Nearly 20-thousand (as of press time) non-meat eaters have signed a petition asking In-N-Out to add a veggie burger to its menu.
Eater reports that the petition will be sent to company president Lynsi Snyder once it garners 25,000 signatures.
And like most civilized comment strings, remarks range from:
This is absolutely the most incredibly stupid thing I have heard in a while, and there is a LOT of stupid going around.. In-N-Out, please do not change anything for these morons. If you do not want a burger, do not go to a burger stand. Stupid people are stupid.
to
Small steps like this help preserve the planet. The raising of cows for food is detrimental to the environment, being that cows produce more methane gas than all cars, planes, and trains combined. We need to show more compassion to animals as well. This may seem like a ridiculous petition, but it is a step in the right direction.
While it’s unlikely that In-N-Out will meet the non-meat demands — the chain has built a reputation on a basic menu of burgers, fries and shakes — here’s a list of fast-food hacks for vegetarian and vegans.
Please take a moment out of your day to appreciate the happiest little deer that has ever deer’d on this planet or any other: The pudú. Lettuce leaf for scale.
Photo by Imgur user brioners
So let’s talk pudú.
Just really, really LOOK at this happy baby pudú. He (Or she! We aren’t sure) is the happiest and he is the babiest. His face is the embodiment of the smiley emoji. The pudú is the world’s smallest deer species, growing to be 13 to 33 inches tall on average. For some perspective, 13 inches is:
Two-fifths of Verne Troyer
Three-tenths the height of Kenny Baker, who played R2-D2
One-fourth of Gary Coleman
One-fifth of Danny DeVito and Napoleon
One-tenth of Shaq and André the Giant
More facts about pudús: Since 2009 they’ve been considered a threatened species. They live on the slopes of the Andes Mountain Range; how do their littlest legs do it? They are also known as the “Chilean mountain goat,” so I guess they’re pretty good on their impossibly tiny feet. The northern pudús are found living 2,000 to 4,000 feet above sea level, which seems so high for such a small thing. Please be careful, pudús.
More about Little Deer Bae: More than 100 southern pudús are kept at ISIS-registered institutions, which is a very unfortunate acronym for International Species Information System that includes zoos in the U.S. and Europe.
They don’t interact socially, other than to mate. Kind of like that one person in your friend-group, but much cuter about it. Not a lot is known about what they do socially, because they’re so damn secretive about it. A single pudú’s territory “is marked with sizable dung piles found on paths and near eating and resting areas,” making them even more amazing and weird, oh my gosh. Check out this scientific description of their mating habits:
Southern pudús have a polygynous mating system. In wild populations, southern pudús form pair bonds in the fall and mate. The male is attracted to a female in estrus and will approach the female in a low, slow crouch. After the male judges the female’s responsiveness by sniffing and licking, they proceed to engage in butting the groin or sides, followed by grooming. For a three-day period, the male mounts the doe repeatedly and intercourse occurs for two to three seconds each time.
I think the kids are calling that “cuffing” nowadays.
I couldn’t think, I could barely breathe—grim terror coursed through my head, shoulders, knees, and toes. My knees and my freakin’ toes.
This wasn’t some fireside fright cast off once the sun returns. I had known fear before, but not like this. Who thought it was even possible? Something so colorful, so sweet would never be suspected as murderers. But Monday night our world changed forevermore. If I had to blame anyone, it would be Donald Trump, Jr. For it was he who brought this darkness to light.
How foolish we’d been! How frivolous our pursuits! How childish our assumptions!
I almost commended my enemies. A killer candy? A brilliant ploy. Use our children to lure us into false hope, a false security that we could be safe chomping crunchy, sugary sweets. Then, when we least expect it, the poison would fill our central nervous system, attacking viciously until we lay comatose on the ground. Sarin gas? Anthrax? Who knew it’d all been child’s play?
The buzzing stopped. It was only a sugar rush.
But I decided something: I wasn’t going to live in fear. I was going to find out for myself: Could Skittles kill me and my friends and family and everyone I loved? This was an investigation unlike any I’d ever seen. This was the enterprise, #longform, included-in-newsletters journalism I’d always wanted to do. I didn’t know if I was ready but that’s the way of the world: It sends you its greatest challenges when you’re most worried candy could kill you because some megalomaniac’s son tweeted an inane analogy that makes no goddamn sense when you take a fraction of a fraction of a second to consider what the fuck he means.
I knew that I never had a choice. This was my fate: I must discover if Skittles could actually kill.
My journey began with a trek through the brilliant Texas sun. I knew where my enemy called its lair: the local corner store. Entering the candy aisle, my enemy awaited where it’d always been. Except everything was different now. I knew.
Photo by Brendan Bures
Look at those terrorists. “Murderers, all of you!” I shouted. Other shoppers looked at me crazy when I was the sanest I’d ever been. I’d finally exited the cave, stopped watching the shadows. If labels like “loser,” “wacko,” and “Is this guy fucking mental, bruh?” were the price I had to pay, so be it.
Which to choose? I considered. Five assembled varieties, but so little time. I didn’t know what to do. So like any reasonable man, I bought three.
Photo by Brendan Bures
I rushed home with intentions of reconstructing an exact replica of the truth-y image I’d been show. But there was one glaring problem standing in my way—all my bowls were dirty.
Considering the dire circumstances, and certainly not my laziness to wash dishes, I produced the closest imitation I could.
Photo by Brendan Bures
Face to face with my enemy I was. My toxic tonic. My beverage of doom. My cocktail of venom because remember we’re still in my fake reality where Skittles might kill us all.
I didn’t know how to proceed. I had my doubts. Was I really prepared to risk my life? And to what purpose was I doing this for? Was it journalism? Was it art? Was this my hero’s journey? Every man must be able to stare deeply into himself and know what meaning his actions hold. So why was I doing this?
I was doing it for #content.
Finally knowing thyself, I dove in headfirst.
Photo by Brendan Bures
Once inside the belly of the beast, I wasn’t going to cease until I knew the truth. I should’ve stopped at three Skittles. That was the killer number wasn’t it? But what if I chose the wrong three? That’s when I realized: I had to eat all the Skittles to know if this world could ever be safe again.
I’d never eaten this many Skittles previously. I wondered if there wasn’t a better man for the job. “Why did you have to retire, Marshawn Lynch!” I cried to the heavens.
But soon after I entered my own Beast Mode, attaining abilities I never knew I had. I devoured the Original Skittles, I puckered through the Sour Skittles, and I savored the Tropical Skittles one by one because they’re my favorite. I ate and I ate until there was no more.
Then I waited. And I waited. Then: A buzz surged through my veins. Was this the poison enacting its toll? Were these to be my final thoughts? What would I never get the chance to say that always wish I could? “I’VE ALWAYS HATED FIREBALL SHOTS AND SECRETLY BELIEVE EVERYONE ELSE DOES TOO, BUT NO ONE SAYS ANYTHING BECAUSE ROUTINE BEHAVIORS MAINTAIN A STATUS QUO WE ALL DESPERATELY WISH TO BE PART OF!!!!” I raged into the blackness quickly encasing me.
But my end was not nigh. The buzzing stopped. It was only a sugar rush. I had defeated that darkest of demons in broad, sweet-tasting daylight: fear. With this victory, I knew fear would not hold me prisoner.
The world was safe now. We could all enjoy our Skittles in peace, a knowledge gained that no greater evil could be found beyond our horizons. Right?
It’s hard to get away with vandalism when you’re covered in the evidence. It’s even harder when the evidence is a “sticky white food substance.”
“Man covered in marshmallow creme-like stuff arrested for vandalism at Voodoo Donuts” the Register-Guard reports out of Eugene, Oregon, with an award-deserving headline. Twenty-year-old Ean Mandrake Card was already banned from this particular 24-hour Voodoo Donut establishment, but showed up around 6:45 a.m. on a Sunday — a time of day when most of America was either dead asleep, waking up to head to church, or preparing to get real weird with some icing — to exact his sweet revenge. As dawn broke over sleepy Eugene, Card proceeded to rub (what officials say appeared to be) marshmallow creme on the store’s windows and patio furniture, which was probably a total bitch to clean off.
Police found Card covered in creme, about a half-mile away from the shop. He was arrested on charges of third-degree criminal mischief, second-degree criminal trespass and disorderly conduct. His expression in his mugshot is incredulous. As if everyone doesn’t get the urge to rub a donut shop down with marshmallow creme once in a while.
What could spur a man to such action, and what got him banned from there in the first place? He doesn’t seem to be a former employee, as his social media lists a skate park and a firefighters’ association, but there is a nearly year-long gap that’s missing between these gigs. Was this the year he worked at Voodoo that left the bad taste in his mouth and on his hands? According to this location’s Yelp, fresh donuts come off the line at 6 a.m., so it’s possible Card knew this would be the golden hour for distracted employees hard at work for the rush of customers needing their socially acceptable morning cake in circular form.
Or perhaps he just hates the idea of a place that’s cash-only charging $4.50 per donut. Maybe he hates food puns combined with breakfast cereal for donuts named things like”Captain my Captain” or “The Loop.” Who can say but Ean himself, and he’s probably still cleaning the creme out of his hair.
Last month, news broke that John Turturro is directing and starring in a spin-off of The Big Lebowski based on his cult character, the pederast Jesus “The Jesus” Quintana. The movie began filming last month, but we’ve had scant visual evidence—save for a Susan Sarandon Instagram—of the new Jesus—until now.
Slam editor Abe Schardron spotted Turturro on the 4 train Tuesday morning, the actor’s hair in Jesus-style cornrows.
So what about the actual movie? As Birth Movies Death reports, the film is called Going Places, it co-stars Bobby Cannavale, Audrey Tautou and Susan Sarandon, and the Coens are NOT involved in any way. It’s also a remake of the 1974 French comedy Les Valseuses. Here’s the plot, as recapped by Birth Movies Death:
Petty thieves, Turturro’s Jesus and Cannavale’s Petey, compete to give a woman (Tautou) her first orgasm after she’s roped into their hijinks. Sarandon also ends up in their company, playing a criminal who just got out after a long stint in prison.
We have a lot of questions about the new flick. How will the it hold up compared to original? Will the Dude, Walter Sobchak, or any of the other characters from the Lebowski universe make cameos? (Jeff Bridges said in 2010 that he’d be open to a Lebowski sequel). Will we learn more about Jesus’s checkered past? Is Donny alive in this movie? Does he ever shut the fuck up?
A more important question: Did the Coen brothers even sign off on this movie? Indiewire notes Turturro may not have the intellectual-property rights to Jesus. Even so, we doubt Joel or Ethan would be too upset; after all, their working relationship with Turturro goes back to 1990’s Miller Crossing. He also worked with the Academy-Award-winning brothers on 1991’s Hollywood satire, Barton Fink, and 2000’s Depression-era nod to The Odyssey and bluegrass, O Brother, Where Art Thou?
The Big Lebowski is a classic movie you should (re)watch. Will we one day say the same about Going Places? Probably not–after all, how many real cult classics are there?–but we’re excited to see it anyway.
Bill Murray recently gave the public another chance to fawn over him while guest bartending at his son’s bar in Brooklyn.
According to The New York Times, the actor arrived an hour late for his shift at 21 Greenpoint on Friday, but quickly made up for his tardiness by, well, by being Bill Murray. The crowd, most of whom were too busy holding iPhones to hold a drink, snapped photos as Murray took cocktail orders — basic “on the rocks” type of drinks, which he could quickly dole out.
He also squeezed in some pro bono branding, naming a cocktail developed by bar director Sean Patrick McClure. Murray took one sip of the vodka drink and proclaimed “The Depth-Finder.”
Murray spent about two hours behind the bar, ending the night with a toast to his son and his business partners.
Here’s the drink he named, which is heavy on Slovenia Vodka — something his son says his father “just pours into people’s glasses when they look thirsty.”
The Depth-Finder
1 1/2 ounces Slovenia Vodka
3/4 ounce Amaro liqueur
3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice
2 ounce soda water
1 pinch dried rosebuds
Pour the vodka, Amaro and lemon juice into a shaker with ice. Shake vigorously, and strain into a highball glass. Top with ice, soda water and garnish with dried rosebuds. Serve with a straw.
It’s possible my younger daughter played it, and I was spacing out. Missed it. That is possible. I could’ve been in an elevator, or a cafe, or a bowling alley, a garage, a Hungarian disco (mash-up), a pizza parlor, a swimming pool in France, or on the street in the East Village, or West, or upstate, or downstate, or out of state, and heard it. It’s very possible I have heard it and did not realize that I was hearing it. It was probably playing in, like, Uniqlo or whatever.
By some unofficial counts, Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ is the most-played pop song of all time. (I don’t actually know if that is true, but it feels true, and feelings, as this year’s presidential campaign remind us, are very important.) And yet. And yet. I don’t recall being in A PLACE IN TIME and realizing that I was actually, actively listening to Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella.’
This is not because I hate music. I love music. Love it. Here are some bands I really love: The Replacements, Dinosaur, Jr., The Clash, and Joy Division. Newer stuff? Welp, everything Hamilton Leithauser does is brilliant—from his Walkmen days to his solo stuff. I am one of those people who looks forward to Mondays so that I have a new Spotify Discover Weekly playlist waiting for me. I like to discover music.
And yet. Until today—until a few minutes ago, really—I don’t remember taking note of the Rihanna song called ‘Umbrella.’ Look, I’ve been busy—two kids, a wife, a full time job, hobbies. Okay, I don’t really have hobbies. But still. Busy.
Then, earlier today I was checking out this playlist that my colleague Brendan made for a post for The Fresh Toast. I realize it’s no longer Labor Day weekend, but I was psyched to check out the playlist nonetheless. And that’s when it happened. A song came on, and I was curious to see who was singing.
Let me take you through what happened next: I turned to my left and saw on my phone that the song that was playing was Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella.’ I was listening to ‘Umbrella,’ by Rihanna. It was playing. I could hear it.
Within our hyper-accelerated news culture, it can be tough to keep up with everything. But maintaining an informed populace remains vital to our culture. So for those stories that don’t quite need your undivided attention, we’re helping you digest stuff with GIFS, pics, and whatever qualifies as a quick fix. Remember: Knowing is half the battle. The other half: Laughing at funny memes.
TMZ devastated households who still believe in love Tuesday with an unsettling announcement: Angelina Jolie has filed for divorce from Brad Pitt. For many, the news comes as a shocker. Thankfully we have our special Brangelina news correspondent to help sift through the news.
Thanks for being with us today, Jen. We couldn’t think of anyone more adept to explain the complications of such an event. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, done. Brangelina, we’ll never again see ya. When you first heard the news, what was your initial reaction?
Wow. We didn’t realize how personal this story was for you. With your previous relationship to Brad, I’m sure you can imagine what he must be going through. What might you say to him now?
Thank you for being so brave with us. We promise not to ask many more questions. Just a few more, please. Has either of the pair reached out to you? No? Well if they did, how might you respond?
Excuse me, just a moment viewers…can someone get me a damn tissue!? This woman is spilling her soul on live internet. Please show the tiniest modicum of damn respect. You still there, Jen? Finally could you briefly sum up your overall feelings on Brangelina’s split?
On Saturday night, a bomb went off in New York at 23rd St. and 6th Ave. Most of the time, a dumpster fire would be nothing to make headlines, but this one followed several improvised explosives found in Elizabeth, Jersey and a series of stabbings in Minnesota. It’s not something to take lightly: 29 people were injured, and the incident was probably definitely connected to homegrown terrorism — although it’s not clear yet how exactly all of the pieces fit together. Surveillance footage shows the moment when the bomb went off and people nearby decided it was time to haul ass right outta there:
Cable media painted this as a Terror Level Burnt Sienna Bloodlust, but if there’s one true thing we’ve learned through this ordeal, it this: New Yorkers remain the steel-nerved, snarky breed of humanity that they’ve always been.
The most irritating thing about the whole ordeal was that it put 23rd street station out of service and blocked streets.
New York could be hit by a comet and Kansas would be like "AMERICA IS BLEEDING" while Bushwick would be like "I guess I walk to work now."
We’re also the first to agree that Chelsea isn’t hip anymore, and the first to “well, actually” which neighborhood we’re talking about in the first place:
There are a lot of things to be more afraid of in NYC than dumpsters exploding. Like a simultaneous Seamless and Netflix outage, or falling through one of those cellar grates.
The events continued to unfold over the weekend and Monday about another undetonated explosive device was found. But in the most buddy-comedy way, bag snatchers saw the unattended briefcase, took the bag, and left the bomb in the garbage, inadvertently disabling the bomb in the process. See something, steal something?
Jimmy Fallon had Donald Trump on The Tonight Show last week, and instead of skewering the tiny-handed candidate, the host mussed the serially-bankrupt tycoon’s absurd hair, making him seem more like a harmless grandpa than the dangerous orange blob he is. Mostly lost in the ensuing outrage was the small protest put on by The Roots, The Tonight Show’s in-house band.
As Trump walked on stage, the band played Erykah Badu’s “20 Feet Tall,” a reference to Trump’s terrifyingly stupid plan to build a wall on the U.S.-Mexico border. It’s not exactly a walk-out, or even the most scathing song they could’ve performed, but it at least sent a message—however subtle—that not everyone on the show was comfortable with Trump’s appearance.
The Roots also took a light jab at Trump’s former buddy and current foe, Hillary Clinton, during her Tonight Show appearance last night. As the former Secretary of State walked on stage, the band played Ghostface Killah’s “Mighty Healthy,” a clear nod to Clinton’s recent bout with pneumonia.
Even if you’re generous, neither song choice can really be seen as powerful statement against either candidate. But that’s not necessarily the band’s fault, considering what happened the last time they skewered a politician.
In 2011, then-congresswoman and presidential candidate Michele Bachmann appeared on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon. The Roots welcomed her with Fishbone’s “Lyin’ Ass Bitch,” which didn’t exactly sit well with the bigwigs at NBC. As punishment, band leader Questlove has since been forced to clear each walk-on song with three NBC executives before each show.
So, perhaps The Roots wanted to play a different song for Trump—or maybe Badu was their first choice. We may never know the truth. There is a lot about this campaign season that will likely remain mysterious for years to come.
As anyone who’s ever spent hours debating what song would auto-play on their Myspace page knows, music is powerful in how others perceive you.
Today, Tinder and Spotify announced a partnership that’ll let you add your favorite track, an “anthem,” to your dating profile. You’ll be able to proudly proclaim your burning passion for Frank Ocean, while dodging that dude who unironically loves Skankstral Ska Hotel. Maybe now your inbox will be filled with real conversation starters, like, “What do you think of goth-industrial queen Kim Gordon?”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f49Z0ZPBaWA
“Music is a big aspect of how people meet,” Tinder CEO Sean Rad tells Business Insider. This line prompted some TFT staffers to want to respond: no sh*t! “You socialize around the music you love,” Rad went on. “It says a lot about your personality, what your interests are.” It’s like the internet version of locking eyes with someone at a concert.
What, exactly, is this “anthem?” you ask. Good question. From the Spotify press release:
It’s that one single track that tells your story. That one song you can’t get out of your head. Where the lyrics of your life meet the rhythm of your soul. It may change as you change, but at any given time, you have an anthem—and the world is waiting to hear it. Spotify is giving all Tinder users, with or without a Spotify account, the unique ability to add an Anthem to their profile.
I blame iTunes for most of my questionable college boyfriend choices, so this feels like a natural progression. If you’ve never felt a romance blooming while sitting on a ratty couch scrolling through your respective love of Bowie deep cuts, you haven’t known innocent, pointlessly shallow love. Spotify and Tinder seem to hope this feature goes deeper than that, and you can be sure they’re R&D-ing your musical taste and love connections while you’re jamming out.
Once you’ve established you both adore steamy 90’s music, turn up the volume on this sexytime playlist.
