Mike´s Travel Diaries: Part 1

Just a warning before you read: This travel diary is pretty much just an itinerary of things I’ve done in Europe, with unneccesarily detailed accounts of the food I’ve eaten and my ignorant thoughts about Europeans. All of this is unedited from my travel journal, much of which was written while intoxicated. Theres really no reason you should read this.

Day 0: That day when I flew to Paris
I’m hanging out at my Parisien hostel right now and I feel that I should  start this journaling thing already. I started my trip Wednesday night, when I left for the airport with my cousin Alyssa. We didn’t have enough time for Chili’s to go so we hit up cafe zoot for those subs with the Italian dressing on them. I immediately spilled mustard on my shirt and when I took my seat on the plane, I realized that I already left my journal outside the gate. Shit. The flight started and I watched the inflight entertainment a bit. That Bradley Cooper movie where he takes drugs and gets superpowers was awful. With the crappy voiceover, the 30 minutes that I watched seemed like a drawn out commercial for itself. Also, cut it with the montages. I get that its a clever storytelling device and it looks stylish, but it gets annoying fast. I fell asleep for like an hour but was wide awake after that. I listened to some podcasts for the rest of the ride until we arrived in Paris at 9:25 am.

Day 1: That day when I was really tired in Paris and saw Gwen
We got off the plane extremely tired. Alyssa got probably an hour more sleep than me but she was just as beat as me. We bought our tickets on the RER out of Charles de Gaulle and made our way to the hostel. We left a metro stop somewhere near our hostel and proceded to get completely lost. We got to the hostel at half past noon, just as my good friend Gwen arrived. We threw our bags in the very insecure luggage room and took the metro deep into the heart of Paris. We got off at a busy streetcorner and after Gwen found a menu that wasn´t ridiculously overpriced, I sat down at my first Parisian cafe. Per Gwen´s advice, we each got “Le croq-monsieur”, which is like an opened up grilled ham and cheese sandwich with butter. I regretted my choice after I learned that there is a “Le croq-madame”, which has a poached egg on top. Oh well, those feelings instantly vanished when I took a bite and had probably the best meal I’ll ever have in my life. We drank from our tiny glasses of water and chatted about what to do in Paris and how Gwen has been getting along there. Why are the water glasses in Paris so small? I get that people think they´re cute and stuff, but they´re so impractical. You pour wine into a good size glass, do the same for water. And why is it that when you don´t drink water from a shotglass, you drink it from a waterbottle roughly 5 times larger than my bladder. Just settle on a reasonable sized please. Anyways, we excused ourselves from lunch and went to check into our hostel and take a solid 3 hour nap. Refreshed, we took the metro out to the nunnery where Gwen was living for the summer. She was out shopping, so Alyssa and I hung out in the peaceful garden for a spell. When Gwen got back, we went to the supermarket to grab some pretzels, crackers, prepacked chicken sandwiches, and some warm beers. Because it was Bastille Day, fun stuff was going on at the Eiffel Tower, so we headed off to some gardens with Gwen´s friends from school. The garden was probably about a quarter mile away from the tower, and though the trees blocked most of the view, it was still amazing. We relaxed, drank champagne, quoted Mean Girls, and watched the fireworks above the Eiffel Tower. We took the train back to the hostel, gave Gwen the ol’ “We´ll always have Paris!”, and went in for the night.

Day 2: That day when I was still really jetlagged and I went to the Louvre
I did not sleep well that night. I probably managed about 3 hours of sleep, but I was wide awake from 5:30 til 8. I pulled Alyssa out of bed and we went downstairs to get our free breakfast. I had some decent cereal, coffee, and a croissant. We packed our bags and made our way to our next hostel. After dropping off our bags, we started to make our way to see the Louvre, and stopped at a cafe on the way. I got some beef and potatoes, which tasted great (no croq-monsieur though) and got to eat the hard boiled eggs from Alyssa´s salad. We paid our bill and walked to the Louvre to get our art history on. We bought our tickets for the museum but not the special Rembrandt collection (I´m not paying 8 extra euros to make toothpaste jokes for 15 minutes). Navigating the museum was a nightmare. I reckon that I walked at least 6 miles in the 4 hours that we were there. We hit the statue section first and got to see that sculpture of that woman who didn´t have any arms. That was a stupid Venus de Milo joke- it was actually a great piece of art, I´m really glad that I got to see it. Then we found the section I was most excited for: Italian paintings. Lotsa great paintings, but the highlights were those paintings of the faces made out of vegetables, cool Jesus paintings, that badass angel painting by Raphael, and of course DaVinci. Two things about his section: 1. No one was freaking out about Madonna on the Rocks. That painting is awesome and deserves more reverence. 2. Everyone always says about the Mona Lisa “Its really small and its just not as great as I´d imagined.” I had really low expecations and was ready to be disapointed. But no! Its still a wonderful painting and its very reasonably sized. How big do you want this painting to be? People also whine abou not being able to get close enough. Wrong. I was like 3 feet away from it, thats plenty close. I don´t have to lick it. Oh also, at the cafe before the museum, we totally watched a woman yell at another lady for like 5 minutes because she had let her dog pee on the street. It was awesome. Anyways, after we finished up the Italians, we went upstairs to see some French, Germans, and Dutch painters. I saw that famous corronation painting which was unbelievably huge. I also really dug the still lifes that the dutch fellows did. After the Louvre, we hung out in the gardens outside for a bit. There were cool statues all over, a sweet view of the Eiffel Tower, and really, really, remarkably perfect grass. I cannot overstate how nice this lawn was. Alyssa sat while I took a tasty nap. It was very peaceful. We then decided we should get a better view of the Eiffel Tower. We first stopped for at a cafe where we talked to an obnoxious American family. The wife claimed that she saw Spike Lee at the tower in the 90´s, I didn´t belive her. I got another croq-monsieur which wasn´t as good as the one the previous day. We started walking again and about 40 minutes later we were at the base of the tower. Alyssa had already been up and I just wanted to relax, so we just hung out on the lawn and watched Parisians try to sell champagne, roses, and Eiffel Tower keychains to stupid Americans. It quite satisfying when the cops showed up and made the buskers leave. We spent the rest of the day walking the city and ended it with doners from a turkish fast food joint.

The journey continues in Part 2…


Guest blog writer: Kevin Daliva!

Did you miss out on the whole Harry Potter thing? Do you want to know what’s up when you see the latter half of the last movie with your friends, even though you haven’t seen the first 6 1/2? That’s kind of an ambitious expectation, but not with this guide. Guest blog writer, Kevin Daliva, has the details!!! Thanks for contributing, Kevin.

Crash Course [in Harry Potter]

First off, thanks to Val and Mike for this amazing opportunity to showcase my wit and smart-alec-styled comments on their blog. All formalities aside, let’s not kid ourselves, we all know why I’m here. To teach you all about a boy named, “Harry Potter.” I’ve spent the last month reading 7 books [or 4,100 words[or 905,800]) worth of the Harry Potter series and I am here to give you a Play-by-play of the series.

Book 1:

In a tweet: Harry’s life sucks. You’re a wizard! Go to school. He makes friends #ginger #smartgirl. Let’s play Quidditch. Defeat evil two-faced wizard.

After thoughts: These books definitely move faster than I remember they do. Am I just a faster reader? Probably.

Book 2:

In a tweet: Hi elf! Flying car crashes into violent tree. Petrified cat, ghost, Colin #smartgirl. Who’s the heir? I speak snake. Kill snake, stab diary.

After thoughts: Ugh, I hate snakes. What would happen if you stabbed my diary?

Book 3:

In a tweet: Black escaped. Who cares? DEMENTOR! Expecto Patronum! Buckbeak. Rat. Not a Rat. Teacher. Not a Teacher. Dog. Not a dog. Black is godfather.

After thoughts: That was literally the most confusing ending ever. I want a time-turner. I want a Hermione.

Book 4:

In a tweet: World Cup. Unforgivable Curses. Moody? Harry is. Name in Cup?! French girl & Krum. Dancing. Dragon, egg, maze. Portkey? Blood. Edward dies.

After thoughts: I want another Tri-wizard tournament. This one sucked.

Book 5:

In a tweet: Secret house. Bitch teacher. But he’s back! Ouch my scar! Yell at my friends. Ouch my hand! DA. Attack. Save him. Not there. Trap. Dead.

After thoughts: All Harry did this book was bitch. Literally if I took a shot everytime Harry yelled or the word “scar” appeared I would have died.

Book 6:

In a tweet: Sad. Slug Club. Sweet book. Nice potions. Crippled hand. Hey Ginny. Horcrux? Drink the potion. Dark mark?! Snape kills Dumbledore. Funeral.

After thoughts: Nothing happened in this book. Also I hate the word “snogging.”

Book 7:

In a tweet: Wedding. Walk around. Horcrux? Deathly Hallow? Who’s he? Dumbledore did what?! Bank heist. 2 Hogwarts. Epic battle! I died. Wait. He did.

After thoughts: At one point I felt like I was reading X-men. Until the epilogue. Fml.

Honestly, I am a pretty die-hard fan, but these are more light-hearted overviews of the books. I am dreading what will happen at the theater tonight.

Things that will probably happen:

  1. I will wear some sort of Harry Potter themed clothing.
  2. I will cry at the end of the movie.
  3. I will contemplate the meaning of growing up along with Harry and his friends.
  4. I will cry [silently and to myself] on the car ride home.
  5. I will write about my feelings.
  6. I will cry myself to sleep.

I feel like I’m in the mood for a really good cry. I mean, the last one I had was when I watch A Walk to Remember. Embarrassing? Hell naw. But seriously, this movie better make me cry. For my official heart-felt—and hopefully tear-stained—comments on the series come back Friday… well… if Val and Mike let me come back.


A blast from the past!

A post from last summer, from my other blog.

The Secret Life of the American Teenager or, why I remain willfully disengaged from pop-culture

Are you a moody pregnant teenager? Are you planning on becoming pregnant to create drama and seek revenge? Do you frequently discuss your sex life with your parents, or kind of want to anyway? If you answered yes to any of those, you might watch Secret Life. If there’s something more unsettling than the questionable quality of the script, it’s the longevity of the series. I didn’t mean to spend so much time on this critique, but it just sort of happened (like a certain pregnancy!).

Reasons not to watch this show:

1. Amy – the chick who gets pregnant first – wants to attend Juilliard.
Most conservatories and esteemed music schools require some type of pre-screening or audition for entrance. Many of these institutions also require proficiency on an instrument, if not something short of talent. What is Amy doing to prepare for the process? Instead of diligently practicing, taking lessons, or attending the occasional master class, she wiles the time by either thinking about or cheating on Ben, talking about sex pretty candidly with her parents, or crying a few times per episode. (I think she also has a kid, but maybe not.) Auditions? What of them?

2. The plot employs embarrassingly clichéd stereotypes.
The “bad girl” who openly admits to be easy; the wholesome football player with a penchant for the ladies; the sarcastic, holier-than-thou “goth” chick; that one religious girl; and the pregnant girl (oops, which one?). Anyway, aside from a pretty trite premise, the series depends on the occurrence of interesting interactions between a few embarrassing stereotypes, none of which actually come to fruition. The volume of content per episode is so high that the ramifications for normally upsetting scenarios that occur (pregnancy, divorce, etc.) aren’t actually felt. Not that there needs to be more in each episode. Personally, I think capping the pregnancies at one would still send a message to most girls who think unprotected sex (with a bad boy, no less) is inconsequential. But no.

3. Most of the parents on this show are dangerously unfit to parent.
For a moment, I will disregard the unrealistic propensity for every teen on this show to casually discuss sex with their parents – moreover, their own sexual histories. I will even concede that the show encourages more candid communication about sex between teenagers who haven’t yet discovered Wikipedia and their parents – awkward, but not altogether a bad thing. Whatever.

In the course of just a few seasons, extramarital affairs, jail, mysterious business trips, honeymoons, and a sketchy move to Phoenix separate parents from their vastly irresponsible and curious teens. When one of the parents isn’t getting pregnant, engaged, or lying to the other parent, one adult or another will casually mention, “I hope you’re not having oral sex with that Ricky boy! You know how I felt after your one-night stand at band camp!” To which Amy – or anyone – will likely reply, “Sorry I’m not perfect!” Drama ensues. Unfortunately, that’s hardly an exaggeration of most of the dialogue on the show – and more fortunately, doesn’t broach the parent-child dynamic of anyone I know.

4. There has already been a death, a reunion episode with an AWOL father, a divorce, a few re-engagements, and like, nine pregnancies.
Come on! When will ABC acknowledge that these plot-fillers constitute most of the stuff of daytime soaps? (See the Wikipedia article of the series for a long-winded explanation of the plot.) With most other series, I can drop away for a few episodes (unless it’s ANTM) and still understand the continuity of the plot, etc. Not that I had been following this show, but so many things happen in the course of a forty-minute episode, that you have to be careful not to plan anything else when it airs. Should you wander off during a commercial break (or  lose interest), you will find yourself wondering who got who pregnant this time, or who has decided that they’re ready to bow out of an abortion or something.

5. There is a third season
No explanation necessary.


The Cooking Corner (with Val)

If you’re anything like co-blog-author Val, you’ll want to cook the simplest possible meals because of your busy schedule — or more accurately, because of your lack of skill in the kitchen and a few previous Incidents. That’s okay! With a few simple and inexpensive ingredients, you can still maintain a balanced and nourishing diet. Here are a few guidelines for navigating through the preparation and enjoyment of even the most basic meals:

1. Just because your meals are basic doesn’t mean they can’t be good!
Plain pasta again?  Try adding a sauce, the following of which I would recommend: garlic & tomato, Alfredo sauce, five-cheese Alfredo, or  makeshift pesto since the real thing was kind of pricey. If you can’t find any of these, borrow some of that butter your roommate has and presumably never uses. She didn’t notice last time. Pasta and butter can work, if you’re willing to go that basic. Maybe you’re hoping to add some protein to the mix, since you’ve been almost religiously forgoing protein since becoming a vegetarian. Try some fish fillets! Tip: Keep in mind that the fish will probably take more time to cook than the pasta, so eat your meal at two different times.

2. Spice it up!
Literally. Five days in a row of pasta will make you hate pasta! Instead, try other shapes of pastas because they are cheap. Have you had macaroni and cheese lately? Well it’s time! Unlike the plain pasta you’ve been having for days, you don’t need to come up with some excuse for a supplementary portion of your meal. Tip: The cheese is enough.

3. Craving other foods? Treat yourself!
Probably. After all, the fish fillets have started to smell kind of sickening. Plus, you didn’t know there were so many fillets in the package, so you’ve been exhausting every opportunity to eat fish. Tip: Read the label. Anyway, just because you’ve adopted two foods as the only staples of your diet doesn’t mean you can’t indulge every once in a while. Don’t hesitate to treat yourself after telling yourself you deserve it! Ice cream? Go for it. Make sure it’s cheap though, and maybe Walgreen’s brand. Do you really think you can afford Coldstone?

4. Speaking of desserts…
You’re telling me! Try your hand at a basic brownie mix. Brownies can take a while in the oven, so just go for a run while they broil in the oven. They’ll be fine. After you come back from your run, engage in damage-control mode because the brownies actually weren’t fine for 35 minutes. Did you listen to your friend who told you that brownies do half their baking outside of the oven, on the cooling rack? Tip: This is not true. They do their baking inside the oven. Amend the situation by keeping the brownies in their original pan until your roommate brings to your attention that the pan is irreparable since the brownies are completely stuck to the surface.

5. Host your friend(s) for dinner!
You’ll probably want to try your hand at the whole kitchen thing after reading these tips. Why not a dinner soiree? Tip: That’s French. I’ve always enjoyed a dinner party, or even just cooking for one guest since your only other guest thinks Champaign is a far commute from Urbana. Whatever.  Your guest(s) doesn’t/don’t need to know that you only ever make pasta. However, make sure you have other ingredients and maybe spices (i.e., oregano, garlic) to avoid the embarrassment of having just plain pasta. Tip: That’s only acceptable when you’re alone.

6. Make dinner an occasion!
While you’re at it, make dinner special. Light a candle. Use the bar stools. Snag some wine from the same roommate who hasn’t noticed the frequency with which you borrow butter. What? Yellow Tail isn’t that expensive anyway. Also, her door was open. After struggling to uncork the bottle, pour yourself and your guest some wine (if there’s any left for your guest after topping yourself off!). Looks like a success. Take off your cooking hat and watch your newly-found skills unfold/unravel!


I’m just going to whine about my injured arm here so I don’t have to do it all the time

1. Like, it really hurts
Its this constant throbbing pain that won’t go away and some prescription style pills would be just spectacular. It hurts to put any pressure on my fingers or thumb so that means I can’t type with my left hand or even do simple things like putting toothpaste on a toothbrush.

2. Its possible that its just sprained, meaning all my whining is me just being a wimp
But as the swelling/pain hasn’t gone down at all, I’m pretty damn sure that its broken. It also means that I can’t complain properly about it. I have to say “my wrist might be broken”, which just sounds lame.

3. People keep correcting me “Its your wrist thats injured, not your arm”
No, stop talking. You have no idea what you’re talking about. “But its technically your wrist, not you arm!” Yes, but you know, the wrist is still a goddam part of your arm. I know why you made the distinction, because you think that arm breaks are more painful than wrist breaks. Well, as someone who, previous to this, has broken his arm twice and wrist once (oh what the hell, has also knocked out his two front teeth, hit in the head with a golf-club, stung by a stingray, and had goddam tuberculosis), I can say that they all hurt about equal (the stingray was a bit worse though).
Related to that, don’t try to make a distinction between fracture and broken. While broken sounds a lot worse, fracture means the same thing. Here’s a stupid link so you don’t sound like an ass to someone thats in pain again.

4. Stop asking me about the accident and forming an opinion as to who was at fault.
This one is a first for me. In the past, all my bad accidents were solely the fault of my shitty balance (falling off a bike, falling on rollerblades, falling on waterskis, falling on stairs, falling on a cement floor) and me being stupid (see previous). This time though, I took someone down with me so the story is a bit longer than three words.
Heres a quick summary: I was riding on a bike path, and I stopped to catch my breath (in the dead center of the right lane). I started to turn around and was perpendicular to the path (and in the center) when I was hit by a guy. His handlebars caught my left hand and pushed them into my handlebars. He went into a ditch and flew off the front of his bike. He jumped up right away to yell at me (so I’m assuming he’s fine). After two minutes of that, I rode away.
Now, this was probably my fault. I forgot to look before I turned and now I’m dealing with the consequences. He didn’t mention pressing charges (oh god, could I get sued?) and I didn’t see him at the hospital, so I really don’t see the point in debating blame. I was stupid, so I broke my arm. I’ve been using this system for like 12 years, I’m not going to stop now.

5. Once I get a proper cast on, I’ll have to deal with a bunch of crap like not being able to ride my bike, can’t go swimming, and won’t be able to play any instruments, but I just want to talk about how its going to make my vacation shitty.
So I’m really lucky and I get to go on a whole European tour on Wednesday and I really only have one complaint about having a broken arm during it: showering in the dirty hostels is going to be awful. See, having a cast is gross enough, and its just really difficult to shower. I need to get a garbage bag and duct tape and have people wrap me up and its a whole big thing. Thats annoying enough when I have a whole family to help me out with it and I know its going to be a huge pain in European hostels.

6. Don’t just mumble off a poorly thought out joke about masturbating.
Please guys, this happened three times yesterday. I really like comedy and I won’t get offended by a decent joke about jerking off. Put some thought into it though and don’t just wing it!  “Oh… you’ve got a splint on your left hand! I guess that means you can’t… uhhhh… jerk it with your left hand?” While probably factually correct, this is not funny. Guys, stop it.

Well, I’m done whining. Have a good weekend.

Characters aboard the CTA

The Chicago Transit Authority has enabled me to easily take several trips into the city. Despite the lengthy ride from the near north side, where my grandma lives, the Milwaukee route is otherwise scenic and the bus passes through some neat areas. Like a few Polish neighborhoods and some hip, one-syllable restaurants. However, what used to pass for smug, new-found street savvy in knowing (one) bus routes quickly devolved into quiet anxiety, mostly due to the characters that choose to ride the 56 Milwaukee.

Around 8 o’clock, I boarded this very bus at Madison and State, after enjoying an iced coffee in the botanical garden area of Millennium Park. It had been crowded, but not obnoxiously so, and I lingered for a few minutes, remembering that my last trip to Michigan Avenue had involved many more layers of clothing.

Priding myself for correctly tracking down the bus, I boarded and settled toward the back of the bus near a group of girls. Since it would be a long ride, I pulled out my iPod and sort of zoned out for a few minutes until I noticed some commotion toward the front of the bus, where the crazies had assembled and evidently, had begun to mingle. Among them was a relatively vocal woman who had boarded at the same time as me. I should have expected trouble from the get-go, by the manner in which she had hustled me aside with a large duffle bag full of scarves and a long rope that looped through a dozen or so jingling keys. It hung from her neck. She also donned a long green trench coat and leather gloves. In fact, I noticed several members of the front-of-the-bus clan were also wearing gloves.

Gestures and voices escalated as the bus ride progressed. I switched off my iPod as I heard the words, “Je ne sais pas!” issue loudly from the woman’s mouth. My eyes flitted across the aisle to the recipient of this exclamation, who, elderly and wiry, sat shirtless beneath a heavy down coat. He responded in kind, “I’m just looking for love!” This is all true.

The woman diverted her attention to other riders, asking several times who among the CTA crowd had managed to catch Kung Fu Panda and its sequel while they were still playing “in the moving pictures!” She cast a wild-eyed stare in my direction as she waited for a response and I averted my gaze, so as to avoid involvement and possible conversation. When I was younger, I had always done the same thing – a response of pity and embarrassment for the behavior of these individuals. Now though, I watched from a more detached perspective, and my interest grew as a young family boarded, and the woman requested loudly, “for a headcount, please!” I was hooked. The mother struggled with a stroller and ignored the woman, while the father motioned for his young wife and child to move toward the back of the bus.

The front-of-the-bus clan grew to four as a well-dressed, presumably foreign elderly man boarded the bus near my stop. Seeing limited options – or perhaps in an ill-fated search for love – he seated himself next to the woman in question, who magnanimously welcomed him into the Kung Fu Panda discussion, wasting no time with pleasantries. He, too, was lively – perhaps composed than the other riders, but evidently willing to overlook the latent craziness of his fellow riders for the satisfaction of pleasant conversation. Meanwhile I grew listless as the crowd quieted down, and as the total commute time approached an hour. I chided myself for not bothering to look into taking the L, knowing my parents would be displeased that I had chosen to take the bus at night.

For my laziness, I paid with the simultaneous discomfort in associating with these characters but also mild enjoyment in observing the late-night crowd. Oh well. Soon enough I would be able to watch Fiddler on the Roof for the eleventh time with my grandma, and stick to her soft-food diet for the weekend – for her teeth and my figure. She had long stopped taking the bus anywhere. Her loss.


Uncle Mike’s Kiwi Toilet Wine

So, you’ve just been released from prison, but you can’t legally buy any hooch because of your goddam parole officer. It sucks, but you can still make a tasty alcoholic treat all on your own! Here’s a simple recipe for a tasty toilet wine:
Step 1. Gather your ingredients!
Now, the goal of toilet wine is to help you forget about how you ended up making toilet wine in the first place (a bank heist went awry and your partners in crime sold you out in return for leniency) so we don’t really have to worry about taste. We want cheap, sugary fruits that can easily be pocketed at your local supermarket. This is why I’d recommend kiwis! You can easily pop three into each jacket pocket and just stroll out the store. You can get the rest of the supplies in the kitchen!

Step 2. Find a place to prepare the wine!
There’s no way that your 300 dollar a month efficiency has a kitchen, so we’ll need another place to work. How about your ex’s current douche-bag boyfriend? He probably has a nice kitchen in his fancy studio apartment. Just break a window during the day while he’s at work and you’ll have plenty of time to make some liquid magic!
Cooking Tip: Wrap your hand in an old shirt to break the window. You’ll cause just as much damage to the window and none to your hand!

Step 3. Preparation!
At this point, lets be honest, he’d going to know it was you who broke in. Theres not much point in trying to hide your presence, so feel free to make a mess and look around for spare credit cards. The kiwis won’t be quite enough for ingredients so you’ll need the following:

  • sugar
  • honey
  • large ziplock bag
  • small ziplock bag
  • gallon jug of milk
  • whatever fruit is laying around (apples or oranges will work fine)

You will also need duct tape, but you probably already have that with you…

Step 4.  Makin’ Mash!
Take your large plastic bag and toss in those six kiwis. Peel two of those oranges and put them in as well. Even though your therapist says that you need to hold in that rage, go crazy on the bag and really mash it up. I guess if you can find his blender, use that. So punch that bag for a while until you feel more relaxed [fig. 1]. Kiwis and oranges aren’t quite sugary enough for the yeast to react with it so put in some honey and sugar too. Shit! Yeast! How the hell did you screw up toilet wine? Okay, fine. Go back to the store and pick up some yeast. It comes in small packets so I doubt they’ll notice it, but take one of his credit cards along just in case.

Fig. 1
fig. 1

Step 5.  Ready to Brew!
Alright, we’re just about done. Go ahead and pour out his gallon jug of milk. Its probably a good idea to rinse it out with hot water, but its later than you thought and he’ll be getting home soon, so lets just move on. Empty out your mash bag into the jug and give it a good few shakes to make sure its mixed well. Pour about half the packet of yeast into the bottle too and shake for a minute. I’m sure that you don’t really care about how sanitary this is, but we’ll need to have one precaution so the yeast does its job and turns the sugar into sweet, sweet alcohol. So take that small plastic bag and duct tape it around the top of the jug and cut a hole in the corner [fig. 2]. This will make sure that carbon dioxide exits the jug without problems.

fig. 2
fig. 2

Cooking Tip: Try waking up by noon so you can complete this project before her boyfriend gets home!

Step 6. Waiting, Waiting, Waiting.
Now just exit the apartment and hide the jug in a cool dark place where your parole officer won’t be able to find it, like the cistern of your toilet (hence the name “Toilet Wine”)! It should reach its potency in about a month, but you can wait 6 months for it to taste its best. So, just go ahead and drink it after a month. Strain it through your least dirty shirt into a glass and enjoy a liter of delicious toilet wine!