We’re all such distinguished eaters, so particular about our food consumption. Every second television show is dedicated to food preparation. These days, if you’re not a chef, you’re a food critic. It’s all about fusions of flavours, complimentary textures, and colour co-ordinated plate presentation. It’s hand picked, calorie counted, garnished gourmet goodness. We’ll settle for nothing less, unless……..well, unless we’re wasted. And so begins the quest to add more waste to the waist.
Yes, booze extinguishes everyone’s conditioned inner food critic. You don’t see inebriated humans tossing up between the sesame tofu with grilled broccolini salad, and the seared scallops in white wine sauce. No, instead it is a rather primitive scene, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth in order to secure lard rations. Grease is the word. It’s the drunken version of ‘Hunger Games’, a brutal hunt for kebab, pizza or burger in the wilderness. These are the effective stomach tampons so sort after. The requirement is that the fodder must turn a white paper plate see-through. Only then is it sufficient for gross inhalation. Unidentifiable meat, cheese from a rubber factory, and sauce leakage are also elementary. Where are the Masterchef judges now, then? Perhaps off analyzing vomit samples down Brunswick St. It’s really just another form of street art; the drunk spew mosaic.
Yes, booze extinguishes everyone’s conditioned inner food critic. You don’t see inebriated humans tossing up between the sesame tofu with grilled broccolini salad, and the seared scallops in white wine sauce. No, instead it is a rather primitive scene, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth in order to secure lard rations. Grease is the word. It’s the drunken version of ‘Hunger Games’, a brutal hunt for kebab, pizza or burger in the wilderness. These are the effective stomach tampons so sort after. The requirement is that the fodder must turn a white paper plate see-through. Only then is it sufficient for gross inhalation. Unidentifiable meat, cheese from a rubber factory, and sauce leakage are also elementary. Where are the Masterchef judges now, then? Perhaps off analyzing vomit samples down Brunswick St. It’s really just another form of street art; the drunk spew mosaic.
Now you can hardly blame one for choosing such food. It is a case of being blinded by the light. How are you expected to see anything in fluorescent kebabsville? Meanwhile, the ‘person’ you picked-up in the murky depths of the last bar you stumbled out of probably doesn’t look as fab fresh as you first perceived. Make a mental note that you don’t either in the glowing radiation spilling from the nuclear fryer. I’m convinced that’s what the harsh glare is from. I need eye patches already. Um, I can’t see. I’ll just have what she’s having. Egads! Orgasmic sounds mistaken for vomit heaves. How are pineapple fritters a thing?
No comments:
Post a Comment