by Ross Sharp

I am watching a “report” on the news, not because of any specific interest in the “report”, but simply because the news is on and I am watching it and the news comprises “reports” on all manner of shit.

This “report” informs me that “healthy choice” food options in fast food chains are moving slower than a eunuch’s dick in a whorehouse and that this is a shame.

And I am moved to wonder.

I feel that my mind is slowly being clusterfucked into a piss-streaked gloopy puddle of dead, gelatinous jism by a persistently noisy gaggle of gibbering dickheads, all of whom regularly feel that their mere existence in this world upon which I stagger entitles them to poke their fingers into the slowly diminishing spongy spillage that is my brain and waggle them about some before scooping it up in a tissue and flushing it into the sea.

I imagine this scenario …

“Dad! Dad!”, shouts the excitable little boy in the ever-so-gorgeous Superman costume, “Can we go to McDonalds for dinner tonight?!”

“Why, of course we can son!”, replies Dad, all Brylcreem and respectable gray slacks belted at the nipples, he’s Fred MacMurray on steroids, he has a maid who cooks and cleans every day, she has folksy homilies on tap, you wouldn’t fuck her with a bag over your head via remote control even if you could.

“But only as a special treat, you mind! This is not a regular thing!”, says Dad, hitching his pants up to his neck and pulling the belt tight as it will go, a little spontaneous auto-erotic asphyxiation while junior’s washing his hands and poking about his earholes with a fluffy stick before a nice meal out never hurt anyone, whoopsy-daisy, there she blows!.

And then they arrive, and our excitable tyke rushes up to the counter and gazes longingly at the vast array of tempting comestibles on offer, all oozing, juicy meats and cheeses and buns and salt and sugar and stuff that bears no known relationship to any existing foodstuff but it’s served in fucking buckets TEN FEET HIGH! and our adorably innocent little boy scout supreme looks back at his Dad who’s now wandered up to the counter and joined him.

“Take your pick, son!”, says Dad, gazing adorably at the pride of his now empty old gray testicles.

And our cute as a button little fella, why you could almost take him  home with you and chain him to a chair in a locked room that’s covered all over with dinosaur wallpaper and throw bloody big boxes of Lego at him until he cracks and agrees to be your son and help you hand out pamphlets at the abortion clinic for the rest of his life, he looks up at Dad, a little tentative, a little anxious, and then he blurts out the one true desire of his sweet young heart on this oh-so-special of nights …


“Why, of course you can, son!”, says our Father of the Year, “But only as a special treat, you mind! This is not a regular thing!”.

And a fine night was had by all.

Listen …

A person wants a fucking apple, they go to a fucking grocer.

Let’s all try living in the world, yes?


(Cross-posted from Groupthink)


Whilst on the topic of food, if you were as disgusted, upset and outraged by what you may have seen on ABC’s “Four Corners” last night as I was, the RSPCA”s official “Ban Live Export” site is here where you can sign a petition; GetUp have a petition here; and Animals Australia have a Facebook page here.

Dr. Temple Grandin: “No, this is clearly absolutely not acceptable for a developed country to be sending those cattle in there. And the thing that shocked me is a developed country built these really horrible facilities! And one of them was brand new and their name was all over the side of it.”

That shit’s just plain wrong.