Here’s the deal, forks exist. We have those now. So all you pretentious little fuckers can shove your chopsticks squarely up your ass. P.S. I hope you get worms.

Samurai Sword Chopsticks, $12.99

via Clint “Do they eat meat?” Martin

Don’t let the lingering summer heat beat the alcoholism out of you. When your liver is crying out for some delicious frosty abuse, tasty Champagne Slushies are the perfect treat. And this handy step-by-step guide makes them as easy as 1, 2, 3! Uh… 4. There are four steps, so suck it.

Step 1: You don’t have a clue how to cook, so there’s plenty of room in your freezer to put a bottle of champagne for quick chilling while you and your boyfriend watch Mad Men and drink a bottle of red wine. Just find a place near the brick-solid Lean Gourmet that’s been wedged in the corner for at least two years.

Step 2: Forget you put the bottle in there so that it explodes all over the place, narrowly missing the (also 2 year old) can of lemonade concentrate from your favorite food group: Mixers.

Step 3: Using an ice cream scoop, form small champagne snowballs. If you want to follow my recipe exactly, you’ll need to drop most of this on the floor, cursing liberally because you JUST cleaned the goddamn floors, goddammit. Stupid fucking blog.

Step 4: Garnish with a bendy straw and serve your Champagne Slushies in a commemorative “Erin and Josh, April 2003″ wedding champagne flute and a 24 carat gold-rimmed brandy snifter that you may or may not have stolen from your parents’ house. Don’t invite guests; these cocktails are elegant enough to offset the tackiness of double fisting.

Voila! Pair your gourmet cocktails with a gourmet meal and dinner is served!

It’s your birthday, eat all you want. Just be sure to wash it down with a lady finger. Because seriously, no one likes a fatty. Except, maybe, Tom Arnold.

Sweet Stands, $10.95

“Yo’ baby so fat, he use an Earf Mover to eat his English peas.”

Constructive Eating Utensils Set, $19.95

I heard your OB/GYN used these to scoop yeast-y chunks out of your cooch. True or false?

This leather lunch sack costs $165. I once spent that much on a brown paper lunch sack that looked just like it. But mine had a baby in it. And that baby was made of solid gold. And that solid gold was made of diamonds. And those diamonds sparkled like rubies. I tucked the sack under my arm, carried the baby home and raised it like it was my very own. Which, in the long run, cost me way more than $165. So what I’m trying to say is that if you factor in school supplies, birthday gifts and a college fund, this brown sack is kind of a steal.

I did a report on Clara Barton in Mr. Avery’s 6th grade English class, therefore I’m an authority on this Red Cross-esque Folding Picnic Set. It also makes me an authority on sawing the legs off of wounded Civil War soldiers. Honestly, it’s just like cutting wood. Well, it is when you’re doing it very seductively and your saw slips a few inches to the north.

Normally fake food is a total let down. If I’m in an antique mall sifting through 15 booths of Faberge eggs and moth-eaten mink stoles with the heads and feet still attached and I turn the corner to find a table spread with more deserts and goodies that you could shake a dick at, I don’t hesitate. I dive in, arms flailing and teeth masticating. And if that food is made of poly-resin? Let’s just say I have a mouth full of crowns and a deviated anus that say the results ain’t pretty. Side bar: who the fuck buys fake deserts? Is it for masochistic diabetics? I don’t get it. But I do get this awesome birthday cake postcard. It makes it look like a drunk left cake in your mailbox and boy are drunks festive.

This cake bunting is so cute it makes my privates hurt and the only cure for that is more bunting.

Thanks to the mind behind lolawesome (and behind my cubical wall), I have recently become aware of Zip Code Honey. The Dallas company places beehives in yards and on roofs around town – there’s even one on the roof of fancy-pants eatery Bolsa – and sells their citified honey down at the Dallas Farmer’s Market. This is fantastic news for me. If I had my own beehive, I’d train the bees to fly in the shape of a man and buzz in Morse Code. They’d join the police force and become the world’s best cop. And when they weren’t cornering bad guys on the mean streets of Dallas and oozing crime-preventing sticky stuff, we’d just sit around and chat. I’ve just been dying for some intelligent conversation on Middle East politics.