Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Bread
So, I love the bread. I especially like the bread that is made with honey and oats and nuts. I know. I should fucking leave the bread alone, but I cannot. Maybe if someone had a really grotesque story about the bread, it might stop me from massively eating. Oh, I'm getting a kitty and a puppy. Okay, that's enough healthy thinking for the day. No walking, no lifting, no anything. Today, I eat bread, I sleep, and I don't give a shit.
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2 comments:
i am so going to help you on that bread thing. i have a grotesque story about the bread.
so, once upon a time, there was this plot of grain, you see. and in the plot of grain was a temple. this temple was run by a priest in the church of zombie, although it was reformed church of zombie, which really doesn't mean much except that they only used virginal flesh and blood for the sacrifices. but that's neither here nor there.
anyway, in this temple, there was this male prostitute named enkidu, and enkidu would go out into the field of grain every day, and he would talk to the grain, like this: "you're so cute. what are you doing around here? do you have an old man?" because enkidu, being in the middle of farming-nowhere, was just that lonely.
but one day, a farmer came along and took the grain up. he took it to a bakery, where a man who never washed his hands was setting up a sourdough mix with wild-cultured yeast from between his itching toes, because this yeast was special yeast. this yeast caused blooms of algae to form on the surface of the sourdough mix and to float spores across the air of the bakery, turning it beautiful amorphous shades of ultramarine, lavender, chartreuse, and magenta. didn't do shit for the bread, but made the bakery look nice, so, you know, it was a trade off. with every use, the yeast became stronger and stronger. one day, a mouse fell into the sourdough mix, and in minutes the yeast had stripped the meat from its bones. this was how the baker knew it was ready.
so he, in turn, sent it to the wal-mart warehouse, where it sat in a corner under a leaking pipe for a few weeks, after which it reached the shelves and a woman named zelda picked up that EXACT brand.
damn, it still doesn't hold a candle to your milk narrative. i don't think ANYTHING holds a candle to the milk narrative. ::shudders::
Okay, almost ruined the bread for me but I'm still heating it in the oven with a dab of butter and a splotch of jelly. What does that make me?
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