That, my friends, is a Spicy Chorizo Mac and Cheese Bite in a Parmesan Crisp Cup.

One more time, that is a SPICY CHORIZO MAC AND CHEESE BITE IN A PARMESAN CRISP CUP. Again? No, you're good.

But let that sink in for a bit. Click on the picture. I'll wait. Did you click on it? Do it again. Now wipe your chin.

That is what wet dreams are made of. In fact, they should rename wet dreams, "spicy chorizo mac and cheese bites in a parmesan crisp cup". As in, "I had a spicy chorizo mac and cheese bite in a parmesan crisp cup that I was porking your sister last night."

Here's my take: I like to think that God's work wasn't complete until this happened. Like he just always had some nagging thought in the the back of his mind. "What am I forgetting?...I know it's something... something big... world peace?... hahaha, no... hmmm... an amphibious, man-eating shark-tiger hybrid?... no, but let's keep that on the radar filed under Awesome...oh, I know... how about SPICY CHORIZO MOTHERFUCKING MAC AND CHEESE BITES STUFFED INTO A CUP MADE OF FRIED DELICIOUS." Then his work was done. So he screamed "Booyah!", got blackout drunk, and got himself a picture of his latest, most rad invention tattooed across his massive, rippling back with the words "You're Welcome, World" done up in really sweet old english typography.

And you know what God. Thanks. Thank you so Youdamn much.

Listen here, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake. I don't know what you are. I don't know where you're from. And I sure as shit don't know why someone decided to make you.

But you are SERIOUSLY harshing my mellow right now.

Yeah, I want to like you too. I see the moisture. I see the glaze. I see the copious amounts of what you call "entertaining orifices". I see it all.

Don't get me wrong, you've got the make up of a totally fuckable dessert. You're just...you're not doing it for me.

Why? Well, for starters, you're the color of toe jam. Look at other desserts. They run the aesthetic gamut from sensuous, boner-inducing reds to rich, creamy, also boner-inducing browns. They're just delightful.

Really, that's not enough of a case, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake? Well, it appears your two main ingredients are fig and lower intestine. And while I can't speak to the appropriateness of intestine in my dessert, I do know a little something about fig.

Fig is the fruit uncle your fruit mom makes you send a fruit thank you card to after your fruit bar mitzvah. Even though he showed up 2 hours late, with a middle-aged latina escort, drank a handle of schnapps, and tit-slapped your girlfriend's 13-year old breast buds. Fig is an asshole. It's the only fruit that could singlehandedly turn one of the greatest physicist/mathematician/scholars our planet has ever known and forever link him with a dry, tasteless cookie-substitute.

So, no, we're not cool, Fresh Fig Upside Down Cake. You need to stop posing as something I would ever, ever want to put in our around my mouth. You make me sick.

Heheheheheheheh.

Hahahahahaha.

Hahahah.

HAH!

That should suffice.

I've mulled over this pastry conundrum for many years now. I've thought about the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs. But finally, I have a quantifiable solution. An answer to the one query that's been hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles. A lifting of the burden that's weighed me down with the force of a herd of elephants. A solution to that age-old debate: What's the sluttiest pastry?

Certainly, the brothel-like appearance of Red Velvet gave the eponymous cake some distinction. And the sizable (read: fuckable) hole inside the German Bundt earned it some kudos. And I'd be remiss to not touch upon Apple Pie's mid-nineties moment in the vaginal sun. But after careful and often repulsive research, I can safely and unequivocally crown the Jelly Doughnut the Saigon Whore of the baked goods kingdom.

Think about the logistics of the whole thing. The doughnut is first filled. It is then glazed. And lastly, it is powdered. That's just a minor assembly line mix up from an ACTUAL prostitute, who is powdered, then filled, then glazed upon. Filthy, filthy, pastries. And to think, we let them hang out with our Pink Frosted.

There's an old joke, "What do fat chicks and mopeds have in common?" The answer, of course, is "they're fun to ride, but you don't want your friends to see you on one".

Then there's this, "What do fat chicks and Sloppy Joes have in common?" Well, a bunch of things.

The first, and most obvious one, is don't let your prospective/current employer see you eating one. It will just be a mess. And no one looks cool doing it. And you REALLY shouldn't be going down on chicks in public, regardless of physique. Just a terrible, terrible idea.

Number 2: They're bad for you. You think, "what's one little Sloppy Joe/meaty broad?" Then you get that taste. Then you're all, "I can stop at any time. I swear." Pretty soon you're brushing your teeth with ground meat, bathing in cooking lard, and spending your Friday nights trolling the tightly packed aisles of your neighborhood Lane Bryant. It's an artery clogging, social-suicide spiral of embarrassment. And if I've seen it once, I've see it a thousand times. Don't let hubris devour you.

Third: The cleanup. With regard to the food, we're talking reams of napkins. Pretty much 2-3 after every bite. After half a Sloppy Joe, you're more of a threat to the planet's ever-dwindling forests than Kimberly-Clark, Canadian loggers and beavers combined. Fuck this recycling movement. How 'bout Flo just stops making the Sloppy Joe a blue-plate special at her white-trashy roadside diner with the blinking lights and the NSA homosexual sex out back. And with regard to the Orca in the lipstick. Ever try and get her to stop calling you? Oh. Haha. No, totally. Me neither. But I've heard it's impossible. It's like, stop calling me, Joan. We broke up 6 months ago! GOD!

And lastly, your breath afterward. Ew.

And on that note, I'm out. Have a great weekend everybody. Remember, drinking 13 beers in a 2-hour span has been known to lead to both things outlined above. So be careful out there. And if you're going to drink, get on a moped instead.

Isn't it funny how the most adorable animals make the most succulent dinner? And by that, I don't mean the animals actually make dinner. Like, try not to picture a baby seal flipping a grilled cheese sandwich. (Actually, picture that. It's good. I'll wait.) What I mean is, the cutest animals become the most succulent dinner. Lambs, tiny little moo cows, curly-tailed piglets. All scrumptious. Can you imagine what baby otters must taste like? Like heaven, wrapped in awesome, fried in blowjobs. That's what.

This wacky idea didn't just come to me, either. I've been singing the praises of the adorable for years now. I was the guy who needed a bib to watch Homeward Bound. Cute animals are literally, a godsend. So, enough of all this religious zealotry, and internal searching, and scientific exploration for the secret of life. Here it is. Go get a pen. Ready? The cuter the animal, the tastier it's going to be. That is the secret of life. Done. Eat that shit.

Here's another idea, scientists. Stop genetically modifying vegetables to make grow seasons longer. And stop using steroids to make strawberries look like Bigfoot's swollen hemorrhoids. And for the love of all that is holy, stop feeding ground up cow meat to other cows. Want to make something more delicious? Get a baby sloth to fuck a bunny rabbit. Take that offspring, and get it to bang the progeny of a polar bear pup and a chimp. The brood from that bizarro-Noah's ark orgy should consist of 6-8 of the most adorable, big-eyed, fur-balls that modern science could conjure up. Now kill them, gut them, chop them up, flavor them, and cook them. Voila. It's a miracle! No, it's just the tastiest thing you've ever eaten. You're welcome world.

Now I'm starving. I know this great little zoo in the area. Who's coming with me?

This is a picture of chicken stuffed shells. But this is not a post about chicken stuffed shells. This is a post about a word.

Stuffed.

A word that truly says it all. A word that expertly toes that imaginary line (on which I live) between food and the proverbial "hibbidy dibbidy". A word that could mean just about anything to anybody depending on context, intonation, and number of childhood years the listener has spent eating paint chips. (And just to be clear, by "hibbidy dibbidy," I mean fucking.)

Let's take a closer look inside the usage of the seemingly innocuous "stuffed":

The scene is Christmas dinner inside the sprawling, prewar estate of Mary and Carter Thurston of Greenwich, Connecticut. The couple's nubile, ready-to-rebel, vaguely-bisexual daughter, Muffy, has just brought home her first college boyfriend, Jake. Jake seems eager to make a good impression on his upper-crust hosts, and doesn't appear to despise them at all for their sense of entitlement and thinly-veiled anti-semitism. The four have just finished dinner and the Thurston's modern-day house slave is clearing the table. Mary offhandedly asks Jake if "his people" ever eat steak, when he deftly deflects the latent racism with some apparent flattery.

"Mary, that filet was a revelation." "I dare say, I'm stuffed," guffawed Jake, seemingly eager to please his girlfriend's tight-assed, Anglo-Saxon parents. The so-white-they're-clear Thurstons were overcome with delight. They were proud of their daughter for seeing past religion and socioeconomic class and horns and for bringing home the one Jew without the hook nose that could easily be snuck into their monthly regatta.

What the Thurstons didn't get, however, is crucial. The meaning of the word, "stuffed". Jake is using "stuffed" not in the satisfaction sense, but in the uncomfortable, sexual sense. You see, Jake had not actually ingested a single morsel of steak. But rather, had inserted all 12 medium-rare ounces straight into his ass, then back out, then unceremoniously fed them to the family's prized Yorkshire Terrier, Princess.

Had the Thurston's realized this was Muffy's sinister plot all along, or noticed Jake's overblown, pompous guffaw, or, alas, had known the different meanings of the word "stuffed," the 12-pound, 4-time blue-ribbon winning Yorkie would still be alive today.

So, let this be a lesson to you. Next time you hear someone tell you they're stuffed, be very wary. Tread lightly. And for Christ's sake, hide your dog.