Author: <span class="vcard">admin</span>

Break


Dramatic


I have assessed…

And I am not impressed. Try again.


This Butterfly

Has a huge penis.


Breezy


Just can’t get enough…

I’m not even trying to pretty this one up.  It looks like sick.

Shitty Pictures of Food


Okay, let me start with this, I f*cking LOVE food.

(Or with a bit less vulgarity) I love in short order: the process of picking out ingredients to make a home cooked feast; smells of gastronomic indulgence that waft over me when walking through an open marketplace on a Saturday afternoon; the giddy anticipation at my favourite restaurant when I know I’m going to swoon over whatever they put in front of me.  You get the idea.

My soul is that of a middle-aged, borderline obese chef named Ernie.

What isn’t very appetizing about this obsession are my shitty pictures of food.  Oh sure, I can talk about the exquisite meal I had a week ago with the same fervour that most people talk about their children. They’re even allowed to have pictographic examples of little Jonny’s adorableness. Yet, somehow, carrying around a picture of each and every meal that’s made me want to explode with joy is a little insane?  How is this fair?  Then, when I think a little longer about this proposition and I decide that it probably isn’t a good idea anyway, as most of my food pictures end up looking like this-
This could be exotically spicy Tom Yum Talay OR Reconstituted Cat Vomit
Or this
 These could be Tender and Succulent Chiken Satay Skewers OR
Premature FaceHuggers waiting for their moment to pounce 
Or this
 This could be the Chef’s Own Special Saag Lamb OR Proof of Life on Uranus

                                                

The events leading to these abominations go little something like this-
  • Enter restaurant/pick out amazing ingredients
  • Peruse menu and select delicious foodstuffs to fill my belly/cook beautifully tasty & nutritious meal
  • Experience apoplectic fits of glee when my plate is placed before me
  • Immediately shove my face into said plate thereby impressing my dinner mates with how long I can hold my breath
  • Come up for air three quarters of the way through eating and I think that it would be ‘Supercool to document this experience and share it, yay!’
  • Attempt to rearrange food on plate so it doesn’t look like it was danced on by a rabid possum
  • Take Photo
  • Take another photo
  • Take another photo
  • Take 12 more photos from various angles hoping that one of them will look even a tenth as good as it tasted
  • Once I get the photos on a larger screen realize they all look like toddler vomit covered in a thick layer of cow drool
  • Cry
  • Forget about the last atrocity the next time I’m enjoying a wonderful meal and repeat above steps in an infinite happiness/disappointment loop

Note:

At the risk of sounding like a liar, I’m not trying to turn this into a food/cooking blog.  I know that statement looks like total bullshit considering this is the third time I’ve talked about food this week.  I also know there are already many out there that do it miles better than me and I would never dream of trying to take them on.  That’s like begging a cat to repeatedly bite you on the lady-bean while banging your head with a cast iron pot.

My ‘lazy’ chili? Badass.

I said, bad…ass.

Day One

  • One medium onion
  • One green, red or yellow pepper (your preference)
  • Small packet of minced steak (250g) (I didn’t use mince, but modified the recipe for it, but don’t use ‘ground beef’ it’s bullshit …for reals)
  • Kidney Beans
  • Fūl (aka Fava Beans)
  • Fresh plum tomatoes, diced
  • Tinned plum tomatoes (I know they’re the same thing STFU)
  • Cayenne Pepper
  • Johnny’s (or equivalent) to taste
  • Paprika
  • Chopped Jalapenos (if you want this shit to taste like Rick James)

Cook that shit.  Mix that shit. Stir that shit for at least 30 minutes (MUCH longer if you used proper meat)
Eat the hell out of that shit.  (But it’s best to wait til the next day)



REFRIGERATE!

Day Two

  • Remove from fridge
  • Spread on tortilla
  • Add Cheese
  • Add sour cream
  • Add some fucking ham if you want
  • Grill
  • Eat with some green shit…if you’re a pussy

Repeat


Monday Munchy Malfeasance*

Dear High Street purveyor of ‘delicious’ lunchtime meals,

Hi!  Let me start off by saying, for the most part, I really like you.  I’d friggin’ marry your cheese and pickle sandwiches if there wasn’t a chance for the relationship to moulder after an unrefrigerated romance.  But there’s something we need to talk about; have a discussion, a palaver, if you will. 

Your salads are kinda gross. (Mummy Tourette always told me to lead with the good and then stick the knife in.)

I happened into one of your shops today, hungry and looking for something to satiate me.  I found myself in front of your cooler box of love.  Your friendly fluorescent lights beckoning me to choose one of the brightly blissful packages of ambrosial goodness.  It took me about 10 minutes- because honestly how can one choose between such salacious synonyms as: scrumptious, yummy, enticing and delectable?  There were so many to choose from, but I settled on the ‘Tempting 5 bean salad with spinach and grilled halloumi in a spicy tomato sauce’. It certainly was. What? I dunno.  I bought this salad based on your duplicitous description- preparing for the incredibly awesome flavour assault on my taste buds.

What I got was this-
It’s like a Dali painting.  ‘Toyed it, my heart’, obscure and abhorrently delectible!

Seriously, High Street?  I mean, seriously?  How do you only grill (your incredibly salty) halloumi on one side?  How does your tomato sauce taste less like tomatoes and more like cheesy feet?  How does your 5 bean salad actually consist of 3 beans of varying sizes?  (And by the way a lentil is not a bean, it’s a pulse.) Also, the extra helping of lime?  Would have appreciated a warning that the first bite of my supposedly mildly spiced salad would involve me having a lime induced seizure.  There was no description of lime on your label; can you be more forward with your sour intentions before I shove you in my mouth?

But your most nefarious infraction, your most poisonous predication was this-

I’ll be a-giggling while I consume your soul!

The best name I can come up with for these slimy, diseased facsimiles of red onion are…well, diseased facsimiles of red onion. (Or purple sluggy mates of FUN!)   Why, high street, did you decide to torture me?  Why did I have to spit the purple sluggy mates of FUN! out after first chomp?  Because they’re disgusting, High Street.  Just gross.  Onion does not age well in the best of circumstances.  It’s even more monstrous when you decide to use this half-cooked nastiness in your so-called fresh salads.  Half-cooked anything in a fresh salad is blasphemy, is it not? (I realize the ridiculousness of calling any refrigerated salad with an eight day outdate blasphemy, but go with me here, I’m trying to prove a point.)

So what does one do in such a situation, High Street?  Continue eating this rubbish because I’m ravenous?  Yes.  Yes, I did. Understand, I was f*cking famished, High Street.  And I ingested your abhorrent awfulness to fill my belly. 

It took a hell of a lot of Cholula and a bit of Johnny’s, but I managed to get it down. Can’t say I liked it, can’t say I didn’t. But next time High Street, keep your sickly, slimy slugs from hell to yourself.  And let me get along without your lime of doom. DOOM!

CHOLULA!
*this post contains copious amounts of absolutely amazing alliteration, use wisely! Like Cholula.

Chirpy Little Birdy (they’re buttholes & they hate you)

I heart you 98.2% of the time. Just not when you start peeping at two in the morning. Look, I know it’s raining, hard, and that makes it difficult to bed down. I know we just got those nifty LED lights down our road that makes it seem like daylight all the time. But for F*CKS SAKE!  Shut the hells up. For reals.

Birdies, I really like you, but I may not slam on my breaks the next time one of your brethren are in the road I’m driving down. Am I kidding?  Try me.

Just sayin’.


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