Washed Weekly: Cocaine, Salsa, Pookie, Jett, & Cereal
Whole squad stepping out.
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I’d Like My Salsa In A Little Baggie, Please
by Dave
If you know anything about me, the original D-Man, then you know I’ll order some breakfast tacos. When I sit down at an eating establishment for brunch or breakfast, I immediately scan the menu to see what the taco situation is. Depending on who you ask, Austin, Texas may have the best in the country; although, San Antonio, Houston, and Triple D Dallas, Texas all have a case. Secretly, I think Austin just has significantly more options. I’ve had A+ tacos in each of those towns. Please don’t email me.
This morning started with a quick trip to the pediatric dentist. My son had a routine appointment that he knocked out of the park. No cavities. Great spacing. What a kid. Because this appointment fell during my normal breakfast window, I was forced to pick something up on my way to work. The logical choice?
You guessed it: breakfast tacos.
By my count, I have at least three above average options within a half-mile of our office. Today, though, I woke up feeling dangerous. I decided to step out of my comfort zone and venture into the uncharted territory of a gas station known more for its voluminous selection of energy drinks and surprisingly good pizza. Typical bad boy behavior.
As I approached the counter, I noticed they had a decent selection of premade tacos wrapped in foil, but no bacon-egg & cheese. For a moment, I contemplated a chorizo, but I’ve seen that movie a few times and it doesn’t always have a happy ending. They could tell by my uncertain gaze that I was unsure of myself.
“We can make you a bacon-egg if you’d like.”
She read my mind. How did she ever guess that the generic 39-year-old white guy would have the most generic breakfast taco order? Wild. I took her up on this and proceeded to watch her fry up a shockingly large mound of chopped bacon. Normally, I’d be looking at Twitter, but this all took place during the great cell phone outage of 2024. It’s good to disconnect sometimes. I watched her finish up and tightly wrap my two breakfast tacos in foil. She placed them in a brown paper bag and asked me if I wanted any salsa.
“Please. Spicy, if you have it,” I said in a confident tone. She turned around, gently placed something in the bag, and handed it to me. I paid, tipped my cap, and was on my way. By the time I arrived at the office, the fellas were clamoring to see what I was about to pull out of the bag. “What in the world is in that bag? What you got in that bag?” one person wondered aloud. It’s ludicrous to think that a simple breakfast taco could cause this type of commotion, but the vibe was in the air that something was about to go down.
I unwrapped the foil and let the steam from the taco open up the pores on my face. Then I reached into the bag expecting to find a traditional clear container of salsa with a removeable top that would likely spill onto my desk. But I found no such thing. Instead, I found an extremely tiny plastic bag that immediately elicited thoughts of buying the worst weed imaginable in high school.
In all my years on the taco grind, I’d never seen anything like it. No one had. Round these parts, 99 percent of the taco joints send you home with salsa in a clear-capped container, or maybe a packet of generic “hot sauce” like you’d get from McDonald’s or Taco Bell. That’s extremely rare, and a red flag. But my little dime-bag salsa made me smile. Not just from the laughs that it brought, but from the tasteful juxtaposition of traditional Tex-Mex spices with a subtle sweet aftertaste. To say this hit the spot would be an understatement.
I resealed my little salsa baggie one final time before placing it back into the brown bag. As I did, I realized that I had not only gained a new taco spot, but I’d also gained a story that I will one day tell my grandkids about. It’s the little things.
Thank you, little salsa bag.
My Coworkers Won’t Stop Making Cocaine Jokes At My Expense
by
I, Dillon Cheverere, am a 40-year-old man living in Austin, TX. I went to college. I attended the parties. I was even in a top-tier frat (not to brag). I’ve been through the bar scene era of my young adult life and I like to enjoy a cocktail or two with friends in a social setting.
I have never, however, used cocaine. Not once. Never. Not merely a trace of the stuff has crossed the threshold of either of my nostrils. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen cocaine with my bare naked eyeballs, come to think of it.
There was this one time when I was with my buddy, who will remain nameless for the sake of anonymity, who attempted to purchase cocaine on Bourbon Street. I say “attempted” and if you’re familiar with the streets of NOLA, especially after the sun sets, you understand why.
The transaction went down just fine, but the substance he purchased from that fine gentleman was not cocaine. It was baking soda, which my friend quickly realized after taking it back to his hotel room and did the nummie gum test. That was my closest encounter with cocaine, which wasn’t even cocaine. I wouldn’t have partaken, for the record. I was simply there.
The idea of snorting literally anything up my nose sort of freaks me out, to be honest. I don’t know, man. It’s just not for me.
So you could say it’s more than a little annoying and extremely perplexing that every one of my coworkers relentlessly lobs cocaine jokes at me. I can’t use the word “line” on a Circling Back episode without, at minimum, a snicker from Will and Dave. More often they’ll cut me off mid-sentence with a coke joke and a sly look at the camera for added effect.
Any reference to a “bump”? Cocaine joke. Even a mention of the color white. Boom. Cocaine joke. These are common words that occur organically in basic, everyday conversation. It’s not about cocaine. God forbid I get the sniffles due to seasonal allergies or an innocent cold. They’ll hit me with a cocaine joke.
You’re probably thinking to yourself, “This dude just needs new friends. Mature friends.” Listen, you’re not wrong. I do need new friends, better friends. I’m stuck with these assholes, though, and not just because they’re my longtime friends. But because they’re my coworkers who I have to see every day.
Real funny, guys. Y’all know I have a family, right? I have a nine-year-old son who has minimal internet access. Now, thankfully, he doesn’t listen to our show, but it’s within reach. He has an iPad and headphones. Like he COULD figure it out. He’s a bright kid.
More to the point, he’s going to keep getting older and more curious about Dad’s job. Eventually, he’s going to tune in every now and then. I can’t be answering questions from my son about my frequent cocaine usage. I have an example to set.
My guy Dave tweeted a picture today showing a small baggy that his salsa came in to accompany his breakfast tacos.
No big deal, right? It’s a cute little plastic bag, one that wouldn’t typically have red salsa in it, but this one does. Cool. No biggie. Kinda funny. Let’s all have a quick laugh and go on with our days like adults.
WRONG. It’s for cocaine. The baggy resembles one that one might find holding cocaine apparently? I wouldn’t know, as I’ve never purchased or used the stuff. But of course people thought it would be a good time to make some casual “Dillon does cocaine” jokes.
WTF? That’s not cool, man. It’s spread beyond the walls of our office and I am not okay with it. Can I not get through a single day of my life, of which zero cocaine was ingested like all the rest of them, without fielding jokes about it?!
Apartment Pizzas and Impossibly Low Scramble Scores
0:00 - Fun & Easy Banter
5:00 - YouTube Suspension for the Bad Boys of Podcasting
14:53 - Recapping This Weekend in Fun
34:16 - Dillon Called the Cops Because of an Untouched Pizza
45:15 - Zuck is Super Locked In
52:30 - Parking Lot Bootcamp
1:00:00 - Today in Dumb Guinness Book World Records
1:03:30 - Italian Burglars and Low Scramble Scores
I Need To Go To A Group Dinner with Pookie and Jett
by
“We should go out to dinner with them.”
When you’re squarely on the wrong side of 35, it’s the caviar of compliments when you meet a new couple. No one wants to pay a babysitter a burn a night on the town at a restaurant they don’t like with a couple they barely know. If you’re going to go through the effort of staying up past 11 o’clock, it better be a sure thing.
Recently, a couple has entered our lives. Actually, this couple has entered all of our lives as they’ve allowed us to enter their closet. Of course, I’m talking about America’s first family, Jett and Campbell Puckett. Whether it’s the 1,000-yard gaze he has while he slaps his Luccheses or the way she’s rattled when he uses her government name instead of “Pookie,” I’ve fallen head over heels for them.
Their affinity for going out to dinner only rivals that of my parents in 1997 when I was deemed old enough to sit at home watching D2: Might Ducks on repeat while they went downtown. Sure, my parents seemed less concerned with their outfits than Jett and Pookie did, but I’d still like to have a group dinner with each of the aforementioned couples in their prime.
I mean, just imagine it. Jett sits at the head of the table (Jett always sits at the head of the table she says) and is handed the wine list. “This list is looking absolutely fabulous tonight,” he remarks to the sommelier. His index finger runs down the prices slower than he talks before his fingertip reaches the chosen bottle for the night: a 2000 Chateau Latour Pauillac retailing for $1,998.
The price doesn’t matter, though. Jett’s paying.
I can hear the conversation erupting at the other side of the table as I watch my wife help Campbell edit their GRWM from just an hour before. They’re only interrupted by the first round of dirty martinis hitting the table, but they barely flinch. Eyes are wide. Smiles are frozen. Everyone is locked in.
After placing our entree orders — a 52-ounce steak for the table, two split Caesar salads, croquettes, and a hamachi crudo all ordered by Jett — the conversation turns to a familiar territory. Some say the Pucketts have their trademark Malcom Gladwell 10,000 hours in it — obviously, I’m talking about going on vacation.
After all, the best vacation recommendations come from people who have so much money that they don’t know how much money they have. This is their Super Bowl.
I want to hear them confirm my suspicions that the sushi at Matsuhisa Aspen just isn’t that good. I need them to explain why Rosewoods are better than St. Regises as I nod along like I know what they’re talking about. They tell us about all the best professional photographers in Cabo because of course they do professional photo shoots every time they go on vacation. And guess what, Jett, yeah, I hate when they make you pay for daily spa access too. See, we do have some things in common.
And now we’re really humming. The spa talk completely pivots into the cold plunge they just installed at their place. Because I religiously watch their Instagram stories, I know Jett did three minutes a couple days ago. Just like he did in the Instagram story, I’m going to force him to explain the benefits of cold plunges despite literally everyone already knowing the benefits of cold plunges.
He surprises the table with caviar. Another bottle of wine appears. Things begin to get fuzzy. They tell us a story that “would definitely be deserving of cancellation” but we’re too tipsy at this point to remember the next day. She hasn’t blinked since we sat down, and I think it was always meant to be that way. They’re simply operating at a level we can’t comprehend. We’ve reached the promise land.
Sure, friendships are temporary, but Instagram reels where we’re tangentially sitting by Jett and Pookie at a white table cloth restaurant last forever.
Or at least until they’re archived.
Your Cereal Mascot Football Team
Fine. I’ll be the one to do this since no one else would dare.
What follows is a painstakingly constructed roster - much like a little league dad drafting a squad with his buddies (other coaches) in Dave’s garage with a few tallboys to keep them warm. With very little to go off in the form of past performances and talent given the fact they’re 7, you turn to factors like who has a pool and attractiveness of their mom (or dad - not here to judge).
Alas, the starting lineup for an American Football team made up of breakfast cereal mascots:
Defensive End: Fruit Brute (NC State)
You want a monster at this position and that’s what you’re gonna get in Fruit Brute. There’s some discussion to be had regarding whether Brute is purely a wolf or has some supernatural werewolf to him - discourse unnecessary in my opinion. FB is gonna get after the QB with a dominant mix of size, strength, and speed all while wearing rainbow overalls and there’s something beautiful and eccentric about that. A bit of a wild card that likes to rock non-traditional outfits and seems to only want to play when there’s a full moon - a Von Miller type that may disappear for a few plays at a time but when he’s on, watch out.
Defensive End: Bigg Mixx (Utica College)
Two-pronged approach here. Have you ever seen a moose in the wild? It’s a jarring experience. They’re prehistoric - towering over everything around them and especially my mom’s Ford Edge on I-87 north of Schroon Lake. No impact with the car thank God, but certainly one in the mind of young Brett.
So obviously they’re fucking huge, sure, and Bigg Mixx is no different. But what really gets me going as a red-blooded American male and armchair GM is the rack. You cannot compete with the size of those things. Having massive antlers causing headaches for any QB by effectively eliminating any chance of them throwing the ball to one side of the field is a huge advantage. A bit high cut for traditional scouts, but has plenty of speed and explosiveness in the case that 3rd down requires a bit more of a pass rush mentality.
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What a Ludacris reference for Dave to throw in there on a Friday morning. Electric stuff.