The season of giving is often also the season of over-indulging at the dinner table. As Thanksgiving approaches, Reactions takes a look down at our stomachs to find out what happens when you overeat. Put on your “eating pants” enjoy the video
We’re the Worst – a short story from an upcoming book called Recoil: From Baghdad to Beverly Hills, the Making of a Paparazzi from Rory Waltzer & Ryan Fu
It was a balmy and humid night in Camp Freedom in Iraq. The temperatures were dropping during the night but not that much because it was still over 100 degrees. Skuba, Seth and I are all on watch because we are getting punished for playing Russian roulette with our M4s during another drunken night while on base.
“I would give my left nut for a slice of goat pizza,” Skuba says.
“How do you not have cancer by now?” I say.
“Hey, what are your guys thoughts on the Spice Girls? I mean if you had the chance to be one of them, who would it be?” Seth asks us on the walkies.
“Oh my god, any kind spice on a pizza besides Mohammed’s sweaty balls would be awesome,” Skuba says.
“I think I would be a mixer of Posh and Sporty Spice because I’m fashionable but active,” Seth says turning his M4 into a fashion statement.
“I hope a sniper just shoots me between my eyes,” I mutter to myself while I get on the binos looking for any suspicious activity.
I stand on top of North tower of the main wall that is 15 feet high made out of pure concrete that surrounds the whole base. Seth is on the South side and Skuba is in between with the sniper rifle going North to South. It’s the wall, a couple of gates and a few barricades that is stopping any would be invaders coming through our camp. Usually, I would be totally confident for the men, who were on watch but tonight is not one of those nights.
We were the guys on watch that was responsible for everyone’s safety, which I’m not sure we were up for it because lets face it, we don’t have the best track record for being the “best we could be.” There are hundreds of soldiers and insurgents out in this desert, which our best doesn’t equal their worst, that’s how bad we are. If the world really was depending on my crew to save them, then there is no hope because we are the worst.
Seth confirms my notions about us as he tells me he forgot his ammo for his gun because he wanted to look good on watch.
“What do you mean, you don’t have any ammo?”
“I was rushing to get on time and I just forgot.”
“You don’t carry extra ammo?”
“No. Too many accessories is awful for this uniform,” Seth tells me.
“Did you just fucking say that?”
“What if we get busted dick?”
“You know what would happen to us if the Captain found out?”
“Dude, shut up. I think I see something out there,” Seth tells me.
“South side my 10-20, 2 o’clock.”
“What is it Specialist?”
“I’m not sure asshole, you’re the spotter.”
“Skuba, head over to the South side get eyes on.”
I don’t call it in because I have to make sure it’s not any threat to us because we are already in trouble with the Cap. We don’t want to look more incompetent than we already were. So, I sprint over to the South side hoping that Seth is just losing his mind and this wasn’t a real threat because we are not ready for this shit.
“Skuba, you got eyes on?”
“Wait one. There’s definitely something in the brush. Moving and a shiny object that kinda looks like an RPG?
“Say again. Confirm you last.”
“Serg. There’s something definitely moving out there and it looks like an RPG.”
I pick up the pace heading towards to the South side.
“Fu, it’s moving quickly towards us. What the fuck do you want us to do?”
“Bro, it’s 50 yards and closing in make a call.”
“Fuck it. Execute Specialist.”
As I get closer to Seth and Skuba on the South side when I hear the .50 cal round echo around the base.
“Target is down.”
I finally reach Seth and Skuba I see them high-five each other looking like those dorks I saw in all those military propaganda commercials telling us that we can all be what we want to be if we just signed our lives away.
I quickly get on the binos to see their kill. I scan the brush to see what Skuba put the hammer down on.
“What’s up bro, think I’ll get that sniper medal?” Skuba asks me feeling confident on the kill.
“Yup. You’re our number one goat killer.” I tell Skuba still looking thru the binoculars.
“What?” A confused Skuba tells me. “A goat. What about the RPG?”
“You mean the goat’s shiny bell. Unless it has a ton of C4 in it, I don’t think it’s going to kill us.”
We all stand there, some laugh the rest are quiet.
“We’re going to eat it right?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You know what, I change my mind. I would be Baby Spice because I’m cute as a button.”
“Seriously, we’re going to eat the goat right?”
“We’ll never get off this wall.”
We were lucky it was an unarmed goat, because honestly I didn’t see us holding this post against actually human beings. They say you get the real test of what you are made of when you have your first combat, but I didn’t need any insurgents firing rockets at us to know where we ranked. I came to the desert thinking all I wanted was to see action, to actually fight and being honest, I wanted to kill a motherfucker. I mean if you ask every soldier in uniform what he really wants to do, half of them will say kill somebody and the other half will be lying.
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There are more than 2,100 breweries that manufacture beer in the United States. They range in size from industry giants to brew pubs and microbreweries.
- The U.S. produced 196 million barrels of beer in 2009.
- The U.S. consumes roughly 20 US gallons of beer per capita annually.
- In 2008, the United States was ranked sixteenth in the world in per capita consumption, while total consumption was second only to China.
- Prohibition in the early twentieth century caused nearly all American breweries to close.
- After prohibition was repealed the industry had consolidated into a small number of large-scale breweries.
- The majority of the new breweries in the U.S. are small breweries and brewpubs, who, as members of the Brewers Association, are termed “craft breweries” to differentiate them from the larger and older breweries.
- The most common style of beer produced by the big breweries is American lager.
- Most of the smaller breweries, which were founded in the 1980′s, produce a range of styles.
- Beer styles originating in the United States include:
American pale ale, Pennsylvania porter, American IPA, steam beer, amber ale, cream ale and Cascadian dark ale.
Check out which Types of Beers you should avoid: 8 BEERS THAT YOU SHOULD STOP DRINKING IMMEDIATELY!!!
Credit: National Calendar
The Simpsons: No Tv and No Beer
It’s National Greasy Foods Day! Although it might not be the healthiest choice out there, everyone loves the taste of greasy food. From pizza and nachos to burgers and French fries, it’s nearly impossible to ignore this guilty pleasure.
THE HEART ATTACK GRILL: Burgers and Spanking? Why Would You Eat There?
A hurricane is a type of tropical cyclone, which is a generic term for a low-pressure system that generally forms in the tropics. The cyclone is accompanied by thunderstorms and, in the Northern Hemisphere, a counterclockwise circulation of winds near the earth’s surface. Tropical cyclones are classified as follows:
Tropical Depression – An organized system of clouds and thunderstorms with a defined surface circulation and maximum sustained winds of 38 mph (33 kt) or less. Sustained winds are a 1-minute average wind measured at about 33 ft (10 meters) above the surface. While 1 knot = 1 nautical mile per hour or 1.15 statute miles per hour and is abbreviated as “kt”.
Tropical Storm – An organized system of strong thunderstorms with a defined surface circulation and maximum sustained winds of 39-73 mph (34-63 kt)
Hurricane – An intense tropical weather system of strong thunderstorms with a well-defined surface circulation and maximum sustained winds of 74 mph (64 kt) or higher
Hurricanes are categorized according to the strength of their winds using the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale. A Category 1 storm has the lowest wind speeds, while a Category 5 hurricane has the strongest. These are relative terms, because lower category storms can sometimes inflict greater damage than higher category storms, depending on where they strike and the particular hazards they bring. In fact, tropical storms can also produce significant damage and loss of life, mainly due to flooding.
When the winds from these storms reach 39 mph (34 kts), the cyclones are given names. Years ago, an international committee developed names for Atlantic cyclones (The History of Naming Hurricanes). In 1979 a six-year rotating list of Atlantic storm names was adopted — alternating between male and female hurricane names. Storm names are used to facilitate geographic referencing, for warning services, for legal issues, and to reduce confusion when two or more tropical cyclones occur at the same time. Through a vote of the World Meteorological Organization Region IV Subcommittee, Atlantic cyclone names are retired usually when hurricanes result in substantial damage or death or for other special circumstances.
Image courtesy of NASA. Credit: Hurricane
Why Hurricane Categories Make a Difference
It was over 100 degrees again today in Los Angeles, where the mere the thought of going outside caused you to sweat. It was so hot that it was inhumane to even work outside. So, Chuck and I decided to chill out at a friends pad to get out of the heat.
“I love these low-calorie health bars,” Chuck says to me while unwrapping another energy bar.
“How many of those have you had?” Playing Call of Duty with my headset on. “BigDick90 I need you to secure the package, also watch out for snipers.”
“I’ve had like four, I’m going to lose weight in no time,” finishing another one.
“BigDaddy, I need you to throw a grenade in the building to clear out our path. BigDick watch our back while we go in.”
“I’m going to look great in my neon thong,” as Charles check outs his figure in the mirror.
“There’s our package, everybody get your head on swivel and go get it!” Screaming in my headset. “You know Chuck if you have too many of those you won’t lose weight because you’re still piling up the calories.”
“What?” Chuck grabs his gut looking confused.
“Fuck I’m dead. Damn it, BigDick! I told you to watch out for the snipers,” as I get a text for a tip. “We gotta go, I just a text for Brad Pitt.”
We leave our comfortable, air-conditioned friend’s pad into the sweltering heat, getting into my truck driving towards the tip.
“Fuck it’s hot out here,” driving on a heavily congested Santa Monica Blvd during lunch hour traffic.
“My balls are sweating so much, it’s a swamp down there,” Chuck tells me adjusting himself in the seat. “Where’s this fool at anyway?”
“He’s at a photo studio I think promoting his latest gig. Hopefully, we make it in time to shoot him,” as a carefully navigate in traffic.
We get to the spot, preparing ourselves but still staying in the car because we don’t want to get noticed because he’s not our biggest fan. I tell Chuck that he’s probably in his custom motorcycle. We both stay focus on the studio, where he was supposed to be in as the sun starts to beat on us.
“I knew I should have put baby powder on my balls today,” Chuck tells me wiping the sweat off his face.
“What does that do?”
“It picks up all the sweat from your balls and asshole.”
“But how do you explain to your girlfriend about your powdered white-black dick. What do you say, you were fucking some powdered donuts?”
“Fuck, I’m hungry,” Chuck says to me grabbing his junk.
As we both are starting to lose hope, in the corner of my eye I see Brad down the street in his custom bike pulling out the driveway.
We’ve made a mistake on the location.
I start-up my truck trying to catch up to him but the traffic was horrendous as I weave in and out of traffic. I thought to myself we’re not going to catch up to him in my truck especially with this traffic. So, I tell Chuck to get ready to get out to shoot him when he stops a red light. But Chuck is a bit apprehensive about his athletic skill.
“Bro, you can do it,” telling Chuck making sure we don’t crash into cars.
“Motherfucker an hour ago you are calling me fat ass,” as Chuck makes sure he has the correct settings on the camera.
We manage to catch up to him on a busy street, but he easily gets away from us with the help of his bike. But he gets stuck behind a big rig with a red light ahead of it. I turn to Chuck,
“Its time. Go get it!”
Chuck quickly jumps out of the truck, stumbling bit but regains his steps as he rumbles down the street looking like an NFL fullback. He looked a bit uncomfortable and awkward running as I begin to laugh in the truck. I lose visual on him for a bit then I see his bald black head pop up right on Brad beginning to blast him with his camera. In the car it kinda looked like Mr. Jolie was okay with it or maybe he was just so intrigued about this strange big black man sweating profusely in front of him shooting him with a camera.
The light turns green as Brad makes his getaway while I pull up to pick up Chuck. I turn the corner but he was already gone in the chaos of L.A. traffic. I pulled over checking on Chuck’s photos, which in my amazement he got him well, congratulating him a good job done.
“See bro, I knew you can do it,” handing back the camera to Chuck. “Let me buy you another low-fat energy bar.”
“Fuck that, let’s go to Korean BBQ. Stop at Rite Aid first so, I can pick up some Baby Powder for my balls,” Chuck tells me huffing and puffing on his sweat covered t-shirt. I agree as we head to grab an unhealthy lunch still stuck in traffic feeling like victorious men with powdered sweaty balls.
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