Then I think, well, will this be another half-baked tumblr, with just a few terribly written posts that quickly finds its way to the graveyard of poorly executed Internet concepts? Then I think, well, isn’t the whole idea of cooking something other than pasta or rice a little extravagant?
Food, especially in conversations like this, is often compared with sex–and rightfully so. Like sex, it is something that ties us together as humans and is a collective itch we all must scratch. We take immense pleasure from these things because, if done right, they not only fill their base requirements but stimulate the very colors of life itself.
It happens every time. I blab on about tampons or Turkish delight or baby corns, ‘you know, they look like little mielies, like little baby corn on the cob thingys’ (gesturing the love child of a box of matches and a minuscule party hat). The store assistant slumps in front of me, unmoving, hair net squashed lazily on their head.
I don’t want to hear about your lunch for the same reason I don’t want to hear about the last bowel movement you took or your most recent orgasm; it’s the least personal thing a human can do in that we all do it, but the most personal in that I’m not entirely sure any two humans experience food in the same way.
The bees of the world are dying. All of them. This is not something new. But now the bee plague – “colony collapse disorder,” which is either caused by a virus or a pesticide or a fungus or a combination of all three, no one really knows – is starting to raise serious concerns.
So when you attempt to heat “American Slice!” to make a grilled cheese sandwich it… inflates. Somehow hot air gets between the two layers of soy and the whole thing inflates, so that it looks like a pillow. A sad pillow made of plastic-y soy. This is never what you want from a grilled cheese sandwich.
In order to feel better, you need to go to a big carb-filled brunch with Kirstie Alley. She’ll take over your appetite for two shocking hours and there is NOTHING you can do about it. Now what does Kirstie typically want for brunch? French toast, biscuits, a stack of pancakes, a Costco-size container of syrup and deep-fried Oreos for dessert.
Durians love to perform unseemlily protracted blowjobs, refusing to try any method that doesn’t last at least 89 hours, claiming that their spiked exteriors can only be pierced by the nonstop and specific—but easily learnable, reliably safe, and ultimately enjoyable—thrust of an erect penis for 89 hours.
Shown above is a standard taco—not the pre-curved ones from Taco Bell, but an authentic taco, usually made by actual Mexicans, especially in California and maybe Texas. This is not so much a “diatribe against tacos,” as the title of this article has rather glibly implied, but a diatribe against a kind of evasive vagueness coming from the people of Mexico about the proper way to eat one.
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