Dinner at Mimi's
Posted on: May 3, 2005 9:15 AM
So my first 'ultimate blogger' challenge has been assigned as writing about food. I protest. I survive largely on a diet of bagels purchased from Faidr at the Convenience Store, cigarettes and tea. Excessive cups of tea. Occasionally I'll break out and go for the bourgeois luxury of a can of beans, followed by the altogether risque option of stealing my roommate's Ben & Jerry's. I have become an expert at delicately scooping off the first initial inch of ice cream and reforming the layers below into an identical sculpture, so that one is totally unable to perceive the theft. Sometimes, if I'm really desperate, I'll munch on the kitty-kat treats set aside for our communal cat. I have found that combined with taste buds destroyed by nicotine, they have a taste and a texture akin to Japanese Rice Crackers.
In the grand scheme of things (illegality, poverty, lack of sex), a varying diet is the least of my concerns. Faced with the option of nutritious, tasty food or a pint of beer, I'll go the beer route. A constant hangover, I have discovered, has the pleasant and beneficial side effect of eliminating any kind of appetite I may once have entertained. Food for the soul baby. Oh yeah.
But all this talk of food leads me onto the altogether more flavorsome topic, How to Eat Someone Out, as opposed to Eating Out. I met Carlos from Queens last night, one time shag now become male best friend, for an in-depth analysis of this topic. Men, I have recently discovered, have been reading Cosmopolitan far too much recently, and their liberation is both a blessing and a curse. Having located the g-spot, their appetites have been whetted, and the taboo of rimming, once purely an arena for the adventurous, the Cuba of sexual destinations, has opened up and started a democratic fan base anyone can join. Rimming has become the Prime Rib on one's a la carte menu.
Every guy now wants to stick his tongue up one's derriere. What has McDonald's done to the nation's taste buds? Why is a packet of Cheeto's no longer sufficient? I have discussed this topic previously with my ex-roommate and honorary prick Raoul. Whilst a human bidet can be a useful attribute for any relationship, the thought of my nether regions being hoovered out with the gusto of an energetic tongue wielded like a lawn strimmer doesn't immediately make me wet and dripping with lust. Unlike, incidentally, the rather gorgeous picture of the delectable Lyova sporting an impressive boner, which I have placed for maximum effect above my bed, on my porn hall of fame, which also includes portraits of Chancellor Kohl (Hot!Hot!Hot!) and the little fat kid from The Goonies. No, I'm an old fashioned girl. Perhaps I would be more amenable to the idea if I cast off my repression and learned to love my anus with the same deep affection with which I regard my daily victuals of cigarettes and beer. To this end, I propose the inauguration of a 'Respect Your Anus' Day, which I hope will culminate in everyone throwing aside their prejudices, putting dinner on hold, and progressing from the first orifice (passe darling) onto that exciting, oily and rich pooper hole where few venture.
I'm not convincing myself. Indeed, the peanut butter crackers I ate for breakfast are in danger of a rapid reappearance, hastened on by my imminent hangover. I've found many things in life vomit-inducing recently. Stephanie Klein's repulsively onanistic blog, which has just been sold for a six figure sum, followed by the small child on the subway who excreted some really nasty boogers onto my bagel the other day, plus of course, Republicans, and Right Wing Christians, who keep sending me emails exhorting me to 'pray for them'. Well, who the fuck's praying for me? I want to know. Prioritise, for fuck's sake.
I'm going out for dinner with a man tonight. Divorced, rich, screwed up.