Walkeriguess Sounds Off on Sounding Off
But keep your sound on...because this time I'm reading the newsletter to you. Side note: sorry, not sorry, for using clickbait in my title.
Have you familiarized yourself with the Epistles of the Fast Food Prophet?
Kristinehamn Brain Frog
Taco Bell Jesus Volume 1 Reissue
Who Am I? A Blasphemer's Journey
Boners, Blasphemies, and Blunts
Please Refrain From Boasting About Previously Owned Pizza Nights
Low Panic
Two Poems
Average Read Time: 6 minutes
Dear Readers,
It may have occurred to some of you that although my newsletter—more like snooze letter—is called Epistles of the Fast Food Prophet, I write more about anxiety, depression, farts, and Jesus Christ than I do stale hamburger buns or ketchup packets. And for those of you to whom this predicament has occurred, I have this to blurt out: I am more than French fries and Baja Blasts! I am a man and a prophet, god dammit! However…
Fast Food Update:
According to their app, I haven’t had Taco Bell since 5/25/2025. Wow. Which—as I’m wont to do—has me pondering:
Q: Who am I? Am I pleased that I’ve lost 10 pounds since that late day in May?
A: Yes, but I’m a little worried with my frail shrunken stomach I won’t be able to finish my usual order next time—at least, not with the same gusto and bravado.
Q: Am I following the Taco Bell credence of living más? Or, am I living menos?
A: I think I’m living menos, but menos feels…healthy.
Q: Will my local Taco Bell even recognize me anymore with my new trim and svelte body—still a little doughy—where once a bounty of liquid cheese reigned supreme, but where now only the decaying remnants of nacho cheese reside in the deep recesses of my digestive organs?
A: Only time will tell with this one. How long can I hold out before the Black Bean Grilled Cheese Burrito calls my name? Long enough to lose 10 more pounds, I hope.
Q: Or, would they take one look at me and say: “Get lost salad boy!” And then politely inform me that I can buy an organic salad at Sprouts next door?
A: My hope is they’d welcome me back with open arms, Baja Blasts, Nacho Fries, tell me how famished I look, and get me back on the path to housing cheese sauce in my digestive organs.
Check your Taco Bell App and let me know the last time you ate Taco Bell by clicking the green “Leave a comment button” below. If you don’t have the app, I guess you’ll just have to use your own god-given memory.
Walkeriguess Sounds Off on Sounding Off:
For those of you who don’t know, to “sound off” is to express one’s opinions in a loud or forceful manner. Maybe it’s because I follow the NBA and my youtube/instagram algorithms throw in a bunch of shitty sports news/rumors where they hijack a clip from LeBron or some other current/former player’s podcast with some clickbait shit like: “LeBron sounds off on hot dogs at Little Caesars Arena.” You watch the little clip only to hear LeBron say he hasn’t even had a hot dog in 15 years. Excuse me, but if that is “sounding off,” then you can fuck off and stop gaslighting me with this “sounding off” clickbait nonsense. I’m not a fish, knock it off. Now that’s how you “sound off.”
Three Things My Wife Heard Me Say in my Sleep:
Thing 1: “It’s screw time, it’s screw time, which means…[laughs].”
My take: Listen. I don’t know what this means for sure, but I have a pretty good guess… I don’t know why I laughed after I made it clear what time it was, which, again, was “screw time,” because if you ask me, screw time is no laughing matter.
Thing 2: “I need eight bullets and eight coffins.”
My take: This might be my favorite thing I’ve ever said. Who am I and who gave me permission to be this cool in my sleep? Are you there god? It’s me, Walkeriguess. I need eight bullets and eight coffins because I take care of funeral arrangements when I murder fools.
Thing 3: “I’ll have one, heh heh heh. I guess I’ll just have one, heh heh heh heh heh.”
My take: I got this one right away. I don’t know how to best explain it, but every time I read it, I laugh. In this scenario I believe I was ordering some sort of food or beverage. We know it wasn’t bullets or coffins, I order those in eights. What food/beverage? I don’t know, but I think that’s why the order was followed by a maniacal laugh and supplemental “I guess” statement, with even more maniacal laughter.
On Spending a Long Weekend in Montréal:
My wife, Maja, has this large, mystical, tight knit group of friends—of which, several live in Montréal—from when she lived in Beijing. How many are they? Only they know…
Two of her friends from this group fell in love and got married. This is the second time this has happened! That’s four friends and two marriages for those of you who prefer to have math spelled out to you in words. Last summer was Berlin, this summer was Montréal, next summer…your mom’s house.
Maja might say that I’m complaining…well, complaining is in my nature, so she’s probably right, but despite my whiny demeanor and voice, I like traveling! And lucky for me, I like my wife’s magic friend group too. And when I say magic friend group, I mean it! The groom’s dad told me no less than two times how lucky I am to be a part of the gang, even though I consider myself more of an auxiliary wing of the friend group.
The wedding weekend was a beautiful reunion of friends coming together to witness the union of the cutest couple I’ve ever met. I mean it. The ceremony itself had your standard western vow exchange ending with the groom saying “I do” and the bride saying “darn tootin’.” Afterwards there was a Korean wedding custom, Pyebaek, which I enjoyed experiencing.
The International Wrestling Syndicate:
As part of this wedding weekend there was a third thing that started with the letter ‘w:’ Wrestling. The bachelor crew was attending an event put on by Montréal’s very own International Wrestling Syndicate (IWS). I wasn’t part of the bachelor party, but was convinced to attend the event by my wife’s ex, who I’ve now hung out with at two separate weddings and thus can safely say, he’s a cool guy.
The homoeroticism and parody of masculinity of professional wrestling is a fascinating endeavor our species has taken. And I can attest to the homoerotic side of professional wrestling. I should know. I spent two years of my life on a Mormon mission in a Bert and Ernie sleeping situation. One room, two beds. Which conservatives and Christians have decried for decades is too gay for Sesame Street…but not too gay for the Mormon Church? Jesus, you’ve got some ‘splainin to do…
Back to the wrestling: one of the friends from the group brought his knitting utensils (I know it’s wrong, but I also know you could use them to eat a pork chop if you wanted to) along with him to finish a hat he was knitting for an infant. Then, just as one of the wrestlers had the other one in a compromising position, he yelled in a deep, booming British accent, mid-knit: “Grab his dick and twist it!” Laughter was had by many throughout the crowd with fellow attendees adding: “yeah, twist his dick!”
But the dick twisting didn’t end there! Again, one of the wrestlers had the other in a compromising position and the knitting man started chanting: “Twist his dick! Twist his dick!” Others were quick to join in the chant and soon there was a men’s chorus 50-60 strong all chanting: “Twist his dick!”
This chant broke out at least five or six more times, but it will forever be chanted in my heart and my mind when I think back to that beautiful long wedding weekend in Montréal.
To My Readers & Subscribers:
Many of you have reached out to me personally to tell me my writing is funny, that you relate to it, that you love it, and more. For those of you who have reached out I just want to say thanks and sorry that it’s been a minute since I’ve put out a newsletter. You guys are the real rockstars.
I would like a recurring feature to be things walkeriguess says in his sleep, according to Maja. That is A+ content right there, I will sound off about that fr.
I’m going to add “THD” to my vocabulary, which stands for Twist His Dick!