REPORTING LIVE! + 16 HOURS!

Only a fool would believe that I ever felt shame all those other times I jerked, and last night was no different. "But it's not what you think, Dad!" I went to Poop Snacks's Beef Snacks party last night, and I have to hand it to him, the man knows how to make meat chewy and flavorful. What are you doing with your life that's so great, Rabbit? Compared to Poop Snacks? Nothing. Nothing.

With DP as my guy'd, we ambled into the carnival of the Slant Shack Jerky Launch Party, following the bright chalk directions we discovered only after we were pretty much already there, having taken a circuitous route past Rape Park and Rape Building. $10 bought me admission into the burgeoning Brooklyn meat-salting scene, and all the jerky and PBR I could pack away. This is what I had been training for.

The gift bags, oh the gift bags. This party had jerky swag; each attendee received a brown paper bag with 2 oz of jerky, a bottle opener, a coupon for purchases at Slant Shack's website, and two books of matches. OR SO I THOUGHT. These customized books of matches said "Wanna shack up?" on the front. I was so amused. Until DP opened his book of matches and we were met with a conspicuous latex o-ring that could have saved the Challenger. Oh so it's that kind of party? SHITCHYEAH! I would go down on a teryaki-flavored ( I'm assuming, I'm hoping) condom all night. And by would, I mean WHERE DO I BUY MORE?

Red-shirted girls with bowls of meat wandered through the crowd of white people, offering little scraps of delicious savory smoked beef with smiles on their faces. Somewhere between my third and fourth Pabst Blue Ribbon, I just started addressing them as "Jerky Girls" I would catch their eye, hold out my hands like Oliver Fucking Twist, and they would tong me with a new meat scrap, as Poop Snacks probably told them to during their Sunday undress rehearsal. At this point, I would say "OOOOOOOH YOU'RE MY FAVORITE JERKY GIRL!" within ear-shot of the other Jerky Girls, whom I also said were my favorite. And I meant it, ERRYTIME. Whoever hands me meat is in that moment my favorite Jerky Girl. This weekend, Pheewrap at some point will probably be my favorite Jerky Girl. "Do you mind that I call you Jerky Girls?" I asked two of them through a mouthful of brown dessicated cowmeat. "No, I think that's what we're called," one said while she looked imploringly at her fellow meatress. "Our shirts have our names on them too, though!" the other offered, like I cared. Like I wanted anything from them but their sweetmeats for young boys. Like I wasn't getting the shakes from needing a new jerky hit.

Somewhere between my sixth and seventh Pabst Blue Ribbon, I decided that the T-Rex did not want to be fed, the T-Rex wanted to hunt! Oh, and somewhere in there, I decided I was a dinosaur, and that I was a clever girl. I succeeded in pulling a piece of jerky out of a sullen Jerky Girl's bowl while the band, yes, the band, played under the navy-blue sky of East Williamsburg. Poop Snacks, you throw a badass circle jerky. You are the Meat Magnate.