Chris Wasinski: The Man, the Myth, the Whore

Instead of contacting each of you on a person by person basis (which would take a literally incalculable amount of time given the nature of my problem and the possibly infinite number of people effected), I've decided it's easier to just make the announcement here:

Recently it has come to my attention that I am, indeed, a whore. Somehow this had escaped the notice of my normally super-human powers of observation. How I have deluded myself up until now... I may never know. Most likely it can be attributed to all of the hardcore binge drinking I've been doing along with a steady diet of roofies and valium to numb the pain of not having even the shred of dignity required to ask payment for whoring services rendered. It is truly my greatest regret in life that I have turned out to be such a god damn, no good, low down, filthy, dirty whore... my status residing well below that of even the grodiest of street walkers, beneath the contempt of even the most desperate pimp.

Now, some of you may be saying to yourselves, "Now wait just a minute!" pausing briefly to fully take in the enormity of the revelation you are currently experiencing "Chris doesn't really seem like a truly despicible and disgusting example of human trash, when does he get up to all this whoring?" ... Well, my erudite reader and trusted facebook friend, I am glad you asked. The answer is really quite simple once you understand the special theory of relativity and how it pertains to the creation of "Whorularities" that is to say, a mass of whore so dense that it collapses upon itself and has the power to warp the very time and space it occupies. One day to a normal person actually seems like one thousand, thousand years to a whore like me due to the time dilation experienced in the vicinity of whores of my magnitude.

So it is with profound sorrow in my heart that I ask each and every one of you that has been affected by my indescribable whorocity (you see, it needs a new word to accurately describe the unprecedented levels being discussed here) to forgive my transgressions and to somehow find within yourselves the ability to look past the fact that I am such a huge slut and to see that I am, deep down, in the essence of my being, an obnoxiously staggeringly gargantuan slut. It is with my sincerest hope that, aided by the unparallelled magnanimity of my facebook friends, I will be able to free myself from the shackles of my whoritude, which bind my very soul to this unseemly fate, the trajectory of which you all have seen me hurtling along all these long years... too afraid to step in and speak up for fear that I would literally whore you to death for daring to suggest that I had a problem.

I am ready, friends! I have seen the error of my ways! Allow me to redeem myself in the radiant light of your forgiveness so that one day I may be capable of feeling, living, breathing, being... as a normal person once again!

I Want to Beat People Up for Overcooking Cinnamon Rolls: An Informal Essay

How does it even enter into somebody's mind to allow a batch of cinnamon rolls to become overcooked? At what point did it become OK to be distracted by some other menial task whilst said buns rise? Once embarked upon the journey to heavenly perfection that is everything a perfectly prepared pan of cinnamon buns represents, cannot be so easily or thoughtlessly abandoned. Just take a moment and consider what it is that hangs in the balance. Life, my friends. Life hangs in the balance. Perhaps not a real life, in the sense that you or I or even a small woodland creature experiences it, but a way of life. The American way. You see, in my America, responsibilities implicitly assumed by the bold undertaking of heroic tasks are seen through, because if you fail in your endeavors it is not only you alone that must pay the price. No, it is all who must share in bearing the cost.


So when you set your oven timer for the actual time suggested on the side of the can, an offense most egregious in and of itself, but then allowing for even that lofty limit to pass by without action, without remark... without lament... You let down yourself, surely, but keep in mind... you also let down America. By allowing those soft, moist, delicious pastries once bursting forth with flavor and potential to whither and shrink you place the knife at our heart. By allowing the succulent aroma of cinnamon to be overcome by that of the crumbled ashes of the no-longer-a-cinnamon-roll thing that remains in the pan, you thrust the dagger in. By serving up this abomination as if you've never strayed from the path of the righteous, you confirm that your betrayal is complete. As our eyelids flutter, and grow heavy and our vision fades... darkness encroaching upon life and reason... the quizzical expression upon your face reveals the truth hidden deeper still:

You're an idiot

This new madness of fire and cinnamon is something entirely foreign to me. Before I can account for it, I am already lost to it. While it invigors my once lifeless husk, renewed energies come at a steep cost. This new concept, this mind poison now festers deep within the catacombs of my very soul; try as I might to expunge its foul presence, I am at every turn rebuked, only to then find my entire world now colored by the darkness that I carry with me. Upon any object which my gaze might fall I see only ruination. Upon any promising idea that my troubled imagination may linger for even a moment, I now see only the smoldering cinders of what could have been. It is in this moment that I know I am not long for this world. In such as a place as this where such atrocities are possible... cinnamon buns cruelly cut down in their prime, due only to the disinterest of the bourgeoisie, I cannot remain.

Yet, I also cannot depart. Not with the knowledge that there might come those who know nothing of what I have seen... Yes... I must do my part to ensure that this disaster is never revisited upon the unsuspecting innocent. So stand with me, friends, and together put at an end this horror, this travesty... in the name of future generations... please...
slightly undercook your god-damned cinnamon rolls.

For America

Thank you.