Dear Foodies (the self-proclaimed sort),
I’m sure you were just about to run out the door right now, off to try that new spot that’s just off the beaten path, yet thisclose to total crowd bombardment. But can I have a minute of your time? I promise your bacon glazed kale will still be there.
You love food. How do I know this? Because you find every possible opportunity to turn our conversations into your own verbal masturbation session. We could be talking about anything – bathroom tile cleaner, rude co-workers, my ingrown toenail – and you’ll somehow find a way to slip in a 100-word review of the succulent pig butt you ate last night, which was good but not as good as the plate of duck-fat lamb roast you had a few weeks ago. By now, I’ve stopped trying to come up with ways to reply. “That sounds good” sounds boring, but I still say it, because I know this isn’t about me. It’s all about your own five-star ego. It’s all about You.
You’re my friend, foodie. So I can’t entirely fault you. I do my best to support all of my friends’ interests, even the nauseating ones. Could you do me a big one and cease with the heavy descriptions? Zoom out of the mental close-up you’ve snapped of your yellow-tail snapper and zoom in to this conversation? At least enough to notice that my eyes have glazed over like the ball of fried pork you’re currently raving about. And just a note: if you’re using more than three words to talk about corn, I’m going to check out. My brain has things to cover also. And all that dripping animal fat is doing a number on my mental fitness plan.
I understand that when you’re in love, you don’t want to be silent about it. There’s a million cheesy 80s ballads to explain this phenomenon. But what these songs don’t explain is how the rest of the world feels about someone hanging from the proverbial rooftop, shouting out their love. Of sea bass. You may not be able to fight this feeling anymore, but I can’t fight the feeling of wanting to paste your mouth closed so that I never again have to hear about how each bite of your steak tasted like an espresso shot poured over a roasted cow’s body. Sick, dude.
And if you just can’t help yourself, then at least let me talk in graphic detail about the topic of my choosing. My dog has had nasty intestinal problems lately. Just warning you.
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