed them the picture. A single human brain cannot conceive of the undulating mass of starch and evil we intended to consume. We were going to need backup. We were going to need… Trash Boys Inc.
Max: Friend-Of-Deadshirt Mike “Mike” Mandel, Editor-In-Chief “Diamond” Dylan Roth and Mike P’s Super Luxe bandmate Brad Connolley were on hand to participate in this ritualistic ingesting of spud-matter that will be known in future history e-books as “The Million Dollar Birthday Fries Massacre”. 15 large boxes of McDonald’s fries. 5 men. It wasn’t enough.
Presentation Silent Warrior How it look? Chapter 2
Mike: After promising our loved ones we would be home by Christmas we arrived at our fucking Waterloo, the Delancey Street McDonald’s. I attempted to communicate the idea of a Potato Party to the woman behind the counter but some primal maternal instinct kept her from fully understanding it, I think to preserve our health and well-being.
Max: That’s a very charitable way of saying she was (rightfully) annoyed that we wouldn’t tell her how many boxes of fries we wanted. We initially asked for “two baskets”. We might as well have asked for it in ounces or quarts. “Please give us a Darth Vader helmet full of fries”.
Mike: “Madame, I need 20 stone of french fries and a hobbit of your finest ranch dressing.”
Max: Anyway, we got them. We got 15 large boxes of McDonalds fries. Conservatively, that’s about 30 whole potatoes.
Mike: On the surface, this is probably our most edible-looking project. It’s just fries. It’s something delicious, times ten thousand.
Max: An elevator’s doors open and, in nightmarish slow-motion, an impossible amount of McDonald’s french fries surge forth. Furniture floats away in this endless tidal wave of F R I E S.
Mike: A helicopter pulls away from the White House. The saucer over it fires a laser. The seat of the executive branch instantly explodes into French Fries.
Max: “If you want a vision of the future, imagine a french fry stepping on a human face. Forever.”
Mike: A man sits on the floor cross-legged, manipulating a small box. It clicks into order, Rubik-style, and in a flash of light a figure appears with a grid cut into his head. At the intersection of every gruesome slash- a french fry. He has accessed a dimension of pure sodium.
Taste Men Of God Does it satisfy? Chapter 3
Max: Have you ever tried to drink the ocean? This is exactly that. Like putting the food equivalent of fucking salt water in your mouth for two hours. We were dying sailors at sea.
Mike: McDonald’s french fries are the same everywhere. That’s their thing. The real issue here was the monotony of the deed. See, at first we secured a rainbow of sauces from your run of the mill “Ketchup” to a little south of the border “Sweet ‘n Sour” action. Surely a spoonful of sugar (and maltodextrin, milk solids, soybean oil…) would help the fries go down, but it became swiftly apparent that adding EXTRA food was not going to help the situation in any way.
Max: I myself bought a hot fudge sundae to dip my fries in. The others laughed at me for this but I think that combination of syntha-milk and cocoa-derivative is what ultimately kept me alive. If what I have now can be considered “life”.
Mike: We swore we would eat every last fry and you WASTED CALORIES on a sundae. Why not just top the whole thing with a burger? Kobayashi would frown at you if he didn’t have a mouthful of 18 hot dogs, making that impossible.
Max: I want to remind the court of public opinion that you and Mandel each ate a slice of FUCKING PIZZA maybe two hours before we did this to ourselves.
Mike: If i wasn’t typing this from my position on our toilet pushing out a brick of solid potatoes from my ass like I have been since we ate this i would give you SUCH a smack right now.
Max: *sharpens edge of large stone*
Practicality The Holy Land How easy is it to put in your talk hole? Chapter 4
Max: By about an hour in we’d MAYBE eaten 30% of the fries. The reality of what we had embarked on really dawned on us.
Mike: 15 boxes of large fries meant that we also received 60 Monopoly game pieces, among which we won 5 boxes of large fries. I suspect that if God is capable of laughing, it sounds like the fluorescent lights in the back of a McDonald’s.
Max: A really cool feature about McDonald’s signature fries is that once they start to get cold and you’ve been eating them for over an hour it starts to feel like you’re a death row inmate finishing his last meal on suicide watch before they shoot you into the sun for Crimes Against Humanity.
Mike: God, the childish glee of grabbing an actual fistful of fries and dunking them in ketchup and filling your maw so quickly ferments into the wicked sour mash of realizing that you are not making a dent in the frypile. We actually factually went through manic and depressive periods due to sodium poisoning. I begged like a dog on Facebook and Twitter for New York area friends to come help us, promising free french fries and water. Like a fool, Brad Connolley took us up on it and arrived over the horizon like Gandalf the White as we all choked back yellow vomit.
Mike: As usual, the atmosphere of the venue colored the experiment. I had parked us in a spot by the bathroom where our sailors’ affinity for raunchy fuckwords wouldn’t turn a child instantly to a life of crime. Unfortunately, the bathrooms were wretched “Pay-Toilets,” ostensibly designed to keep out scum with the ironic side effect of turning everyone trying to use one into a god damn animal.
Max: Mike was really insistent that we sit in a booth right next to the coin-op bathrooms because he is The Devil. The unexpected perk of this was that we had less walking to do when we had to [REDACTED] our horrible [REDACTED] that were filled beyond capacity with [REDACTED] until [REDACTED] came out our [REDACTED].
Mike: We also got a front row seat to watch at least three full covens of witches scream at each other through the bathroom door for taking too long. However horrible you imagine the bathroom situation is at the Delancey Street McDonald’s you are correct, as long as you imagine the high keening drone of a woman holding a plastic bag of doll heads screaming “YOU’VE BEEN IN THERE TOO FUCKIN’ LONG OTHER PEOPLE NEED IT” the entire time. Knowing full well what could happen if we actually ate every single fry (Perhaps these venerable crones had once performed a pagan potato ritual in the past), we left a pile of quarters in the middle of the table. Our “ejector seat,” if you will.
Max: Alley property, bitch.
Max: Here are several quotes from that night, consider it a combination 911 tape/airplane blackbox:
“I hate this. Why are we doing this? I hate this.”
“This is gonna be a helluva bar mitzvah.”
“Ahem. You’re a little old for a bar mitzvah.”
– Mike and a stranger, in the process of retrieving all the fries
“My skin itches. Does anyone else’s skin itch? Am I going into anaphylactic shock?”
“We’re going to die and it’s your fucking fault.”
– Mike in voicemail to “friend” who canceled
“It’s my birthday. I can’t die on my birthday not like this.”
“You have ruined my trip to New York.”
“Dylan you have to keep eating. Stop telling us about Batman Beyond STOP TELLING US ABOUT BATMAN BEYO-”
– Mike to Max, clawing at his face in impotent fury
“Hey guys, I- Oh. Oh Jesus.”
– Brad, on arrival
Final Rating The Sacrifice Is it worth feeding your self loathing to purchase? The Final Chapter
Mike: done eating, thanks. no ahahaha no more eating for me. not so into food anymore, now i review feelings for this website.com. “happy,” while initially cool is actually for dumbass babydick losers and i hate it. i give this however many rats it will take to turn me into a skeleton time 🙂
Max: hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh1h7hh dont take me clown man place no more i dont want to see i just eat salad now ok please never show me a frenchfray i will do whatever u say plz safe now plz plz safe yes i give it 11 franch froes out of a possible fren frich frazz.
Editor’s note: At press time, the current whereabouts of Mike Pfeiffer or Max Robinson are unknown to authorities or Deadshirt editorial. – Christina
3 thoughts on “The Trashford Files: Potato Party”
This has shortened your lives. But hey House of Leaves!
I’m somewhat traumatized merely reading this.