Mitt Romney Reviews The Dark Knight Rises

We here at These Fries Are Good love to hear from the fans, so we were honored when Presidential hopeful Mitt Romney asked us if he could review the The Dark Knight Rises.

By Mitt Romney

Hello, public! Let me just say that this was my first viewing of a film about the Bat Man, and I absolutely loved it!  What a character he is!  I mean, how can you not root for a billionaire who amassed a fortune that was largely willed to him by his father, only to take said fortune and use it to further his own agenda?  Could a human being have a more likeable backstory?  I say no.

But every hero has his villain, and The Bat Man is no different.  The film takes place in 2014, in a fictional time when President Obama was re-elected to the White House.  They don't tell you that, but it's very clear because the villain in the film, a Mr. Bane, is suffering from sever respiratory problems that are obviously due to being forced off the health care he previously enjoyed, due to Obamacare NOT being repealed.  Now, after being given a doctor of the government's choosing and with a death panel looming, he's become ill and he is NOT happy about it and begins destroying the city.  If I were to be elected President Mr. Bain would be able to keep his existing health care, or if he lost his job, he'd be able to use the little money he had to enjoy the remainder of his life as he died from his disease, instead of being FORCED to buy health care.  None of this is said outright in the film, but it's clear the directioneer Mr. Nolan has intended you to infer this.  It's largely what the film is about.

Well, I could go on, but I don't want to alert anyone of spoils!

All in all I give this Four Well Maintained Competition Dressage Horses out of Five.



= Lower Branch of Ricki's Family Tree

Y'all. I'm like super mad at Emily. You know when you're a kid and you can't wait every year for Santa Claus to come? That's what The Fantasy Suite Episode is like for me. And you know what Emily did to me? She came to me on Christmas morning and told me it doesn't even matter because I'm Jewish. Thanks, Emily “I'm a role model and a mother” Maynard. Thanks for being a grinchy-ass beeyotch.

Sorry. Mama gets cranky without her soft-core porn. To the task at hand…(Sigh)

The Bachelorette Episode 9, by the numbers:

Potential suitors: 3

Number of tries it took to get the spelling of the fictional isle of “Curacao:” 6

Ways I was sure it was spelled before I googled it: 1. ”Kirasow.”

Amount of times Emily says Sean wants to get married in his life: “only” 1

Amount of times anyone else in this franchise wants to get married: undisclosed

Key qualities listed in quick succession to introduce Jef:

1) “I love his style.”

2) “He is so his own person and he doesn't care what anybody thinks.”

3) “He marches to his own drum completely.”

Rate of head spin by the end of quality #3: 9 drag-queen-in-a-tutu pirouettes / min.

Number of nicknames Emily uses for Arie: 1, ”Sweet Arie.”

Number of nicknames Emily uses for Arie that really aren't nicknames: [see above]

Number of letters written and read aloud independently by suitors this season: 2

Number of strides taken this season by The Bachelor and Bachelorette Literacy Initiative: beyond measure

Extra seconds Sean could've held off saying he's “fallen in love” before Emily would've had the producers write it on the teleprompter: 30 – 45 seconds

Shades blurring together as Emily describes her forbidden desire for Sean, explaining:

“Sean is like so hot and so manly.  Every time I’m around Sean it’s like I can’t keep my hands off him. I’m so confused. Every fiber in my whole entire body is saying, ‘Just stay the night.’ Every fiber in my head is saying, ‘No, don’t do it.’”

50 Shades of Beige + Fifty Shades of Grey = 100 Shades of YOUHAVETOBEKIDDINGME

Number of reasons Jef would be a good dad, according to Emily: 3

1) “You are fun.”

2) “You were so good with the kids at the park.”

3) “And I think you, like, want to be.”

Number of times Jef has failed at getting just-a-little gay-er when you'd thought he'd reached capacity: 0. Because after the line, “You're an amazing girl,” swiftly comes, “And I feel like you attract amazing guys.”*

*And after that comes, “Right now is a time for us to bridle these passions.

Number of finely-crafted zebra-print rugs wasted on Emily: At least 5. Those innocent zebras die for NOTHING.

Holes in Emily's logic when she concludes that Arie must not be scared of anything if he's not scared of dolphins: 0

Possible answers to Emily's following hypothetical, “Dollywood to Curacao. Who'da thunk it?”: 1. His name rhymes with Bliss Fairisson and he creates MIRACLES.

New things I learned are important to a successful marriage: 1, “what you do on a Tuesday morning.”

Things I do on a Tuesday morning that don't involve watching, writing about, reliving, reenacting, debunking, demystifying, or internalizing the previous night's episode of The Bachelorette: 1. Sometimes I wash my face.

Number of former Bachelor/Bachelorette contestants who have cried this much at the end of Episode 9: 0

…Number of former Bachelor/Bachelorette contestants who have rejected all three invitations for sweet-sweet-lovin': 0. Just interjecting with a scientific observation.

Number of things Emily needs to gaze at before watching the videos Chris asks her to: 2, rainy window and picture frames. Viewing-things-before-viewing-other-things pregameeeeeeeee!

Number of further seasons featured on ABC Sean won himself with that exit speech: 1 minimum. Well, hello, Season 17.

Weeks I've waited to say “bowchickawahwah”aloud again: 25, a.k.a. since the approximate premiere date of The Bachelor Season 16, Episode 9.

After the disappointment of this episode, likelihood I will live to “bowchickawahwah” once more: .05% A large part of me has died today.


Plies Tweets

Plies is a rapper most famous for his 2009 hit song “Becky” which is basically a four minute ballad about falatio. Until verry recently, I had not heard much from this artist, until I started following him on twitter. I feel that Plies' brilliance  simply can not be confined to 140 characters, so please follow me, as I delve into the mind of this modern day Socrates. Here is the most recent installment of, Plies Tweets. 

Ahh, a true gem we are given today is not actually an original “Plies”. Today, our hero is actually quoting the famous line uttered by our nation's third President, Thomas Jefferson.

The history books will tell you that Jefferson was persuaded by John Adams to write the Declaration of Independence, but this is complete malarkey. In fact, the 13 colonies actually had no qualms with their rulers in England. It was Jefferson who dropped some “Exclusive Shit” all up on everybody on July 4th, 1776. It wasn't until after reading his work, his homies were like, “Yea, that fool King Geezy be straight trippin'!” They then all decided to sign and grab their gats.

So there you have it folks, Plies is quite the historian, graduating from Yale with a Masters in History. Perhaps we should all strive to be more like Plies and immerse ourselves in the facts.

Happy 4th of July and until next time friends, always live your life by this simple Plies motto:

“This the first time I ever thought 'bout robbin' myself bruh bruh.”


Firework Hard, Play Hard

Our great nation's birthday is almost upon us.  Which means it's time to celebrate by blowing shit up… in order to honor those brave souls of the past who shot off enough  bottle rockets, smoke bombs, black cats, screamin' mimi's, snakes, and sparklers to make the British finally go the f*ck back home.

Here are some great Americans who are exercising their freedom of the right to bare the press or whatever, I fell asleep a lot in history.

Sure mom, take your time in the back with the camera while the children attempt to blow each other's faces off.




I have to say, I'm starting to think these muckraking journalists out there have really started to neglect morality. Spreading rumors of the WORLD'S BEST PLOT TWIST like this?! Getting it into our heads that the most EPIC POSSIBLE SEASON FINALE is possible?! That Emily and Chris Harrison could have a secret AWESOMELY SCANDALOUSLY YUM-AZING romance?! Really, Star magazine. It doesn't feel nice to be toyed with. Don't you see how this makes me feel? If you're not 100% sure about this…Look how upset I am right now. And just at the sheer possibility of libel. Please, be careful with your words. They can really hurt someone.

Sorry. What are we here for? Oh, the “reality” show where Emily is “looking for love.” “Looking for love” while not getting freaky with Chris Harrison while wearing nothing but that sterling silver rose tray.

So, yeah…The Bachelorette Episode 8, by the numbers:

Potential suitors: 4

Potential winners: 5

Amount of castles Chris says Emily's brought him to: 10

Amount of castles they've let us see them visit: 1. What the fuck.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how Polish Chris's family is: “We're Polish.”

On a scale of 1 to 10, how Polish Chris's family was (until 20 minutes into Episode 8): Negative Polish.

Amount of times the line “diamonds on my neck…di-diamonds on my neck” repeated in my head while staring at papa John's chain: 7.5. Damn you, Smitty featuring Swizz Beatz.

Number of Jef lines Chris totally stole for his own dialogue: 1 - “I was a hot mess, ma.” Come on, Chris. You could never be that sassy.

Words uttered by Emily that should really register more in her mind when she says them: 4 - “Jef and his skinny jeans.”

Number of parents Jef has: 2

Number of siblings Jef has: half-doz, easy

Number of Utahs Jef lives in: 1

Number of seconds it should take you to realize Jef is Mormon: 17. Get there faster, folks.

Number of points possible in my new game, ”Who Said This Today: Jef or Anderson Cooper?”: 2

1. “They know I'm, like, free-spirited and kinda into doing my own thing.”

2. “The fact is, I'm gay.”

How much stuff Jef wrote about on the plane from Prague: “a bunch of stuff

How much harder it is for me to make fun of Jef after hearing his list of why he loves Emily: Tenfold. He may be as gay as the day is long, but boy can turn a phrase.

How many TRULY unsexy ethnicities came out of the woodwork this week: 2. Mmm, Polish and Dutch. Way to be white.

How much better Arie's this-is-her-second-language mother's English is than his sister Theresa: Like, a lot. Betch is really stupid.

Amount of times Emily says Sean is perfect: a million

Amount of times I rolled my eyes before succumbing to a knowing nod: [see above]

How mad crazy jealous I am of Kensington's playhouse: HELLA MAD CRAZY JEALOUS

The amount of emotions Sean toyed with during the whole “I live at home” prank: ALL OF THEM. I refer you to the following unedited notes:


[20 seconds later]


[30 seconds later]

“But ok so he's still perfect.”

[and 3 minutes after that]


Number of times I said aloud “Ok, Chris H. I see you.” in his pre-elimination interview with Emily: 4. Because meeting her at the limo before the rose ceremony was always protocol. Sure…



Fries for the Soul

Terry Michaels tells simple tales that uplift and inspire from within.  His stories reach all. Regardless of age, race, or religion.   He has a gift… And he shares his gift with the world. 


While cleaning up the kitchen one morning a young father found an interesting looking piece of mail in the rubbish bin. The young man reached inside and pulled out a letter he had never seen before, it was addressed to himself but the name of the sender was unfamiliar to him. He sat down at the table and began to open the envelope. As soon as the man saw what was inside his eyes immediately welled up with tears. “Fuckin child support!”


The Worst And Only Job I've Had.

It's summer time and that means it is time for college students like me to find, or return to, our crappy summer jobs.  No one wants to work, but since “the man” wants us to pay bills and spend $185 dollars on a philosophy text book that I used to level my dorm room desk last semester, we must pick up a few extra hours at a terrible establishment that we complain to the world about over Facebook.  This summer, I picked up only my second summer job.  And, as it isn't the greatest in the world, every job I have for the rest of my life will pale in comparison to the first and only job I have ever had up until this point.

I had just turned 16 and the summer was right in front of me.  The world seemed to be at my fingertips and I was ready to simply ride around in my new truck with my buddies all summer.  Until they all decided to be “responsible” and pick up summer jobs.  My buddy Patrick picked up a cashier job at Target, Thomas continued his tenure at Arby's where he perpetually smelled like roast beef and shame 24 hours a day, Clint was hired at Best Buy, and finally my friend Chance was hired at a children's party place called “Pump it Up!”  Now I know the names of my last two friends make it sound like they should've starred alongside Robert Duvall in Lonesome Dove, but it was Texas, and some people had names like that, okay?

My friends don't look like this. ...yet.

Anyway, one night at dinner I sat dejected as I picked at my salad when my mother chimed in, “You know, Stacy could use someone over at McKee's Pet Place, you should ask her for a job.”

I was actually excited about this.  McKee's was a dog kennel and groomer where people could leave their mutts for a day to get bathed and groomed, or board them overnight if they were going on vacation.  I thought, “How awesome is this going to be?! I get to play with puppies ALL DAY LONG!”

I called her that night, and figured I must have NAILED the phone interview because the next day, I got the job.  I went in my first day imagining that I would be stationed in a back room where they kept a medium-sized box of puppies that would be playfully dumped all over me every hour to play with.  Then I would receive $10 for each hour, and then I would go home and dive into a pile of money on my bed like the kid from Blank Check.

THIS version

...Not THIS version.

I met a woman at the front desk named Amanda who playfully handed me my schedule for the first day, and I was surprised when it didn't say, “Puppy Play Room!” for eight hours.  Instead it simply read: “Walk Alone's” on the top with a list of dog names with their corresponding pen number.

“These are the dogs that don't really get along well with others,” Amanda said.  ”You'll get each one individually and take them out to the back to let them run around and do their business for about twenty minutes, then bring them back and grab another doggie!” she laughed.

Although this wasn't what I had originally hoped, I figured that I would make the best of it.  I grabbed a leash and walked to find the first dog on the list.  ”Remy, Gate 201.”  I read aloud and I went to find a tiny dog that looked like a sweet mix of two breeds that I had never seen before.  Remy looked like he weighed about 5 pounds and completly harmless, so I bent down to pick him up, and he quickly bit my hand, growled, and shit himself in the corner.

This is the Yard that I worked in. It was sometimes used for big groups as well. Keep in mind, I picked up ALL OF THEIR HOT SHIT.

What I was not told when I received the job, very easily mind you, was that the “Walk Alone” position worked with dogs that were so full of fear, anger, and aggression that their owners had left them here for good.  They would occasionaly go crazy and jump all over you.  They also would shit, and shit violently.  Mostly on the grass outside, but occasionally in their pen, or on your shoes.

Now I can handle an overly excited and playful pooch, but some of these dogs were so old that if you were not their owner, they viewed you as Micheal Vick.  Especially this one yellow lab named Lucy, whose favorite game was to take a huge bite out of my ass every time I wasn't looking.

The walk alone yard looked exactly how it sounds.  It was an enormous fenced in yard in the middle of July in the Texas heat.  I believe the “low” everyday I worked was around 103 degrees, and the only shade that was available for me was the 2 inch shadow created by a lightpost outside the dry cleaners next door.  Which by the way would move with the sun, and inturn, so would my chair.  It looked like a prison yard, if the prison yard smelled like dog shit that was cooking in the Texas sun for eight hours.

Every day, after I clocking out, I would remove all my clothing from my shit covered shoes, to my shit covered shorts, to my shit covered shirt, and toss them in the bed of my truck until I was eventually just in my underwear (I would occasionally have to remove shit covered socks.  Yes.  Socks.).  Then I would drive home with the windows down to hopefully prevent my shit smelling skin from seeping into my seats.

Did I mention the doggie pool? No? Well there was a pool as well so when they jumped on you you not only smelled like dog and shit, but you smelled like wet dog and wet shit.

I wish that I could say I did this for two years until I went to college, and it made me a better man.  That I learned the value of a dollar and the rewards of hard work.  No.  I quit after two weeks, maybe even one.  I always try to say that it was two weeks to make myself sound like less of a pussy, but let's be honest it was one week.

Maybe I didn't have the shittiest job...

So hopefully any other college kids out there dealing with shit jobs won't have to go through a job that delt with actual fecal matter like I did.  It was a harrowing experience that taught me, maybe don't take the first job you're offered.  Weigh your options.  And if you are hired, “right away so you can get started!” realize that you may have to scoop dog shit into an enormous bucket.  I threw up twice.


thursday picture gallery: 10 wannabe gangsters

 First of all I know nothing about what it takes to live a thug life…  I mean.. I have had my share of run-ins with the cops.. and I'm not afraid to “Let a bitch know” (under the right circumstances). But aside from that, I really know nothing about what it takes to be a legit gangster. BUT… I can spot a wannabe when I see one.

Mil waukee!

I dont think this guy is a gangster... But.. He might be a ninja.


Popeye's Explains The World

A few months ago, I moved in with my girlfriend, to a new apartment in a lower-income section of town. The apartment itself is nice, and the neighborhood isn't what I'd call dangerous, but it's definitely poor. Across the street from our building, for instance, is the Martin Luther King housing project, and just up the block there's a Safeway, but to give you an idea of the way things go in our neighborhood, it looks like a regular Safeway on the outside, and has pretty much all the things you'd expect to find inside a Safeway — cheese, milk, bread, you know, groceries and shit — but when you get to the checkout line to put your things on the conveyor belt, instead of those plastic dividers to separate your food from the customers in front and behind you, this Safeway just has tightly-rolled grocery bags with rubber bands wrapped around them. This obviously raises some important questions. Do people steal the regular dividers?  If so, what do they do with them? Is there a manager somewhere hoarding them, preparing for a divider shortage?  If not, does the company just not care, or do they actively resent this franchise? And if so, why? Those questions I can't answer, I only report what I see.

I've lived in rich neighborhoods and in poor neighborhoods, and lots in between, and there are advantages and drawbacks to each. Rich neighborhoods have lots of coffee shops with wifi access, and they also usually have a few seafood joints and nice places to get dinner. The major drawback is that the more your neighbors have paid to live in any given place, the more they feel entitled to crawl up your ass and complain about any little fucking thing they don't like about how you live your life. I once had a neighbor in San Diego who basically told me that if I had to park on the street again, not to do it in front of his house anymore because my ugly car was bringing down the property values. In general, rich people have worked hard to carve out their tiny slice of paradise, and they're not shy about telling you if you're blocking the view. Conversely, poor neighborhoods have hardly any wifi and sometimes can barely manage cell service. The shops are usually shitty, and when I lived in Harlem I couldn't get in and out of the Post Office in less than an hour and 45 minutes. In parts of San Francisco, I could never leave anything in my car, in case hobos happened to be “window shopping.” (Ever had to replace a window because someone wanted to steal a sweaty t-shirt? I have.). The upside is, your neighbors never hassle you. Also, when they're not stealing, crackheads are great entertainers. My new neighborhood has plenty of those, including one guy who hangs out at the bus stop having imaginary conversations with Ricky Williams and Lebron James, plus a burly Middle Easterner who owns the bodega on the same corner, who regularly chases him out of the store snarling “I told you get outta here, crackbaby!”

“So, anyway, boss, what do you think of this new coconut water?” he'll say, turning to me, once his itchy nemesis is out of his hair.

Incidentally, the store is called the Third World Market, which doesn't strike me as particularly flattering.

But getting to my point, far and away my favorite thing about my new neighborhood is the Popeye's. If you've been living in a rich neighborhood, you're missing out, because Popeye's is delicious. There's a mom-and-pop chicken and waffle joint just across the way that I walk right past to get to Popeye's. I wish it was as tasty, but it's not. Like all fast food, I'm sure you'll try to tell me how awful and unhealthy it is, and the trans-fats and the edible polymers and blah blah blah, but I don't care. I don't care how long those shrimp have been sitting in the freezer before they go into the fryer, because once they hit the soft, white roll of a four-dollar po'boy, they become crispy little nuggets of pure heaven. I can't get enough. I eat probably two a week. But even aside from the exceptional food at a discount price, my neighborhood Popeye's is something of a cultural center. Like the Casablanca of the ghetto or some sort of silk road oasis, the greasy, battered fare attracts travelers from disparate backgrounds, who all pass through, leaving the peculiar legacies of their respective cultures in their wake, often in the form of gum, graffiti, or implausibly explosive diarrhea stains. Seriously, their bathroom always looks like someone stuffed five pounds of gelatinous feces into a potato gun. I don't know whether to be disgusted or fascinated. Construction workers, welfare moms, hobos who've scraped together a few dollars in change, slovenly writers like me – a love of fried food might be the only overlap in our Venn diagram, which is what helps make it such a lively place to be. And every time I go in, there's one of three crackheads (separate from the starfucker at the bodega) who frequent the place, who, on a good day will open the door for you and bid you good day in the hopes of getting your spare change, and, on a bad day, will be stomping around the interior, ranting incoherently, demanding to be bought chicken, and flipping the bird to the staff and regulars who threaten to call the cops, who seem to know each crackhead by name, exhorting them to calm down like brusque babysitters.

“Hello, police? Yeah, it's Skinny Tony again. He's in here having another episode. Yeah, okay, bye. …See, motherfucker? I told you I was gonna call 'em.”

And behind the counter, two heavyset, middle-aged Latino ladies who know just enough broken English to take orders and offer options. “SHREEMP A-SANGWEECH!” they yell through the narrow window to the kitchen behind them each time I order, mine seemingly being something of a specialty offering. It's one of the few times I'll order something as it's written on the menu – “shrimp po'boy, please,” – and have it read back to me in vernacular – “Ju wanna shreemp a-sangweech?”

“Yes, please, a shrimp sandwich. And extra shrimpy, I'm wasting away over here,” I tell them, rubbing my stomach, a shameless flirt.

With other customers, it's normally the reverse. People usually just walk up to the counter and begin naming cuts of meat – “Yeah, uh, I want, uh… three wings, a breast, a couple thighs, a leg…” – while the counter ladies hurriedly try to translate this into actual orders (their registers are very specific), all while clarifying the corresponding options – “Okay, seven piece meal – spicy or mild? What side ju wan?” – often while the customer is still adding to the order. The ladies are really good at this, by the way. Popeye's is the fast-food clerk equivalent of having to count cards while the blackjack dealer spits them out as fast as he can and someone else throws tennis balls at your head.

In any case, it was this particular setup which led to the exchange I want to tell you about. With dreams of po'boys dancing in my head, I was standing behind an elderly black woman ordering some chicken tenders. Between the elderly woman's diminished hearing capacity and general elderliness, and the counter ladies' limited English skills, communication was, shall we say, strained. But, to paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, “chicken finds a way.”

OLDER LADY, swaying gently back and forth from heel to toe the way old people do: “Yeah, uh… could I get… uh… six pieces of the… uh… the chicken tenders?”

COUNTER LADY, head cocked to the side, hand on hip, ready for anything: “Seex piece tender, okay. What kinna sauce ju like?”

OLDER LADY, taken aback: “Do I want what?”

COUNTER LADY, dispassionately running through sauce options like it's her job, her gold fillings shining in the light from the window: “What kind of sauce. We have Ranch, Blackened Ranch, Bayou Buffalo, Mardi Gras Mustard, and Spicy Buffalo.”

OLDER LADY: “Hmmm, I'll take sweet and sour.”

COUNTER LADY, re-listing the sauce options, something that by now she could clearly recite underwater: “No sweet and sour. Ranch, Blackened Ranch, Bayou Buffalo, Mardi Gras Mustard, and Spicy Buffalo.”

OLDER LADY, appearing to re-evaluate the options and ponder her own preference: “Mmm, I'll take Mardi Gras Mustard.”

COUNTER LADY: “Barbecue?”


And so it goes.

In a way I think this exchange explains everything about America, capitalism, human nature, society, the melting pot, fried chicken, women, and the English language. I'm thankful to have been alive to witness it.



I mean, if you can't find love in Prague...

Emily. We need to talk. I’m bored. You’re given a hussy producer on a silver platter and you squander it. Where’d my little hood-rat go? Not only is West Virginia disappointed in you, but I’m disappointed in you. So much so that I’ve decided you don’t even deserve a preamble. Yeah. Hurts, don’t it?

The Bachelorette Episode 7, by the numbers:

Potential suitors: 6

Record rate of distance-gazing locations per minute: 1.67 dglpm, as evidenced by the first 3 minutes’ use of windows, bridges, parks, cobblestoned streets, and marinas.

Years waited by the producers to use “Czech” as a date-card pun: 10

How many things Arie has invested in his relationship with Emily: “alot”…but actually 2: ”my emotions” + “my feelings”

The difference between how Chris Harrison might introduce himself when revealing Arie’s past and when doing a PSA on chlamydia: 0 difference

Mentions of Ricki by name in this episode: 1. Really.

Amount of things that rhyme with puppets that have also inexplicably cameoed on this show: 1

The number on the pain scale from watching Emily try to say “communism”: 7.5

Amount of days John’s ex turned off her phone while cheating on him: 3

Number of balls John’s ex had to go with the defense that she was “at happy hour”: 2

The hours of strategizing Sean dedicated to finding Emily after hours: 47

Amount of components in Sean’s strategy: 1. Yelling “Emily” while walking…I guess you could argue that’s 2 components.

Life lessons we can learn from Sean’s impromptu one-on-one: 1 very valuable lesson… At the end of the day, the majority of women can be found standing alone in a nearby alley.

The further increase on the pain scale when watching Emily try to say “thirteenth century:” + 1.5

The further increase on the pain scale when Doug steals a kiss in the midst of Emily’s rejection speech: + 3 (So, just to keep you up to speed, we’re at about a 12 out of 10 here in Prague.)

Number of sentences Doug used to REALLY MAKE EMILY SEE WHAT SHE’S MISSING: 5 — “No comment. Have a good one. Yeah. Take care. See ya.”

Number of hills climbed during the group date: 2 - physical and emotional. Whoa.

Current growth rate of Jef’s hair vertically: 1.5″/episode 

Current gravitation rate of Jef’s hair towards his right ear: 4″/episode

Recommended steps Emily and Jef forgot to take when a man with a puppet invites you inside:

Step 1: Turn

Step 2: Run

Odds that Emily and Jef “happened” to have their marionettes with them at the “exact right moment” to act out their love story: 1 in 8, at best.  Can you say destiny?

New additions to the “You know how I know you’re gay?…” list, as provided by Jef on a weekly basis: 1 …You compliment a girl’s nail polish while playing with puppets.

Amount of people Emily can “lay on the floor with and still be really happy:” not many

Tears of joy cried as Jef recited the line, “I wanna date you so hard and marry the shit out of you:” LIKE…A RIVER.

Captains with a recurring cameo every time Jef says things like “Love you, John,” or “I like your nail polish, Emily:” 1. Hello again, Captain Obvious.*

How hard I’ve tried to make something out of John’s dismissal combined with his career as a “Data Destruction Specialist:” THE HARDEST. So close and, yet, so far. Oh well.


*But really. Jef is very gay.