Author Archives: conchshell

foodsmug lifesmug recaps

KERF Recaps: Reboot Edition, Post 388

Much like Kathy, I’ve lingered around these banal beach scenes for for longer than is classy. There is an explanation, actually, involving some kind of nerve injury to what Kathy might call one of my typin’ hands.

Why didn’t this image already exist?

But mostly, it is laziness and revulsion at having to talk about Kathy and Bath Matt’s so-called scenes from a date night, which are almost too unbearable to look at. They left their one child with their blogger friend they were trading “date night” duty with, and yet, there’s Kathy saying they

slipped away for a night on the town….er the pier!

SO DARING!

Thank you, Kathy. Why are you publicly thanking Kathy, Conchshell? Did someone slip ludes in your boxed wine? Well, beloved hams, if it weren’t for Kathy, someone else would have to date Sporty Shorty Haircut and his sidekick Horrendous Pac Sun ’01 Snowboard Glasses here:

Bath Matt looks like a rookie cop who’s trying to pick up chicks at the ski slopes by coming off like someone who smokes weed, even though he’s wearing a shirt that looks like the thing I use to sop ham juice up off the countertops.

While Kathy wrangled her sensitive-eyed husband, fellow blogger Caitlin (whose blog, ”Healthy Tipping Point,” sounds like a macrobiotic restaurant built on stilts like those scary Los Angeles canyon houses that a dozen of collapsed in the ’94 earthquake) and her husband

were left in charge of the boys – and a dinosaur on the loose!

Oh, la! WOT HILARITY! Someone put a toy in the fridge.

This will literally be the peak of humor in the Younger-Smugson house for the next decade, until the caper of 2024, which carries a 52% likelihood of involving Bocker Bear, Churton Bear, or Beaker Bear. And fire.

Bad Seed here understands.

Oops, sorry. We were talking about that date Kathy and Bath Matt took forever ago when they were still hiding that they went to Carolina Beach because they’re OMGsofamous:

We went to our favorite tiki bar on the pier where we ordered cocktails (marg for me, Pimm’s cup for him) and listened to some live music.

Marg? Dude. MARG? Is there anything Kathy — of “KERF,” of “OIAJ,” of “AB+J,” of “strawbs” and “bluebs” and “‘master” and “Bach” — won’t abbreviate? (I mean, besides her scruples when it comes to giving up Kashi for Cheerios, Honest Foods for Hershey, vinegar and baking soda for free floor-mopping robots.)

Oh, but she’s just trying to be cute, guys! Like when she then tells Bath Matt to take her picture and he — totally spontaneously, I’m sure — takes a photo I’m sure she didn’t have to hold or replicate:

After taking photos of each other holding drinks, they decided

the menu at the attached restaurant looked great. We were in the mood for some fried seafood!

After hiding in the storm-drained reeds, draped in Stitch Fix’s new line of ghillie suits, one imagines, picking up god knows how many marine leeches, Kathy and Bath Matt sneaked in and

shared two plates

Because of course they did. He had fried flounder, and she had

soft shell crab (which I love but it still gives me the heebie jeebies!)

Fine. Don’t eat it. (They’re not gross anyway.) Have oats every morning, salad every afternoon, and lentil pucks with ketchup every evening. Own it, and stop pretending you’re some food pioneer, Kathy. The most adventurous thing you’ve ever eaten was “scrapple” that wasn’t scrapple, and cinnamon and sugar you accidentally dumped on some fish and ate anyway. You can’t stand books, and you endured natural childbirth because of the powerful painkilling effects of social media bragging rights. Your cause of death on the Oregon Trail wouldn’t be from cholera, it would be from fumes when a wagon wheel ran over a wild scallion, or because your Fitbit® wouldn’t synch with the Bluetooth or some shit.

She concludes Friday’s post (good gravy, I’m behind) by saying:

It was the perfect beach night!

No it wasn’t. It was staged and mild and tense-looking and you called your drink a “marg.”

There were no clandestine bottles of cognac from Château de Bonbonnet, nor cold pizza on lifeguard towers, nor dolphins in the moonlight, nor perfect wooden staircases down to deserted beaches with views of the Santa Monica ferris wheel where you could make fun of shrieking drunk girls who must have forgotten they were in California and thought they were clever for smoking a joint.

My weekend was either this or Netflix and laundry I have yet to fold. I don’t remember.

But thank you, Kathy, for taking up all the insipid ones and keeping out of the way of the rest of us.

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