Putting Frosting on a Turd Doesn't Make it a Chocolate Eclair

Ok, so I'm on this Zone home-delivery "health maintenance" plan where some dude in a Toyota Corolla delivers two black, insulated "body" bags to my doorstep every few days. Lying in wait within those bags are enough cruciferous vegetables to make the Jolly Green Giant clean as a ne'er blown whistle. Don't get me wrong, I actually enjoy the sound a large stalk of steamed cauliflower makes as it abrades the delicate lining of my esophagus. But that's not the point of my ramblings. You will recall the words "frosting" and "turd" appearing together in the title of this post. That, in and of itself, should make all of you die just a little inside. The mere mention of a frosted turd is, in my estimation, even more cringe worthy that witnessing my Spandexed backside in a series of carnival distortion mirrors. Let me get to the point. You can dress up a radish, trim it with that cute little paring knife of yours until it resembles a rose from your mother's wedding bouquet, but it's still a little crunchy red ball that lives in the dirt. Same goes with dessert. A slice of apple with some fat-free mascarpone cheese slathered on top ain't no French macaron. Now back to my wood chips and hay dip.

  

Of Mice and Meme

Okay, I realize the title of this post doesn't implicate food at all - unless you're of the sort who dabbles in the Disneywellian fantasy of skinning Mickey Mouse alive and serving him on bone china with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti. I, in fact, did have such brutal thoughts upon encountering said rodent on my last Disney cruise. Don't get me wrong. Me loves a regular diet of Belgian chocolate strategically placed upon my overly-plumped pillow each night. (although the Flemish seem to think that once you touch the brown stuff, it, effectively, dies. Yes, melting is such sweet sorrow, isn't it?) Moreover, I'm not disinclined to devour three filet mignons and four lobster tails during the appetizer course.

But I got to thinking. Thinking about eating other people/animalishs. Caution: never (I repeat NEVER) broach this subject while sitting at a table surrounded by twelve Mormons who fail to see the inherent humor in cannibalism. Anyway, I got to thinking: who would I eat first? My daughter, my cat, Chutney, the members of my HOA Board? No, I came to the conclusion I'd eat Disney characters in said order: (1) Mickey - he seems thick around the middle - I could survive a while on that rat fat, (2) Elsa (Frozen) - she's well preserved - just some salt and lime and she's good for months, (3) Maleficent -  if I can't pronounce their name - they're toast - literally; and (4) Donald Duck - 'nuff said.

I encourage everyone to make a list and keep it in a safe place. You never know when your hunger will get the better of you!

Three Men and a Baby

I know it's been awhile since I've posted. I've been too busy eating my way through 2015 to care, frankly. The title of this post says it all: I ate the equivalent of three men (short, pudgy ones) and a baby (the butter-thigh kind) last night for dinner. AND I'M DAMN PROUD. Enough of foraging through the urban forest for twigs and berries. I want PIG! I'll even eat the snout and hooves if you let me. Cartilage does not deter. Slather me with Mac and Cheese and then wrap my body in bacon. I have nothing more to say except FRIED SNICKER BARS.

Wheat-Free + Meat-Free = Homicidal Me

Ok, not the kind of homicide perpetuated against humans. No, I mean the Pavlovian sounds my salivary glands make every time Chutney the cat slinks by. I have fallen that low. Months of sporadic adherence to the anti-Christ of all things named "Franks," "Ham," and "Turducken" has made me hot for my cat's meaty thighs. I'm a carnivore at heart. Even a reluctant cannibal, if the circumstances warranted the forbidden bloodlust. I just have to face it. Rice noodle Mac & Cheese with Tofu bits disguised as Pork Pig doesn't float my culinary boat. I like the sound of teeth ripping through flesh. Not my own - yet.

If Crap Had an Asshole...

my dinner would be shooting out of it. A variety of gut-busting seeds and nuts pulverized in some high speed blended then sprinkled over a burnt piece of tofu. Fuck you, genetics. I coulda had a small ass. I coulda been slender. I coulda been somebody, instead of having a big bum...I know lame "On the Waterfront" quote but I feel a little like Marlon Brando. Slim and sexy in my youth, thick and pasty in my middle age. I suppose there are worse things than tofu. I'll think about it and get back to you.

The Other White Meat

I must admit, I love pork. The kind of love that might be considered forbidden between a human and a walking, squealing thick slice of bacon. My salivary glands start pumping at the mere mention of pig. If I were on death row, my last meal would involve a skewered wild boar and a candied apple. I'd rather eat bacon than have sex most nights - especially if it's applewood smoked. But seeing that I'm now committed to saving pig lives and, instead, butchering root vegetables, I must pledge my love elsewhere. Rutabaga anyone?  

Glutenous is Next to Godlessness

Yeah so, I've been absent for seven fucking months, devouring as much villainous gluten as I could get my Pillsbury dough boy fingers on. Oh and yes, I fucking loved shoving the spongy combination of yeast, flour, and salt down my eagerly widening gullet. I didn't fucking care. It made the trip down my esophagus easier by slathering a generous dollop of butter on each brick-sized piece before I crammed it in. Seven months of unbridled food debauchery. My ass begged me stop, inflating slowly like one of those cheap swimming pool flotation devices you buy at Target.

So here I am - in October - with an ass the size of a giant's gonad.

I'll keep you posted.