Now I’m no
structural engineer, but unless the coming of Satan is occurring outside my bedroom
window, I’d guess that another Saturday shift has started on the construction
site next door. As the first pitchfork strikes hard into the ground, steeling
the air like a drunk man clattering through a church, I look at the clock and
see that it’s 8am; breakfast time.
I only ever eat
breakfast on weekends. During the week, I refuse to get out of bed any earlier
than I have to, preferring instead to rise twenty minutes prior to work and
dart around like a duck on fire before scurrying into the lift unfed. The
hunger pangs are all I usually ruminate on until lunchtime.
At the weekend, I
face up to my demons and the most important but least inspiring meal of the
day. I always ate cereal when I was a kid because there were children starving
in Africa and apparently that meant I was a complete shit. I went through my childhood
convinced that by scraping my soggy Weetabix into the welcoming bin, I was
consciously consigning swathes of little African babies to an early death. I
became entranced in the belief that I was responsible for apartheid and was
ultimately laughed out of University when airing my belief that I was in many
ways responsible for Live Aid.
Simpler times…
Cereal is out. I
always think it tastes like something weeded out from the gnarling jaws of a
combine harvester. And if God had wanted us to drink rancid post-Coco-Pops chocolate
milk, he’d have had the Kowloon Dairy bottle it and sell it to the general
public even though it tastes like ass...
Oh that’s right…
They do. (Miaow… What a bitch!)
I decided that I’d
just starve again until lunchtime and as a treat, allow my weekday habits to
invade and impose upon my weekend tendencies. Sufficiently hungry and in need
of distraction, I happened upon an article online in which a young Japanese man
was being charged with indecent exposure. It turns out, this self-styled
asexual illustrator had procured surgical assistance to have his genitals
hacked off and returned to him in presumably vacuum packed form.
Now I don’t know
about you but, when a man decides to have his genitals hacked off for the
craic, I don’t think that guy should be placed in charge of said bag o’
genitals. It is highly likely, as is the case here, that the aspirant eunuch will
preserve said genitals, arrange a dinner to be attended by some rich ghouls and
serve said genitals to said rich ghouls.
HIGHLY LIKELY!!!…
Apparently, each
guest paid $200USD for their share in a professionally cooked meal, the centrepiece
of which was dishes inspired by the contents of the bag o’ genitals. Seventy
five guests ultimately arrived to witness the spectacle although all but five
had to be content with beef dishes due to the limited contents of the bag o’
genitals. I can only imagine their disappointment.
Although none of
the guests were willing to offer a casual, somewhat bitter Come Dine With Me
assessment of the evening, one can only assume that – as is normally the case –
it tasted a bit like chicken.
Of course, it’s
pretty sensational to think that a man would have his genitals severed and that
some dodgers would pop round and extend the sensationalism by devouring the
severed package. What’s probably more sensational is the fact that, somewhere
out there, is a chef who was confident enough in his knowledge of cooking human
body parts that he was able to charge an astronomical fee for his experience. I
don’t know about you but I don’t think I’ll be inviting that guy to flambé at
my kids’ birthday parties!
As I mentioned
above, our asexual illustrator/eunuch/host has been charged with indecent
exposure and this for me is probably the most sensational aspect of the whole
case. Apparently, even after your genitals have been detached from your body, you
are still responsible under the terms of secual indecency legislation for your
management of them. This seems absolutely astounding to me. I would like to
think that, if I were ever circumcised or castrated and afforded the luxury of
retaining the scythed tissue, that the state would allow me the entertainment
of illicitly livening up birthday cakes with it or dangling it from the unsuspecting
ears of drunken friends at parties!
Nanny state! Bloody
hell! What’s this world coming to! Oh fuck it, I’m gonna go buy the Daily Mail…
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