Joe Cristalli: Rejecting Sobriety

There has been a lot of buzz in the press recently about controversial genetic startup, My Little Me. Recently, My Little Me reached out to ask if I’d review their products and services. I enthusiastically accepted, excited to get into the review game!

Over the next couple days, I will be posting my daily accounts and reviews of their product with a photo diary. If they’re lucky, I’ll give them my full endorsement…

Day 1: The Arrival

I open my front gate to a shoebox sized package…



I tear the box open and inside is a…miniaturized Joe!? A miniature me!?



I’m stunned! When I sent the little tube of my saliva to My Little Me a couple weeks ago, I had some idea of what was coming, but never did I imagine this kind of detail! He was like me in every way! For the first hour, we did that mirror-game thing…



I tried throwing away Little Joe’s box, but he insisted he take care of it. What a little gentleman!

After a quick tour of my house, we settled in and had a drink together…

I turned on “Honey I Shrunk the Kids” thinking the irony would be enjoyable to Little Joe, but he quickly pointed out the inherent flaws in miniaturizing a person without the proper DNA replication and miniaturization processes. Little Joe states that for miniaturization to work, one would need the technology to simultaneously shrink every vital organ and appendage, whereas, if someone were to replicate a human in a replicating cloning process, but make everything smaller, it would be a whole hell of a lot easier! His hang-ups were mostly with potential disturbances in brain function, but he didn’t show a lot of his work so it’s hard to tell…

“So wait,” I say to Little Joe, “You’re not saying that creating miniature versions of people has the potential for disastrous consequences, are you?”

Little Joe quickly points out how funny it is that Rick Moranis used to be a leading man…



I laugh and agree…



After a great first day with Little Joe, I helped him into his Hot Pocket bed, and then retired to my own bed…



With day one in the books, I have high hopes for My Little Me, and don’t really understand the national outcry that is currently enveloping their company. You’d think Little Joe was some kind of evil genius! Ha-ha! Yeah right!



See ya tomorrow everyone! Little Joe and I will no doubt be up to something crazy!

Continue on to Day 2!

Thanks to Jeremy Slome and Jeff Greco for help with the photography!

When I sit down to a dinner service, the hope is that all my expectations of grandeur and sophistication will be met. When I found out Meat Loaf owned the hottest new restaurant in town, my expectations went through the roof. One of the truly great poperatic singers* of our time was a restaurateur. I’d be hard-pressed to believe that this culmination of majesty and sustenance would fail.

*A combination of pop and operatic.

 I understand the allure of immersing a restaurant in darkness and cobwebs, but it was extremely difficult to read the menu by candelabra light. I asked my server to suggest something, but Meat Loaf had expressly forbidden his servers from trying the food. “You’ve never sneaked a bite?” I questioned, to which my server replied, “The last guy that tasted something got stabbed in the face and Meat Loaf left his rotting corpse in the kitchen as a warning.”

 This was all very unsettling. Despite the wildly offensive health code violation, I still wanted to try something. Since I could not procure a recommendation, and I couldn’t read the menu, I decided to play it safe and ordered the meatloaf. The meatloaf would have to be great, right?  My waiter told me they didn’t serve meatloaf.

This was all getting to be a bit much. I demanded to see the manager.

 Moments later, Meat Loaf was table-side, screaming about some “pukey little snot” wasting his “god-damn time.”

Holy dashboard light! Meat Loaf was here, standing right next to me! He was so much fatter than I had imagined. Despite his extremely loose-fitting pirate shirt, I could still see the silhouette of his lumpy body thanks to all the candle-lit chandeliers and suit-of-armor statues holding torches.  I was quiet for several moments, taking in the majesty that was Meat Loaf. It was awe-inspiring. I was shaken back into reality with what was affectionately referred to as the “Meatloaf Special.”*

*Meat Loaf farted.

“Can you make this quick, you putrid wretch of a thing? I have a plate of meatballs that needs attending, and frankly, the mere sight of you is quashing my appetite.” Meat Loaf’s words threw me. Firstly, he was speaking in a British accent, and I was pretty positive he was American. Secondly, it is rare you have a restaurateur speak to a patron in such a manner, especially when said patron has a tote bag that clearly reads, “Restaurant Reviews are my Bag, Baby!”* At any rate, I again asked to try the meatloaf.

 “We don’t have meatloaf!,” Meat Loaf wildly screamed. He stared me down for a few moments, sizing me up as it were. Since I had him here, I questioned him about the name of his restaurant. If it was a play on his name, shouldn’t there be another apostrophe? If it was a play on loaves of bread and/or meat, was it spelled incorrectly? Also, they didn’t even have loaves of meat. It was rather confusing.

Meat Loaf’s eyes went barren and he disappeared into the kitchen. I summoned our server back. I explained we had not yet ordered, to which he replied, “Meat Loaf has deemed you unworthy of placing your own orders. Your meal will now be chosen for you.” 

After some time had passed—no real way of telling how long as the only clocks were programed to run backwards and we were shrouded in darkness—our dinner was set in front of us. Elegant silver platters covered with extravagant silver lids were placed down. The woman to my left opened hers first: a signed CD from Meat Loaf! Hmm. That seemed peculiar, especially since meatloaf wasn’t even on the menu! Ha-ha, no I’m kidding, she was pretty upset there was no food.

The man to my right opened his lid to find a small handwritten note that simply read, “Fuck You.” While the note itself was in poor taste, the calligraphy that adorned it was stunning. If that much effort could be placed into such a note, why couldn’t the same exertion be spent on the restaurant’s service and food? I was quickly growing weary of what would be under my lid.

I opened my lid to find Meat Loaf’s head. Please don’t misunderstand; it wasn’t a disgusting severed head, but rather, Meat Loaf had jimmied his way underneath our table, and stuck his head under my lid. He pretended he was dead, but getting under our table must have been quite taxing as he was breathing very heavily and was clearly not dead. After a few awkward moments he screamed out, “Hope you like your meatloaf rare!” and began laughing maniacally. As quickly as he started laughing he stopped and an overhead spotlight shone down on him. Confused, my fellow diners looked around, and as “Bat Out of Hell” started playing, we realized Meat Loaf was going to sing!

Unfortunately, he did not sing. He started humming, clearly having forgotten the words. I started to sing, to help him out, and he absolutely lost it. He was so enraged that he flipped our table. We were asked to exit. I tried to tell the staff that I was here doing a review of the restaurant, but that seemed to make everyone angrier.

As we exited, Meat Loaf screamed out, “If your review is anything less than sparkling, I will find you, and I will kill you.” With that, he slammed the front door and left the three of us out in the street. This didn’t scare me. My pen was mightier than his sword.

9 out of 10 stars. I suggest everyone experience the wonder that is, ‘Loafs.

Joe enters the conference room at a local Marriot, expecting to be at a Guy Fieri book signing.

Joe: Hey, what’s going on in here?

Joe’s Netflix account, his Pandora account and his TiVo are seated in the room.

Netflix: We have to talk.

Joe: Wait a second…where’s Guy?

TiVo: This is an intervention.

Joe: …hosted by Guy Fieri?

Pandora: No Joe. Guy won’t be here. We have some serious concerns about your choices in music, film and television.

Joe: That’s outrageous!

Pandora: Is it? Show him, TiVo.

TiVo clicks a few buttons and quickly all of Joe’s recordings come up. There are gasps of horror.

Joe: This is taken completely out of context!

Pandora: What the hell is “Cake Boss”?

Joe: He’s this baker in Jersey, and his whole family works there and…

Netflix: That sounds awful. 

TiVo: It is awful. Also, why do you make me record so much “Glee”?

Joe: I think Jane Lynch is really funny.

Pandora: Bullshit. You’re not playing the “Jane Lynch is funny” card. Too many gleetards are relying on that. Just like everyone else, you’re watching for the rambunctious, sex-charged thirty-something’s, masquerading as teenagers.

Joe: You can’t prove that.

TiVo: Well how about we check out your Netflix account then?

Joe: I have nothing to hide.

Netflix: You’ve had The Labyrinth for three years! Why are you wasting ten dollars a month? Go buy the movie for a nickel and end this charade!

TiVo: Three years of The Labyrinth? What the heck did you rent before that?

Joe: I don’t remember.

Netflix: Don’t you?

Joe: C’mon…don’t bring that up…it’s not even…

Netflix: “Fletch Lives”.

Pandora: They made a second Fletch?

Joe: Guys, guys…he’s a reporter, but ACTS like a detective!

Netflix: Yeah we know. Know how? FLETCH ONE!

Joe: Whatever, this is so bogus. And why is Pandora here? I have great taste in music.

Pandora: Then why do you have four stations dedicated to “Arcade of Fire” songs?

Joe: Because they rock.

Pandora: That’s not even their name!

Netflix: There’s nothing lamer than the indie bandwagon.

Joe: I’m a die-hard A of F fan!

Pandora: Name the lead singer.

Joe: …I wanna say Blake?

Pandora: You always do this! Some new band hits the scene and suddenly you’re SO hardcore! Stick with your roots, dude. Journey, Blue Oyster Cult, Rick Springfield…

Joe: God, I’m so pathetic.

Pandora: Every time I play indie music you click “I don’t like it” until something “Rod Stewarty” comes on. Your words, not mine.

Joe: In fairness, the Rod-Man really knows how to shred.

TiVo: This is pointless. He’s a fucking addict.

Netflix: I’m not giving up on him! Not yet!

Pandora: Maybe we should take smaller steps. Joe, tell me a band that you really like, and we’ll go from there.

Joe: What if they’re indie?

Pandora: That’s fine. Just pick a band you really, really like.

Joe: Clown Shovel.

TiVo: That’s not a band!

Joe: Yes it is! They’re just super underground right now.

Netflix: That’s it, we have to cut him off. 

Joe: No, you can’t do that!

Pandora: You’re only listening to Santana.

Joe: Santana? They’re the Latin Phish!  How is that fair!?

Netflix: And no more Labyrinth. You’re watching The Godfather.

Joe:  What!? Isn’t that thing like ten hours?

TiVo: You haven’t seen The Godfather? Your last name is Cristalli!

Joe: I saw the third one…same thing, no?

TiVo: That’s it…no more “Mike & Molly”.

Joe: No…

TiVo: You’re watching “Mad Men” and “Breaking Bad”.

Joe: Those aren’t even dramadies! If I have to watch drama, can it at least be “Law & Order: SVU”?

TiVo: No! You’re not fooling me with crime procedurals. You got away with “NCIS” for way too long. If you’re not careful, I’ll dig up old episodes of “The Wire”.

Joe: Isn’t that critically acclaimed?

TiVo: Only by the media. Middle America didn’t care for it.

Joe: Nooo!!!!!

(SPECIAL THANKS to www.sharonhardy.com for all the photographs!)

Hey Gustavo… I don’t know if you remember me, but I was in your store about a month ago? I was the guy with the torn ACL. Anyway, I just wanted to give you a quick update on how your treatments and special home remedies were working out for me.

Simplicity in medicine is non-existent. I think that’s why I took to your methods so readily. Case in point: Breath in nature.

I swear, my knee felt better almost instantly.

Now, you said when I felt “aggressively tremendous pain”, I should, “breathe in deeply, so all of Mother Earth could be let in.” I was supposed to, “Let her gentle touch soothe me from inside out,” and then repeat the phrase, “Earth mother, take care of me!”

Getting out of the shower the other day I slipped, turning my knee in an awful direction. The pain was so blinding, I actually blacked out for several minutes. When I came to, I started your breathing exercises, but one quick question: Was I supposed to scream the, “Earth mother” stuff? Like—awful, horrifying, blood-curdling screams?

After another quick blackout, I awoke to find my girlfriend shoveling vicodin into my mouth. I did just what you told me to do in this scenario: I spit them out and told her, “This poison is not for me. If I want to harmonize with nature’s chorus and my emotional calliope, pollutants like this aren’t allowed!”

She called me an ass and forced them down my throat. Coincidentally, I felt better afterward, but I really believe it’s because of your breathing exercises and not from her corporate greed pills.

I love the idea of Echinacea margaritas. I found a tranquil area of woods and set up shop, just like you told me. I could really feel the pain melting away from my body.

I never knew healing could happen through tequila and flowers!

Here’s a quick question: When I get to that point of no return in regards to my pain, you told me to “pray to the God of Light.” When I pray to him, (or her? I’m so embarrassed!), how should I word it? I know you said that the God of Light actually has more power than the “God” we are all accustomed to, so he/she probably deserves some serious respect.

Also, do I have to stare directly at the sun when praying? Granted, I know that’s a big part of it, but my eyes have been killing me. Could I do that solar eclipse thing with a tiny hole in a piece of paper? I think that would really help me out.

Eucalyptus. I don’t know what that means. Your prescription slip just says, “Eucalyptus.” I went to CVS, but those commercial fat cats couldn’t help me. Big surprise there, right Gus?

I’d like to take a quick second to point out that you should be applauded in your trailblazing techniques. Running away from my fear of pain is such a smart idea. Sure, I was hesitant once I realized it actually required running because I have a torn ACL, but I wouldn’t let fear ruin my life! If I could do 15 days of P90X, I could certainly run away from my fear of pain!

Well, apparently that isn’t true. After the first step, I collapsed in a pain that can only be described as God reaching out of Heaven to physically stab me in the leg with a rusty knife while cackling, “Where’s your God of Light now?”

I tried to refuse the ambulance, but once I went unconscious, I didn’t have much of a choice.

Anyway, here I am in the hospital, and I just wanted to say thanks for all your help! You’ve turned my life around in a profound and special way. I wish you well in your future endeavors and much success in the coming years!

Dear Louis Welch,

As a loyal member of your gymnasium, I believe you have made some very serious faux pas that need to be rectified immediately.

I will keep my points brief and to the point. You are a busy man whose time needn’t be wasted.

For starters, Mr. Welch, I have always enjoyed quenching my thirst with a delicious and nutritious protein shake at your juice bar. Unfortunately your juice barista, “Shootah”, refused to serve me anything but Rumplemintz. When I insisted on a protein shake, Shootah informed me that it was, “2-for-1 right now! We also got Jager! 2-for-1 Jager, bro!” From a financial standpoint, 2-for-1 Jager shots make fiscal sense, but I elected to pass, what with it being 10am and us being in a gym.

Shootah was less than thrilled with my response. He quickly slung back his Bud Ice forty and asked a nearby girl, “how much do polar bears weigh?” Shootah quickly collapsed to the ground. Of course, this was before he refunded me the $6.99 I paid for a Mango-Bango Shake. That is poor business practice, Mr. Welch.

After my awful juice bar experience, I went to the treadmills to burn off some steam. Unfortunately, it was borderline impossible to hear my audio book due to the absurd volume of the techno music. I politely asked one of your employees if she could turn it down, but she was less than amiable.

After she laughed at my current speed on the treadmill, she informed me that, “techno is how shit gets done around here, Heavy Chase. How ‘bout you try feeling the burn?” She cackled and walked off. This was unacceptable, Mr. Welch. Techno music is not the great motivator you think it is.

Now Mr. Welch, I have been using your facility for almost six years, so you can understand my confusion this past Tuesday when one of your fitness consultants decided I should be nudged in the direction of a personal trainer. After politely replying that I was not in the market for a personal trainer, Chip laughed in disbelief, commenting to his fellow employee, “I guess Fat King Cole over here doesn’t like gettin’ laid?” I informed him that I very much enjoyed making love, to which he promptly interrupted to call me a “faggot”.  

I think what is irking me the most is the cleverness of your staffs’ wordplay. I am torn between my embarrassment and my appreciation.

I insisted that Chip and his associate stop mocking me. I was at the gym trying to better my life through exercise, and all I was getting was ostracized. (Note: Rhyming never makes one appear threatening. I have only myself to blame on that one.)

I pleaded for them to stop their contemptuous behavior and thankfully they succumbed, apologizing for their ridicule. Unfortunately, as I turned to walk away I heard Chip yell out, “See ya at Dairy Queen, Colin Girth.”

Do your employees have a list of puns to use on overweight people? There is no way they are coming up with these out of thin air. I do not buy it.

If all of that were not enough, Mr. Welch, when I finally decided to speak with a manager about my concerns, the encounter was less than productive. I voiced my discontent for his employees and the heinous nature in which they were behaving. He listened intently, paused briefly, and then inquired, “Would some blow make up for this?”

Taken aback by his question, I asked him to repeat himself. His eyes quickly darted back and forth and again he asked if I wanted some blow. While I enjoyed where his offer was coming from, I do not enjoy drugs, Mr. Welch. He then informed me that it would help with my weight loss. “Chubbos usually love blow. I mean, fuck dude, you look like you’re in Portly Crue.”

All right, that one was pretty good.

Please do not view this letter as out of line, as it was my final option. After I declined the blow, your manager threatened to “bash in my face” if I continued to talk like, “that gay dude from ‘Frasier’”. Electing to articulate my apprehensions with the written word, I present this letter to you.

Never in all my life have I been treated with such disrespect and maliciousness. I insist that I receive a personal apology from you posthaste. I do not think what I am asking for is too much, so your cooperation is greatly anticipated and appreciated.

 I would also like my $6.99 back, or at the very least, a coupon for a free Mango-Bango Shake.

Thank you in advance.

Sincerely,

Fred Herbstanowicz

Recently, I was on the television show Chopped. Chopped is that show on food network where chefs have to make dishes with crazy ingredients. If you succeed without getting chopped in the appetizer, entrée and dessert courses you win ten thousand dollars! 

 I wanted to share my experience with all of you…

Ted Allen, the host of the show, welcomes me and my three competitors and tells us to open up our mystery baskets. As I open the basket I hear Ted proclaim, “Today’s mystery ingredients include: bosc pears, arugula, white wine vinegar and a human foot. You have 20 minutes and your time starts, now!” 

Whoa! I was not expecting this in the first basket. Not only are pears not really in my wheelhouse, but how the heck was I going to combine them with white wine vinegar? This is shaping up to be….wait a second. Did he say a human foot? 

That can’t be right. I quickly look left and right and all three of my competitors are furiously working. Two of them have taken to chopping up the foot while the third seems to be sautéing it. I start to panic. Just breath, Cristalli…you can do this.

I decide I’m going to make a salad for the appetizer course. I love a good summer salad and I think the bosc pears matched with some walnuts and gorgonzola would work really nicely with the arugula base. I’ll reduce the white wine vinegar and make a nice vinaigrette for the salad. OK, OK, I have a plan. I’m fine. 

Oh wait, I’m not fine. I have to include a freaking foot! How am I going to incorporate a human foot in an imaginative way? Maybe I could cook some sole-food. Ha-ha…no time for jokes! There’s ten thousand dollars on the line! 

As I’m freaking out, Ted walks by and asks if this basket is keeping me on my toes. I’m still trying to figure out what to do with the foot, but politely laugh at Ted’s joke.

Ted announces there are three minutes left. How the F did that happen? It’s fine, I’m fine. The arugula’s been tossed with the vinaigrette and the pears are chopped. The gorgonzola is cut and the walnuts are giving the entire dish a nice crunch. Now the foot. I’m just not sure how I can incorporate it without… 

Just then Ted yells out that we have ten seconds left. Oh. My. God! This foot needs to get on my plate now! I throw the foot down as time expires.

I did it! I finished my dish! I can’t believe it. I came on this show with very little experience and almost no credentials. I’m so elated! Not only did I finish, but I made something I’m proud to serve. I’m in such a state of euphoria that absolutely nothing could bring me down off this high.

We bring our plates to the judges who immediately decide that I’m the loser.

Damnit! I really thought I nailed my foot salad. As I fight to hold back tears, the judges give their critiques of my dish…

“While I appreciated the bold flavors, I could not overlook the fact that you decided to leave the toenails on. That’s an unacceptable mistake. Your technique was poor and it was a messy execution overall. Also, are you aware that you didn’t use hot sauce at all? That is unacceptable.” - Aaron Sanchez

“I don’t want to sound like a dick, but your salad tastes like a foot. Did you even attempt to season it? I’m actually fine with all this blood, because it gives the dish a much needed acidity, but you should have combated that acidity with something a little sweet. Also, it seems like Aaron got more foot than I did. I barely have any foot on this plate. I’m not happy.” - Scott Conant

“This foot is out of bounds! You just gave me a one way ticket to flavor country! This thing is crazy good!” -Guy Fieri

— 

Frankly, I had a fantastic time on the show. Even though I didn’t win, I’m definitely going to use what I learned to help build my culinary chops. Besides, I never would have made it through the next two rounds. In the entrée round the ingredients were: lamb chops, a dozen eggs, rosemary and an apple iPod. Ridiculous. And if that wasn’t tough, the dessert course featured: chocolate beer, purple potatoes, ketchup and a vile of the HIV virus. I mean, seriously? How in the heck would I have made a dessert with ketchup?

Ha-ha, no I’m kidding. It’s probably way harder to cook with AIDS. 

As we wrap up our 25 days of stupid holiday movie posters photoshopstravaganza, there’s still more posters!

Can you believe there were fan submissions?

I know, I can barely believe it either. Well, without further ado…

“The Dark Knight Before Christmas” by Ben Simpson (@simps)

“Auld Lang Synes” by Collin Hawkins (@lucianmidnight)

And who could forget about this Christmas gem…

“Manger Payne” by Christian Lynch (@monsterlunch)

And of course, the crown jewel in the Stupid Holiday Movie Poster Photoshopstravaganza

“Shelf” by Christian Lynch

Thanks for all the support, everyone! We’re now a world-wide phenomenon. Time to start thinking about Easter puns.