8th March 2010, 8:34 AM
Rice noodles.
Pea pods.
Get the fuck out of here.
When I was in North Dakota I ate a fucking steak from a black angus cow that was killed that morning, it was bloody and had 23 different spices rubbed in to it and soaked in some kind of liquid. It was as thick as my wrist, and the size of a dog it was barely charred on its edges, it was the first time I ejaculated from my mouth. My instincts fully aware, I became man-kind.
I ate the entire thing. Including the bones. And washed it down with homemade beer that was mixed in a bathtub and fermented in 1940's coca-cola bottles. There was mashed potatoes, but I only remember them like a vague thought. They were ignored. There was a salad, like a bad joke that you pretend not to hear. Pickled beets? Laugh. Your homemade bread fresh from the oven oh, maybe but if it takes up room my stomach that could be filled with steak I will forcibly regurgitate it to make sure that only steak will live here. In fact, I will regurgihate. Never mind your buttery top and fluffy perfection and oh, how you soak the steak the juices so lovingly but homemade bread you only get two bites. That is your destiny. This moment is only for the steak, to compliment the steak, to lift the steak up where it belongs. It was an event.
The next day, in the evening, I produced a turd the size of most women, it smelled like shit and steak and beer. I had to wear 3-D glasses, I played Enya and lit a candle, when it finally came out, I felt a bond with it not unlike that of a mother to her child.
When I see a steak I quiver, falling in to a memory of that glorious meal but alas... always disappointed because nothing can compare to that one steak. Cooked for me by a man who worked on a farm, over a pit of fire in the setting sun, his arms were larger than my torso and he had no name... only Brother. My instincts quietly locked away since then, waiting for the chance to grind my teeth against the seared flesh of an animal. His mexican farmhand chose money for his work that day, FOOL. I received the real reward. I had sampled God's menu and tasted His most famous dish. Real meat, perfected... worshiped.
Fuck your cuisine. There is only steak.
Pea pods.
Get the fuck out of here.
When I was in North Dakota I ate a fucking steak from a black angus cow that was killed that morning, it was bloody and had 23 different spices rubbed in to it and soaked in some kind of liquid. It was as thick as my wrist, and the size of a dog it was barely charred on its edges, it was the first time I ejaculated from my mouth. My instincts fully aware, I became man-kind.
I ate the entire thing. Including the bones. And washed it down with homemade beer that was mixed in a bathtub and fermented in 1940's coca-cola bottles. There was mashed potatoes, but I only remember them like a vague thought. They were ignored. There was a salad, like a bad joke that you pretend not to hear. Pickled beets? Laugh. Your homemade bread fresh from the oven oh, maybe but if it takes up room my stomach that could be filled with steak I will forcibly regurgitate it to make sure that only steak will live here. In fact, I will regurgihate. Never mind your buttery top and fluffy perfection and oh, how you soak the steak the juices so lovingly but homemade bread you only get two bites. That is your destiny. This moment is only for the steak, to compliment the steak, to lift the steak up where it belongs. It was an event.
The next day, in the evening, I produced a turd the size of most women, it smelled like shit and steak and beer. I had to wear 3-D glasses, I played Enya and lit a candle, when it finally came out, I felt a bond with it not unlike that of a mother to her child.
When I see a steak I quiver, falling in to a memory of that glorious meal but alas... always disappointed because nothing can compare to that one steak. Cooked for me by a man who worked on a farm, over a pit of fire in the setting sun, his arms were larger than my torso and he had no name... only Brother. My instincts quietly locked away since then, waiting for the chance to grind my teeth against the seared flesh of an animal. His mexican farmhand chose money for his work that day, FOOL. I received the real reward. I had sampled God's menu and tasted His most famous dish. Real meat, perfected... worshiped.
Fuck your cuisine. There is only steak.