The Feast that never was.
Sunday 2:30pm, I’m in a Putney Internet Cafe and have to fire off a quick couple of posts, as I’m falling behind in my “May-hem” promise.
31 posts in one month was a big call, and for some reason I am reminded of an incident back in my University days. There was a group of us who had just finished a big night’s drinking, drunk and hungry we were headed for a Hindley Street Pizzeria when I loudly declared that I would take everybody home and cook them up a “Feast Extravaganza”. On the walk back to the flat, the six or so mates I was leading home listened with awe as I described the mountainous orgy of cooked products I was going to present. Upon arriving home, the TV was turned on and my drinking buddies sat in the lounge room waiting for the intense meal I was going to arrange.
I then went to the Kitchen, ate a can of creamed corn, and then went to bed.
Rude little bastard I was (still am), and to this day wonder what the other guys ended up eating. They were all gone when I got up at 3pm the next day.
I’m dripping wet at the moment, having walked for five blocks in the rain to get to this Internet Café. We are in our third month of Spring (fuck, Summer is two weeks away) and it has been Grey Skies and drizzle every day.
But moving to London and complaining about the Weather is like raping a Volcano and complaining about the lava burns on your cock.
Pointless.
31 posts in one month was a big call, and for some reason I am reminded of an incident back in my University days. There was a group of us who had just finished a big night’s drinking, drunk and hungry we were headed for a Hindley Street Pizzeria when I loudly declared that I would take everybody home and cook them up a “Feast Extravaganza”. On the walk back to the flat, the six or so mates I was leading home listened with awe as I described the mountainous orgy of cooked products I was going to present. Upon arriving home, the TV was turned on and my drinking buddies sat in the lounge room waiting for the intense meal I was going to arrange.
I then went to the Kitchen, ate a can of creamed corn, and then went to bed.
Rude little bastard I was (still am), and to this day wonder what the other guys ended up eating. They were all gone when I got up at 3pm the next day.
I’m dripping wet at the moment, having walked for five blocks in the rain to get to this Internet Café. We are in our third month of Spring (fuck, Summer is two weeks away) and it has been Grey Skies and drizzle every day.
But moving to London and complaining about the Weather is like raping a Volcano and complaining about the lava burns on your cock.
Pointless.
posted by Beef at Friday, May 11, 2007
4 Comments:
Creamed corn. That is fucking gross.
Remind me never to get you to cater for me.
"eating creamed corn" Nice euphemism you dirty bugger.
I want to know when "sausies were put in the pasta"
Having been one of the promisees that night, I ended up eating some BBQ grease from last year's grand final with the yellow goo that's left inside an empty creamed corn can.
Did you know that a feast extravaganza without the feast causes post traumatic stress syndrome?
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