Food for Thought
Arrrggghhh! The bitch, EdZilla, has poisoned me! Or if your French, ‘poissoned’ me. She lulled me into a false sense of security by inviting me to Din Dins on Sunday. Seemed harmless enough, so I said yes. Despite being in the middle of a whore zone, sorry ‘War Zone’ with her concerning my Creative Muse [All two inches of it. Ermintrude] Silence! It seems that EdZilla in her role as ‘Editrix Extraordinaire’ doesn’t approve of the level of sex and violence in Chapter Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen,… [We get the picture. Ermintrude] I was about to suggest that she ought to try some before she was so dismissive, when Mac reminded me about how rare it was for testicles to grow back; especially after removal with a blunt butter knife and a blow torch. Eeeek! So, all innocent like, I goes along to the food fest.
Cow! She has to train that bloody cat of hers to attack her victims! Being a sensitive, consumptive aesthete,[‘arsehole’, actually. Ermintrude] I have a weak chest [rather like your brain. Ermintrude] which requires puffers from time to time. So EdZilla has trained her pussy to sit on me – no! Not that kind! Shedding hairs everywhere. Then she invites me to dine with the assembled harpies, and Anselm, who is far too kind for his own good; although he has in fact been married. And proceeds to poison me with the fish dish! But she fooled me by including some bloody broccoli, which I hate, knowing that while I was being brilliantly witty at the green gunge’s expense, she would be pouring hemlock in my y-fronts, like that old queen, Socrates, or Hamlet’s father.
I still can’t breathe properly. Mac says it may have something to do with EdZilla’s favourite wax doll. As for the crowd of ‘Sisters’; sorry, ‘Coven’, don’t ask. Like a Greek Chorus, but with smaller, well-rounded personalities; and yoghurt. Apparently it’s good for slapping on their naughty bits whenever they get struck down by ‘Budgerigar’. [‘Thrush’, you utter tithead! Ermintrude] Whatever; it sure beats the hell out of eating the stuff. But back at the beanfeast I was nice about her vol au ventes-cum-land mines. Especially the way they cleaved to the top of your palate. And I was going to wax lyrical about her gingerbread when one of the harpies, ‘Sherpa Tensing’, reminded the assembled witchery about ‘Gingerbread’, some rabid BML – Big Mad Lezzie communist conspiracy to spot-weld all blokes into a pair of rustproof, lycra-cum-concrete leotards, which could only be opened by the scientific application of an Accrington house-brick to their naughty parts. Squeak! When I finally escaped to the loo for a pee, the wee fellow wouldn’t come out until I had assured him that all the feminist amateur vasectomists were next door; learning how to spell ‘fellatio’, hopefully. [Dream on. Ermintrude]
The Knobjectification of Women
Then we had to have the obligatory rant about ‘the objectification of women’, or ‘tits out for the lads’ in man-speak. So who was it who impressed the assembled ‘bush’ with his feminist credentials? Step forward Captain Fabulous! I mean to say; hello? Angela Carter; ‘The Tiger’s Bride.’ That brilliant deconstruction of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ to demonstrate that all men see crumpet as objects to be owned and ‘used’. Though for the life of me, I can’t see what they are banging on about. Anselm said it was working too, until I smiled when I quoted the Beast when he says to Beauty’s profligate father; ‘Except the girl.’ I merely had suggested that the Beast probably meant they could press flowers and do some train-spotting together. And it would have worked apparently, apart from my smirk… So EdZilla hit me! Then her bloody cat rubbed itself all over me; all to the amusement of the assembled company. Cows! I mean; there I was being complimentary about some Feminist Lit chick, and they go all ‘Hubble Bubble, Toil and Trouble’ on me. I then launched into a brilliant analysis of the true meaning of the ‘Man-o-pause‘ when Anselm interrupted to explain I was an only child. What the hell has that to do with anything? EdZilla suggested it was obviously way past my bed time and shouldn’t I be heading for home now; to which the rest of the Coven agreed. I was about to make a brilliant comment about my favourite nightcap; ‘Horlicks’ – Whore Licks’; geddit? When Anselm deliberately kicked me under the table. [It should have been under the testicles. Ermintrude] Bah!
John J McCabe. Copyright