I wasn’t able to save every little thing, only what the Internet Archive had. Still, I’ve salvaged over 300+ articles going all the way back as far as 2004, and I’d say that’s pretty damn good.

There’s quite a few missing images, and some articles have broken formatting. But, barring the stuff that the Internet Archive missed, the content is all there, completely unedited and preserved as-is for the world to read. Drake may be dead, but his memory will live on in his 8+ years of writing.

I might be done copying his old site over, but I’m not done with this site. From time to time I’ll be stopping by to share my memories of Drake. I’m also going to reach out to his widow soon and see if she has anything she’d like me to post on here.

But until then, feel free to browse through the old writings of an internet rant scene legend.

Drake, it’s been five years, but I still miss our conversations.

The post The DrakeGTA Archives are now complete appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

When I conceived the idea of doing the DrakeGTA Archives on its own dedicated site, I knew it was going to be a bit of work. The guy liked writing, and his site had been around since the mid-2000’s, so I expected to have to copy and paste a fair amount of content, maybe track down some images and YouTube videos for some of the articles too.

I certainly didn’t expect to have this much content to copy over.

Drake told me plenty of stories from his early years. What he didn’t tell me was that he spent half his free time just writing articles for his site.

The guy apparently started writing in 2004, well before I knew him. He also apparently put out like four or five new articles a day in his early years. The earliest articles I can find date back to October 24, 2004. I’m currently up to December 7, 2004, and I’ve copied over 53 articles so far. It’s only 53 because a bunch of them weren’t archived. Realistically, it’s probably over 60. Holy shit.

I could just say “Fuck this shit” and only focus on his later stuff. And realistically, I probably should. This old stuff is pretty damn rough even by my standards. Hell, Drake himself would probably tell me not to bother with it.

But I’m not going to do that.

Why?

Because this is the DrakeGTA Archive, and archiving my boy Drake’s writing is what we do here.

Since this is going to be an insane amount of work, and I’ve got other projects I’m working on (like an overhaul of AngryJerk.net/AJnet Magazine) what I’m going to do is set a simple and realistic goal for this site.

I’m going to make a point to copy over a minimum of 10 articles a day. Sometimes it will be more than 10, but never less. This way things will still be getting done without burning myself out doing tedious copy-pasting for hours on end. And it even benefits you, the reader, because it’s kind of like you’re getting 10 new articles a day to read.

This project is going to take a while to complete, but it will be completed. I originally wanted to have it completed by no later than the end of April, then proceed to begin renovating AJnet Mag, but given the sheer volume of old content I don’t think that’s feasible.

Then again, we completed Rantlister a lot quicker than anticipated, so who knows? Granted, Rantlister didn’t have hundreds of articles to recover, but still.

Anyway, that’s our goal for now. 10 or more republished articles a day, steady as she goes.

The post This is gonna be a lot more work than I thought (Progress report) appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

Work has officially begun on the DrakeGTA Archives.

This project wasn’t slated to start until April, which is when our Rantlister archival/revival project was expected to be completed. We got Rantlister done way ahead of schedule. In some weird twist of fate, we began work on the DrakeGTA Archives on what would have been Drake’s 43rd birthday.

I swear this wasn’t intentional.

It’s also not intentional that I’m currently listening to Spotify on shuffle, and it just played two songs that are found in GTA: San Andreas (“Some Kind of Wonderful” by Grand Funk Railroad and “I Love a Rainy Night” by Eddie Rabbitt, in case you’re wondering). Drake chose the name “DrakeGTA” because he liked GTA: San Andreas. This guy and his fucking music, man. I guess this is his way of signaling his approval?

Anyway… as you can see, the layout is almost complete. At first, I wanted to recreate the last layout that Drake had. I decided against a perfect replica though, since he didn’t do the “Good Time Authors” thing until like 2008 or 2009, and I want the focus of the site to be him. Don’t worry, any articles originally posted by the “Good Time Authors” will still be assigned to those writers when I start putting articles up.

There’s still one or two tweaks that need to be made to the layout (the footer comes to mind). Then from there I’ll probably get an About page up, along with a dedicated memorial page.

After that, it’s just a matter of grabbing the old articles and putting them onto the new site. This is going to be the hard part, since Drake often went heavy on images and links, usually to music videos that have long since been deleted from YouTube. The Internet Archive seems to have missed quite a few images, and, while I’m fairly good at understanding Drake’s sense of humor, there’s quite a few times where I had no idea what the hell the guy was referencing and what the original images could have been.

Ideally, this project will be completed by the end of March or April. I may or may not delete these progress reports after everything is completed, since I don’t want to detract from Drake’s old content. This site’s about Drake, not me.

If Amanda is reading this, if there’s anything of Jake’s that you’d like me to share on here, or if you or the girls want to write something for me to post, email me at angryjerk@angryjerk.net.

Happy birthday Drake. Almost five years later and I still miss you, bro.

The post Work has officially begun appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

If you’ve never made a Long Island iced tea, the first thing to surprise you will be finding out, it contains no tea what-so-ever. The second will be the list of ingredients…

1 part vodka
1 part bourbon
1 part tequila
1 part rum
1 part gin
1 part triple sec
1 1/2 parts sweet and sour mix
1 splash Coca-Cola®

That’s six kinds of booze. That doesn’t read like a shopping list. It reads like a suicide attempt, and as I soon found out, that pretty much sums up the experience. The medical definition of binge drinking is when someone has five or more drinks in a row; one Long Island iced tea qualifies as binge, all by itself. So you throw in six shots of liquor and poor it over ice, then add a small amount of coke just so it doesn’t look like yellow bile.

Upon making the first drink, the first thing you notice is that the gin is overpowering. Fucking gin. Who the fuck invented gin and why? I can only imagine that gin was invented as some kind of ol’ timey surgical anti-septic. And who the fuck drinks gin? Has anyone ever had a night that involved gin and had a good morning to follow? What do you mix gin with? A gin and tonic? Who drinks that? The governor of a British colony in 1872? The only way I can ever see someone drinking Gin is like this: Its the 19th century, you’re at a remote outpost of the English empire, you’re surrounded by savages who have cut you off from food and water, you know death is coming anyway, so you drink up, hoping it kills you before the natives do. I don’t live in some mosquito ridden malaria pit, I don’t need quinine, why the fuck would I want that? Gin tastes like something the girls on Jersey Shore would douche with, it tastes like the used remains of that, only worse.

None of that matters, because 1/4 of the way into the first drink, you don’t notice the gin anymore. Listen to me. The rum I bought, Cruzan, (or, Corazón as I choose to mispronounce it,) came with two glasses. They have graduated lines with sayings on them. At 1/4th done, it reads: “So much work so little time.” At half done it reads: “It all gets done.” At 3/4ths it reads: “No need to hurry.”

By the time you get to: “So much work so little time” you already have a good buzz going, and you’d better hope you didn’t have any work planned. By the time you get to the next line it should read “Nothing gets done” because by that point in time, you’d better hope you already made dinner, because now its too late, you couldn’t cook if you tried, but if you did, it would be hilarious; in fact, everything is hilarious at this point, including the smoke detector telling you what’s up and the vague smell of burning plastic. At the 3/4ths mark which reads “No need to hurry” it should say: “Good luck staggering to the bathroom before you piss yourself, fool.” What’s missing is a mark at the bottom of the glass that reads: “Fucking kill me, kill me now, I’m going to die anyway, put me of my misery.”

The box that the Corazón came in contains a second glass with some Christmas shopping related shit written on it. I chose to grab a sharpie and write my own experiences on it. At 1/4th in it reads: “Hey, let’s listen to Soul Coughing at volume 10, because all my neighbors need to hear it.” At halfway in, it reads: “Come on babe; we can totally dance to Super Bon-Bon, its a classic.” At 3/4ths it says: “I’ve taken the elevator to the mezzanine of pain, chump.” The bottom reads: “Drake, I’m writing this to remind you in the morning, never do this again, really, I know you, you’ll forget it, and you’ll do it again, but I’m telling you now, don’t, just don’t.”

The human body processes alcohol at one unit per hour. That’s one beer, one glass of wine, or one shot of 80 proof liquor per hour. That means it takes six hours to process one Long Island iced tea if you use one shot each of these ingredients, twelve to process two, eighteen to process three, and twenty-four to process four. At five glasses in you wake up, pick yourself off the floor, and realize you may not have planned this through very well, and go reshingle your roof anyway, like a man.

Have a good day assholes, I sure as hell won’t.

The post Long Island Iced Tea: A Gentelmanly Review appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

Fucking Aye, really? Really? That’s fine. I’m willing to accept that; or, alternatively, I’m willing to accept that the human body is a wonderful work of art, perfect in form and function; but not both. You can’t have it both ways. Either the human body rocks and shit like that doesn’t happen, or shit like that happens and the human body is just one more cruel trick that adds up to define human existence.

Let’s talk about sleep first. Sleep is essential to life, it probably has something to do with the encoding of memories, we know it regulates mood and hormone function; really, for the human body to deny it’s controller sleep, its only screwing itself, right? No, the first mistake you made was assuming the brain and the body were on the same side. The human body doesn’t care, it doesn’t feel any of this tired, sore, and achy shit, it sends those signals up your spinal cord to your brain, you’re body is saying: “Fuck you brain, that’s what you get for developing self-awareness; you think therefore you are? How about a migraine? Think about that bitch!”

Maybe you think you’ll just turn in early, trick the body that way, pull a fast one on the ol’ meat pop-cycle. (That didn’t come across right.) Good luck, your body is going to release the metabolic equivalent of a klaxon alarm. If you manage to fall asleep, your body is going to interpret your muscles relaxing as a fall and jerk you back into awareness. Hey, but that’s okay, since you’re going to be up a while anyways, your brain has prepared a nice relaxing soundtrack, it’s every mistake you ever made, every regret, and everything you’re ashamed of, and now you get to relive it.

Why they fuck can’t the human brain tell the human body to go to sleep? I mean, I can tell my legs to walk, and they do; my mouth doesn’t laugh at me when I ask it to chew my food. I understand the need for some kind of override, something that wakes you up if you hear loud threatening noises, but it doesn’t matter, because after weeks of not sleeping, your body would sleep through an old woman driving an RV through a nitroglycerin factory.

Oh, and then sometimes your body does the opposite. Got a really important lecture? Driving home? Staying awake a matter of life and death? Oh, sounds like a good time for a little nap. That car horn? Na, it’s just part of your dream, don’t worry about it.

That’s just sleep. What about anxiety? So this is really important? Can’t fuck it up? Fine, lets kick your heart rate up to the one-forties, get a good cold sweat going, and shake the fuck out of your hands. See isn’t that better? No? Well too fucking bad, that’s what we’re doing today.

I’m fucking sick of you body. With your bullshit itching, and cramping, and having toes that stick out and get caught on furniture, and then you develop allergies to the plants in your own goddamn part of the country. Fucking allergies, you know that shit gave our ancestors the evolutionary advantage they needed to push to the top of the food chain, right?

You know what else your primitive ancestors must have enjoyed? Sleep apnea. You’re hiding, from predators, they will eat your ass, you’re asleep, so you’re at your most vulnerable, I got an idea, lets make loud bullshit sounds so all the animals know where we are and that we’re sleeping, we’ll call it “Snoring.”

So you’ve got an Adam’s apple that impedes your breathing and does nothing else. You’ve got a spleen and appendix ready to burst and ruin your day at any time. You’ve got a million small tissues like your parathyroid glands and insulin producing cells looking for an excuse to turn south and fuck shit up, and if you survive all that, you can die of cancer; or heart disease, because all that excess fat, don’t worry, you’re body has been saving it for you, where you really need it, in the arteries of your heart.

Really? And for all this, how many Wolverine claws did nature give us? How about a giant prehensile tail? Poison sacks? Night vision? Echo location? Body armor? You couldn’t even give us a plate of armor to protect the gonads, even after making them so sensitive to pain? No, but you did put them where I could accidentally sit down on them. Really?

No, it’s fucking bullshit, and I won’t stand for it. The human body fucking sucks and it pisses me off. Further more, why did you give women two breasts and yet we only have one mouth? No wait, I guess that’s because to have two mouths we would have to look like a deformed hammerhead shark-thing except with teeth instead of eyes, and oh, that’s fucking disgusting, forget I said that; you win that one body, good on you, but don’t think that makes up for any of that other shit I just mentioned.

The post The human body is Boston Baked Bullshit appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

However, the older I get, the less bullshit I can put up with. I can only handle so much incompetence anymore. I used to laugh it all off and say: “Ain’t it funny how stupid people are?” Now I realize, this is my world, I have to live here, I have to raise my family here, and these idiots are fucking everything up, and I’m tired of it.

So let me share a story. I get a phone call at six pm. This awakens me from my drunken stupor. I got off work on Friday, and hit the bottle pretty hard ever since. I figure, fuck it, it’s my days off, I’ll spend it how I want. If I want to spend my days off in a foggy alcoholic haze so I don’t have to deal with my life, that’s my goddamn right as an American citizen.

So I get this call. It’s my best friend in the world, who I haven’t seen in three years. He tells me he’s engaged to be married, and in February he wants me to come down and be his best man. He wants to get married on the lake, in his bass boat, whatever. “Hell yea I’ll do that, you’re fucking thirty-one, about time to lose your V-card. If you found some dumb bitch stupid enough to marry you, let’s make this shit legally binding before she comes to her senses and changes her mind, I sure the hell did.”

So I look at the clock, it’s six pm. My kids are out of town this weekend, but I have homework. My oldest daughter has to build a house for school. Now she could be like every other dipshit and build a cardboard house out of a box, but fuck that. You don’t know this, and frankly, I know that you don’t care, but my kid’s project are always awesome. If there is one value I want to instill in my kids, it’s that you can’t accept mediocrity, you have to kick everyone’s ass and send them home crying. My daughter and I make such awesome projects, that I have been chosen: I have to make the school’s parade float and the props and background for the school play every damn year. This house she has to build is going to be awesome, the best house second grade has ever seen.

So I know I need more supplies. I have about three hours bottle to throttle time, so I’m good to drive. I go to Home Despot and spend a metric shit ton of money on lexan and square dowel rods. I also hit Hobby Lobby because I hate my bank account and want it to die.

On the way back, I notice that I’m hungry. That happens when you drink all day for several days in a row and forget to eat. I am adventurous and like to try new things. There is a new sushi place in town, and goddamn it, if you are a fat drunk piece of shit, and you want to feel worldly and cultured, nothing says worldly and cultured, quite like sushi.

I had to circle the block twice to find the place, it’s a fucking closet. So I walk in, and right off the bat, I know I fucked up. I am the guy who shops at a twenty-four hour store at two am, because I don’t want to interact with people. I walk in, the place is the size of a closet, they have about five people eating and four people working; that’s the recipe for a good dive bar, but a bad combination for any place that you don’t really want to be.

So let me set the scene for you. You have a help wanted sign, two waitresses, one waiter, and one old Asian guy working the actual sushi bar. One of the waitresses walks up to me, she is young, twenty to twenty-four, she is amazing, I have a thing for brunettes, but let me tell you, she is “10 out of 10, A++, would bang again.” She’s got a flower in her hair and an ass of legends. If I were not a happily married man, I could do things to her that would make E. L. James recoil in horror.

She walks up and she says “Order to go?” Why? Because she fucking gets it. It’s seven pm on a Saturday, a fat drunk beard-o staggers in alone, he isn’t going to want to eat there, he’s going to go home, eat his food in quiet shame, and cry into the carryout box at the thought of the wreck his life has become.

I order a California roll and get ready for the most awkward forty-five minutes of my life so far, until the erectile dysfunction starts to take hold. Brunet beauty, who for the purposes of our story we’ll call “Sasha Grey” because, fuck you, that’s why, takes my plastic fiat money and swipes it through a credit card reader on her iPad. Think about that for a moment, she took my debit card on her iPad. It’s about time someone stuck it to those assholes who sell credit card readers, the fucking bane of small business owners, fucking $500 a month lease and $2 a swipe service charge.

Immediately afterword, Sasha goes out the front door. Maybe she went to smoke, maybe she went to change her vodka tampon, maybe she went to snort lines of coke and shoot up heroin, I don’t care.

I’m waiting. It’s obvious only one person in the whole joint knows how to make Sushi, the old Asian guy, who for our story, we’ll call “The Keymaker” because he was the only character I like from the Matrix sequels. The Keymaker is making sushi like a mad man, like a mad Asian man, cursing in Manchurian, head bent down, and focused on his task. The Keymaker must be the owner and everyone else is his incompetent helping hand, it’s the only way it makes sense.

In walks this older woman, about fortyish, maybe fiftyish, blond, nice blouse, looks all used up, like the world chewed her up and spat her out. She sets down at the sushi bar and waits for service. Now I work in healthcare, but I understand customer service. This isn’t Walmart, this isn’t a fucking museum, people don’t come here to browse, they want food, and when a forty to fifty year old woman with her hair done up, make up on, and a nice blouse walks in, she already knows what she wants.

So I wait, and she waits. After about five minutes, and I know because I’m watching the flat panel TV, which is showing an old 1970s Bruce Lee flick about a deadly dice game, whatever. After about five minutes, which we’ve already established is too long, this blond chick, who I chose to name Madison, because that’s a good name for a blond idiot, walks over to take her order. The first order is rejected, turns out they are out of the ingredient she wanted. So she makes a second order, rejected too, same reason, out of the shit. She has no fucking clue what is or isn’t in stock. Well Madison takes her order the third time, and this one works.

I am bored as hell, hungry as hell, drunk as fuck, and fuck my life right? I’m looking at the pictures on the wall. This dude has managed to get every single member of Star Trek: The Next Generation to sign photos of themselves wishing this sushi place good luck, really, even the minor characters like Commander Toro. I find this highly entertaining, and spend a good thirty minutes looking at them.

Now this whole time, this guy, supposedly a waiter, and we’ll call him Douchebag Jr. is leaning against the counter with this “Yea, I’m the boss” look on his face. Keep in mind, I’m mostly drunk, I mostly hate my life, and the world, and everyone in it. I want to take this piece of shit out back and beat the smirk off his face.

A couple comes in, early sixties, sets down, takes a seat without being seated. They wait about ten minutes, Douchebag Jr. never moves a fucking muscle, Madison eventually walks over and takes their order, again, gets it wrong the first time, has to go back. Around that time, this asshole walks in. I don’t have to give you details about how I know he was an asshole, it was written on his goddamned face. His face said “I am a goddamned asshole, and I need my ass kicked more than anything else in the world.” He’s late fifties, he walks in with Sasha Grey on his arm, it’s obvious what’s going on, he owns the place, and she was probably blowing him in the parking lot.

All the little pieces fall into place. This is Douchebag, Douchebag Jr. is his son. So we reevaluate the scene. We have Sasha Grey, twentyish, who is having relations with the owner. We have Douchebag Jr. who is “holding it down” thugging it hard against the wall, Madison the blond idiot, and the Keymaker who is the only one doing any work. Why the fuck does the only competent person around not own this place? Is he in debt? Did he fail the Yakuza and this is his punishment? Why the fuck is the only sushi chief in town taking shit from this asshole?

My order gets made, but put on a plate for dine in. I ain’t about to dine it, it’s been nearly two hours since my last drink, and my bottle of low-rent vodka is getting lonely. Sasha Grey recognizes the error made, and sees my plight. It still takes them nearly five minutes to put my California roll in a to go box. Why? Because none of the wait staff will do it, they tell the Keymaker to do it, and he’s focused on the Rainbow roll that fiftyish blond bitch ordered.

No one in the place felt competent enough to take my roll off the plate and put it in a styrofoam box. I’m a nice guy, remember, so I wait. I get home, I put on some Mumford and Sons because I’m gay like that, and I eat my California roll. It’s the best damn sushi that I’ve ever had in my life, will eat there again.

The post Sushi Story appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

Okay, so let’s talk a little bit about Prometheus. Prometheus shares a universe with Alien(s), and by extension, all the bad Alien sequels, and the horrible Alien Vs. Predator bullshit that sucked, which is funny because the comics were good. I just don’t understand how that happens. You’re a Hollywood screen writer, and you’re told to write a screen play based on Aliens Vs. Predator, arguably, the two coolest lifeforms in any fictional universe. Do you realize how hard it has to be to fuck up Aliens fighting Predators? You’re handed a series of well done comics, and all you have to do is write them into screen play format. Instead, you take a long drag on your crack pipe, wipe your ass with the well done comic books, and go on to write the shitiest insult to good plot ever produced by a writer. Fuck you dipshit writer guy.

But let’s get back to the point here. I can explain Prometheus in two minutes flat. Remember at the beginning, the “Engineer” or “Space Jockey” that drinks some kind of mutant ooze but instead of becoming a Ninja Turtle, he disintegrates? He’s not dressed like the later Engineers, he’s in a robe with a hood, that makes him spiritual, that makes him a monk and truth seeker, he’s a good guy. The bad Engineers we see later, the ones that want to kill everyone, they look like Elephants.

Wait a second, did you just get it? See, the good Engineers are earthy and spiritual and druids and shit; the bad engineers who are military minded and want to kill everyone look like Elephants. Elephants. The whole plot about wanting to kill everyone, weapons of mass destruction, the evil android, or military drone if you will, the mysterious character named Peter Cheney Weyland who starts a space war in the space Middle East just to fund his space contractor company “Wayland-Halliburton.” The whole damn movie is political propaganda designed to sway the 2012 elections. God damn you Ridley Scott, I thought you were better than this.

The post Prometheus Explained In Two Minutes appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

As an added bonus, I’ve posted both versions of this recipe. The sissy version (for little girls, specifically for my two little girls) and the manly version. I would call them the “no huevos” version and the “grande huevos” versions, but huevos actually means eggs, and I wouldn’t want to confuse anyone, because fuck eggs, don’t get your nasty, stinky, fucking albumin puss, eggs anywhere close to my godlike perfect hash browns. We’ll go over the sissy version first, and then jump to a batch of the manly hashed joy that is my gift to the world.

The first thing we need to do is assemble our ingredients.

1 each: Bottle of RÖKK imported Swedish Vodka (On Sale)
1 each: Red Solo Cup (To Contain Vodka)
1 each: Two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper
1 pack: Simply Potatoes® Shredded Hash Browns
1 bag: Great Value: Finely Shredded Fiesta Blend Cheese, 16 Oz
Enough: Black Pepper
Enough: Spicy McCormick® Season All
1 slab: Butter.
1 each: Cheap ass griddle
1 jar: Great Value: Sliced Jalapenos, 13.4 Oz (Pickled) [For Manly Version]
1 can: Great Value: Chopped Green Chili, Fire Roasted and Peeled (4 oz) [For Manly Version]
Enough Crushed Red Peppers (You can steal these from Pizzahut) [For Manly Version]

Since I know my audience, I’ve included a pictorial guide.

Ingredients

Step 1: You and your children are awakened at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning by a neighbor’s chainsaw. Throw rocks at him for being a morning person.

Step 2: Look in your fridge for ingredients, end up making at least one trip to the store.

Step 3: Assemble ingredients. Take a moment to consider your spatulas.

Step 3

See that soft spatula on the far left, that’s the one you want. If you don’t have a soft scraper spatula, a firmer one will do, just not as well. Lastly, a solid spatula (like the one on the far right) sucks for griddle cooking. Like any good technician you should know your tools well, maybe even give them names. The trusty one of the left that I use for almost everything, I call him “Esteban.” That one in the middle, he’s a little tougher, I call him “Rodrigo.” That big solid thing on the right, let’s call him “Gunther.” So put Rodrigo and Gunther back in their place, and get ready with “Esteban.”

Step 4: Preheat griddle to 300 degrees Fahrenheit (148.888889 degrees Celsius for you metric people, and 422.038889 kelvin for you science lab suckers.) While the griddle is preheating chop off a slab of butter, and lay that bitch down on the griddle. I used to buy liquid butter and paint it on with a brush like I’d seen on TV, but that isn’t any better. Just take a slab of butter and let it melt on the griddle, spread it around with “Esteban.”

Step 4 – Figure A

Step 4 – Figure B

Step 4 – Figure C

Step 5: Throw on about half a bag of potatoes. The trick here is to spread them as thin as possible. You want each individual hash to brown, none of that amateur, cooked on the outside, raw on the inside, shit that you get pressed into a triangle at McDonald’s.

Step 5

Step 6: Don’t do anything yet. Don’t flip them, don’t add seasoning, just wait. This is the hardest part of the recipe. Just let those potatoes cook. When they start to look brown around the edges, don’t do shit, I said let them cook.

Step 6 – If you flip them now, you’ve ruined it.

Step 7: When you’re sure they’ve cooked enough, probably too long, don’t flip them yet. Add Spicy Season All and Black Pepper. (You don’t need to add salt because Season All is salt.)

Step 6 – Figure A

Step 6 – Figure B. The potatoes should actually turn red from the amount of Season All that you use.

Step 6 – Figure C

Step 7: Now you may flip them, remember to let the other side cook well.

Step 7

Step 8: When you’re sure this side is burnt, put Season All and Black Pepper allover this side. If you’re a particular sissy, you can leave one side unseasoned.

Step 9: Apply a generous helping of cheese to the upside. Let it melt.

Step 9 – Figure A

Step 9 – Figure B

Step 10: Flip it over and put cheese on the other side. The burnt bits of cheese on the now “up” side show you that you’re doing it right. The charcoal and carcinogens add flavor. Let this cheese cook real good.

Step 10 – Figure A

Step 11: Divide into two even portions, serve hot, but not so hot your kids burn themselves and you spend your Sunday in the ER.

Step 11

Step 12: Now that your kids are distracted, if you hurry, you might get three good drags on a cigarette before- oh shit, too late. Oh well, strike while the griddle is hot; now you’re making the Manly version.

Step 13: Butter that griddle up again.

Step 13

Step 14: Throw on potatoes and drown them in Season All

Step 14

Step 15: Add crushed red pepper, if all you have are the little packets that come with pizza, one packet per side is good.

Step 15

Step 16: Pour on the black pepper.

Step 16

Step 17: Open up the green chili and throw it directly on the griddle, not on the potatoes. Notice that it’s fucking gross looking, like snot, and it taste like snot, spicy snot, until it’s cooked.

Step 17

Step 18: Go ahead and drop on some Jalapenos to taste. (That means a whole lot.) Interesting science fact, both Green Chili and Jalapenos are from the same species of pepper (Capsicum annuum) but they are as different as the Chihuahua and the Great Dane, who are both Canis lupus familiaris.

Step 18

Step 19: Let that shit cook, both the green chili and the potatoes. When it’s all good and cooked, you can flip to the other side on both.

Step 19

Step 20: When both-sides are good and cooked, go ahead and mix in the green chili and pile on the cheese, let it melt real good, in fact, let it bubble a little.

Step 20 – Figure A

Step 20 – Figure B

Step 21: Now flip it and pile even more cheese onto the other side. Again, the burnt cheese bubbling up tells you that you’re doing it right.

Step 21 – Figure A

Step 21 – Figure B

Step 21 – Figure C

Step 22: *Optional* Wrap that shit up in a tortilla. (Side note: Don’t ever call a tortilla a “burrito shell.” That’s like calling a magazine a clip, and in New Mexico doing either is recognized as justification for homicide.)

Step 22 – Figure A

Step 22 – Figure B

Step 23: Eat this shit while it’s still hot.

Step 23 – Figure A

Step 23 – Figure B

Step 24: Be fat and happy, and mildly drunk.

The post Drunken Cookery: The Best Damn Hash Browns You’ll Ever Put in Your Mouth appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

So I’ve recently decided that I must be full grown; in evidence of this I cite that I’m not going to gain anymore in height, only in girth, so I must therefore conclude I’m an adult now, and I should start acting like one. Since I’m am a full grown haired over adult with kids, I thought I’d try some of that responsible adult stuff that I’ve heard about. I don’t know much about this whole responsible adult business, but I do know, that when I watch movies and I see adults hanging around with kids, unless they are teaching them how to shoot b-ball, they are always cooking.

Now let me be honest, I’ve taken Chemistry, Physics, Biology, Physiology, Anatomy, Pathophysiology, and even one semester of Home Economics. I can explain the complex chemical changes and denaturing of proteins that happens when heat is applied to food stuffs on a molecular level, but when it comes to cooking, all I know is: “Raw food Bad; make Sick!!! Cooked food come out oven Good, make Yum!!! Baaahhhaa, let cool first, make Burn!! Fire Bad!!! Beer Good!!” I do however know that some people take things that aren’t even food, like flour and yeast and sugar, and produce things that are food, like cake and pies. I want to be one of those people but before I get too far ahead of myself, I thought I’d discuss my ingredients.

1 ea. bottle of Albertson’s Citron Vodka
1 ea. Red Dixie Cup (To Contain Vodka)
1 pk. Hotdogs (Or “Pigs”) [Optional]
1 rl. Great Value: Crescent Rolls, 8 Oz (or “Blankets”) [Optional]
1 jr. Great Value: Sliced Jalapenos, 13.4 Oz (Pickled)
1 bg. Great Value: Great Value: Finely Shredded Fiesta Blend Cheese, 16 Oz

Step 1: Awaken in the morning, take a moment to consider your existence, think of all the great potential you have and all the wonderful gifts that life has bestowed upon you. Immediately hit the Vodka.

Step 2: Look in your fridge, hope you have the ingredients listed.

Step 3: Assemble ingredients. Forget to take picture.

Step 4: Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit (190.555556 degrees Celsius for you metric people, and 463.705556 kelvin for you science lab suckers). While the oven is pre-heating, pop open those crescents and lay them out on a cookie sheet, forget to spray it with cooking spray. Roll the hotdogs inside of them. Think about how easy it sounds, it’s not that easy, fucking triangle shaped pieces of shit!! Just fucking wrap around that fucking elongated cylindrical hotdog you doughy bastard!!

Step 4

Step 5: Remember you were making fancy pigs in a blanket. Unroll them, add cheese and jalapenos, and roll them again. How much? It’s cheese and jalapenos, pile that shit on.

Step 5

Step 6: Those look like shit, unroll them and roll them again.

Close Enough

Step 7: Take the fork off the cookie sheet and pop them in the oven for about 16 minutes (that’s 12.5 le minuets for those of you who use French timing.)

Step 8: Shit, you made a fucking mess, clean that shit up before your wife notices.

Step 8-A

Step 8-B

Step 9: While that’s cooking, go have a smoke and drink some more vodka.

Step 10: After the 16 minutes is up, put on oven mitts. Try to recreate that famous post on Reddit where a guy takes a picture of both hands at once. Put pigs on top of oven to cool.

Step 9-A Nailed It

Step 9-B

Step 10: Remember that you forgot to spray cooking spray on your cookie sheet. Scape that shit off with a spatula.

Step 10

Step 11: Them leavin’s that you had to scape off are fucking delicious, eat them.

Step 11

Step 12: Put the extras up for later, but after a few more vodka drinks, change your mind, go back, and eat all the left overs.

Step 12

The post Drunken Cookery: Fancy Pigs In A Blanket appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.

These two young brothers, Benjamin Arthur Jones and Alexander Williams Jones, have crossed the line between regular old villainy, and cartoonish super villainy. My daddy always taught me that if you’re going to do something, do it right, especially if it’s something you shouldn’t be doing. Further more, as I always say, you only live once, make it epic. Go big or go home.

Coverts Crossing BridgeSo, I don’t know the exact situation that leads up to this, so I’m going to use inductive reasoning and speculate. You got two brothers in Pennsylvania, I don’t really know anything about them, so I’m going to assume they were just some good ol’ boys. Never meaning no harm. Beats all you never saw. Been in trouble with the law. Since the day they were born. They were driving around one day, in their orange 1969 Dodge Charger, presumably they had just done some epic car jump that caused them to evade the police in a highly dramatic fashion, and on their way back to the family farm/moonshine still, they cross a bridge.

Not just any bridge, but the historic Coverts Crossing Bridge in Hazard Country, Lawrence County, Pennsylvania. Bo Benjamin looks at his brother Luke Alexander and says: “You see that bridge? We should fucking steal it.”

Alex looks at him, and pulls out his wallet, says: “You see this wallet? It contains all the fucks I give right now.” The wallet was empty, and they stole a fucking bridge, a fucking bridge.

Let me give that a moment to sink in. You know how you have to have a truck to transport a modern Barbecue grill? They stole a fucking 20 foot by 50 foot bridge. That’s only one notch below stealing the Statue of Liberty and selling it to Putin for a lawn ornament. That’s like walking out the Musée du Louvre with the Mona Lisa in your trench coat, except it’s 20′ x 50′ so you have to use a semi.

Now of course they got caught. (Which violates one of the first rules of being a super-villain.) It turns out that the recycling center gets suspicious when you show up with A FUCKING BRIDGE. But can you imagine what it’s going to be like for these boys in prison? “What you in for?” “Me, oh, I stole a TV.” “A TV huh? Oh, that’s cute, I stole a bridge.”

All I’m saying, the bar has been raised. Until Carmen Sandiego lists The Gateway Arch on Ebay, these guys get to wear the Bad Mother Fucker wallet.

The post The Bar Has Been Raised: Go Big, or Go Home appeared first on The DrakeGTA Archives.