No Muse is Good Muse

Though never one to shy away from food, I am proud to have once again set new personal records for gluttonous behavior over the Thanksgiving holiday -- tryptophan was the least of my worries, and, in fact, I would’ve been well-served succumbing to its drowse-inducing charms instead of pressing onward, once more, into the beer and fried Italian sausage breech.


The new single-meal mark: 1.5 fried Italian sausages, 1 Lutherburger (bacon cheeseburger on a Krispy Kreme donut), 1 pork chop breaded and deep-fried in Apple Jax, 2 bowls of chili, and 1 deep-fried Twinkie. Fuck yeah – top that, bitches. I was offered sex multiple times during this marathon eating session – what woman wouldn’t bubble panty spume at such a masculine display of carnivorousness? – but politely declined the young ladies’ advances. The clammy confines of a gaping, pink lady snapper takes a backseat to the deep-fried ambrosial delights of a consuming half a dozen different animals in one sitting. Gluttony (which starts with a “G”) comes before Lust (“L”) in my alphabetical to-do list.


Someone once referred to me as “eating disorderly” – this is, of course, patently absurd and copyrightfully ridiculous. If gorging on seared animal flesh were truly a threat to our collective health, wouldn’t Jesus H. L. Ron Mohammed have sent some sort of sign from his distant astral lily pad by now? Floods? Burning bushes? Frogs and arks falling from the sky? If meat were wrong, he wouldn’t have made so much of it.


Regardless of God’s will, I suppose the wise decision is to take a break from fried Italian sausages this week. Just a week – surely, I can live that long without furthering the cause of a massive coronary. Or not.


Who knows? What I do know, is that I’m retaining a whole hell of a lot more than water right now, and when the gates finally open, no man, woman, child, or omniscient deity within 50 miles of my bathroom will be giving thanks.