Archive for Food & Drink

41. Forget how to operate your tongue.

That Colonel Sanders is one convincing dude. What with the pointy goatee and the jaunty bowtie and the strains of “Sweet Home Alabama” wafting through the air, how are you to resist the tasty temptation of a bucket of chicken? Sure, “family-style” is meant to be shared by an entire family, but who’s to say you don’t need a whole week’s worth of calories in one sitting?

Ignoring the disapproving looks from the drive-thru employees and the copious amounts of grease dripping from the paper bag, you speed away, cackling and salivating. You pull up next to your favorite lake, claim your favorite picnic table, and lay out your favorite sauces and dips in a pattern that spells out your name, as is your way. You tuck a napkin into your shirt, grab a hunk of fowl carcass, and prepare to savor each and every one of those eleven secret herbs and spices.

Biting into the soft, fleshy meat, you squeal in delight as heaven fills your mouth. How did it come to be that we mere mortals were permitted to experience such bliss? Offering songs of praise to God, honey mustard, and the state of Kentucky, you revel in the culinary orgasm taking place in your food hole. What could possibly ruin this beautiful moment?

Well, so wrapped up you are in this Carnival of Scrumptiousness, you’re about to lose control over your bodily functions. This will spell deeper, smellier trouble down the road, but for now it means only one thing: that tongue of yours has wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. You chomp down on what you think is a luscious strip of delectable white meat. But, according to your pain receptors, it is clearly not.

You howl in agony, dropping the devil drumstick to the ground. Accursed foodstuff! You dance around the picnic area, frightening small children with your sobs and frenzied thrashing. There’s nothing you can do about it, of course, but that doesn’t stop you from screaming at inanimate objects and waving at your mouth as if it were on fire and a gentle breeze is just the thing to put it out. Spitting out blood, you slump back down onto your bench and begrudgingly resign yourself to a week of pain and lisping.

So if you want to suck at life, forget how to operate your tongue. Sure, you’ve possessed this key piece of anatomy since birth, but as it turns out – practice does not make perfect.


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10. Choke on water.


Drinking is something that you fancy yourself to be pretty good at. Ever since those memorable days of sucking at your mother’s teat, or the nipple of a bottle, or the swollen udder of the family goat, you’ve more or less mastered the art of consuming liquids. Solids are another story, of course. The golf-ball-sized hunk of sirloin steak that lodged itself in your throat during your dinner date with the Pope certainly didn’t make for your proudest moment. Liquids, on the other hand, you’re fully licensed to imbibe.

Which is why it’s so surprising when both physics and your rebellious anatomy gang up to derail your thirst-quenching plans.

Maybe you’ve just finished eating a spicy burrito. Maybe you’ve just completed a marathon. Maybe you’ve just barely escaped a grisly death by way of a hungry tiger. Whatever the predicament, you’re parched. And what better way to rectify this situation than to take a nice long sip of ice-cold, sparkling-clear, groin-grabbingly delicious water.

So you pour a glass of the delectable crystal nectar (from a Brita filter, of course, because you’re classy), and slowly bring the rim up to your lips, already anticipating how awesome this is going to be and how hydrated you’re about to become. No more saggy skin flaps for you!

But then something goes terribly wrong. True, your mouth is now full of icy, refreshing goodness, but the fun stops there. It’s not coursing down the esophagus to your eagerly awaiting stomach. The ticker-tape parade route set up within your bowels in watery anticipation has instead become a desolate wasteland. Your sphincter has torn down the decorations. Your duodenum has popped the balloons. The microscopic bacteria have punched angry holes in their microscopic hats.

For the coursing river has taken a detour. Instead of surging directly into Esophagusville, the deluge has instead decided take the pipe less traveled into the treacherous frontier known as Trachea Town. Here, it meets a harsh world where it has no business vacationing, full of dangerous organs that were expecting the income of air, rather than the terrifying certainty of a watery death.

On the outside, of course, there is a much graver situation developing: complete and utter humiliation. You cough. You sputter. Your eyes tear up, giving off the amusing impression that said beverage is attempting to escape through whatever facial orifices it can find. You gasp for air. You desperately want to ask for some water to wash it all down, but this seems fairly counter-intuitive. You wonder, as you begin to lose consciousness, what you did to deserve this whole mess in the first place. You consider that maybe you shouldn’t have taunted that tiger with two handfuls of cheeseburgers and a plush gazelle.

At last, a passage opens, and you finally manage to choke out that one key phrase that absolves you from all fault or accountability. “Wrong pipe!” you yell, spraying your colleagues with spittle. They nod with looks of sympathy, or, more likely, pity, as you towel yourself off and run upstairs to change your clothes, which have been copiously drooled upon.

So if you want to suck, choke on water. It may not be the most glamorous way to die, but it will most definitely be among the stupidest.

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