Today was the best day of my life. Not only did I have sex with my brother for the first time (he is BIG! — don’t worry, we used birth control), but I also made the perfect grilled cheese sandwich!
- Firstly, use one sheet of superfine sandpaper to scrub your non-stick frying pan until there is plenty of loose Teflon. This, my friends, is secret ingredient #1.
- Melt an entire stick of butter in the frying pan. Pour in one liter of corn oil. We are gonna deep fry that cheesy bitch.
- Secret ingredient #2, gasoline. Just a dash, for color.
- Let frying pan soak in the sunlight for five hours, while you surf internet porn in the other room. This will work up your appetite and get your pan ’sun-kissed’.
- Go to the store and buy a loaf of gluten-free bread. If they don’t have any, make a huge scene breaking things and screaming: “This would never happen in Seattle!”
- Throw that solar preheated pan in your pottery kiln, set the temp to: “Vase”
- When you see the pan begin to melt, add loaf of bread. Let bake for 2 seconds. Remove pan and repeat step 4. This time, save watery ejaculate in a measuring beaker. This is obviously secret ingredient number #3.
- In microwave, nuke String Cheese Incident vinyl records on top of loaf. Top with toe jam.
“Now we’ll have to draw some blood.”
Okay, I did yell at your mom last night, but I promise by the Statue of Liberty’s right foot that it is not what you think. The evening started well enough, meeting your parents for a candlelight dinner. It was perfectly kind of them to give me that twelve foot cactus; I’ll put it in the dining room next to my Audubon Society “pelican” plate collection. I didn’t realize your dad was so drop dead good looking. I don’t think I’ve seen a man that handsome this side of Mexican telenovellas!
You know the scene in Goonies where Sloth rips open his shirt revealing a Superman shirt underneath? That’s how I feel right now because I have viable sperm.
“Your volume was well over normal and usually with high volume, the actual sperm counts will come back lower. But yours stayed quite high so it was a great sample and we froze it.”
“I feel such power. Yesssss. Yes. I am God here! In the place of a Dark Lord you would have a Queen! Not dark but beautiful and terrible as the Morn! Treacherous as the Seas! Stronger than the foundations of the Earth! All shall love me and despair!” My head revolved 180 degrees and then I puked green pea soup in the nurse’s
The problem arises with the seductive concept of free food — perhaps at a Super Bowl party, an employee staff meeting, a hotel continental breakfast. Those unguarded coffee cakes, muffins, potato chips, croissants, cookies, cereal, pasta — a thousand shades of empty brown carbs, sawdust disguised as food. I stuff my face and belly galaxies beyond their capacities on my way to feeling heavy, bloated, and exhausted. Inside my binges, I don’t actually taste or enjoy the food so much as shovel it repetitiously inside me. And my only stopping points are when the food is gone or when someone provides me that sexy look of disgust.
Cheese contains tryptophan, an essential amino acid that aids with production of serotonin and melatonin, natural chemicals that regulate sleep and brain patterns. A study by the British Cheese Board surveyed the effects of varieties of cheeses on types of dreams. For example, it reports that of eaters of Red Leichester (nibbling an hour before bedtime), “over 60% of participants … revisited their schooldays, or long-lost childhood friends, or previous family homes and hometowns.” I’ve experimented with Stilton four times now and have been blessed with purely whimsical fantasy sequences that Roger Ebert would give three thumbs up to the moon, grasping its craters like a bowling ball, and aiming for Saturn’s moons. Cheese dreams might be a fine reason for vegans to reconsider the rigidness of their dietary belief systems and permit their lives a bit more color. 
As I’m sure you are well aware, August 6th was National Rootbeer Float Day. To celebrate, let your lovely eyes and tongue tango over this recipe for a 
I saw you standing across the cafeteria, all prettied up in your onesy jumpsuit, oily hair slicked back in a delicious pony tail, grinning like you just peed yourself and you just don’t give a damn. If you like mayo, you would love what then happened in my pants as I saw you graze through the “Dress Your Baked Potato” line.
