Don't be afeard. My prose, I shan't ditch.

Save for some poems for this gourmet chipwich.

One haiku, a limerick, and lastly a sonnet.

By the time I'm done writing, my dong will be on it.

***

Two cookies? Sexy.

Two cookies spooning ice cream?

My mouth houses an orgy.

***

Here's to delectable ice cream,

the core of a fat kid's supreme team.

But then there's those cookies,

no unseasoned rookies.

In conjunction, a championship wet dream.

***

The sweetest temptress is the food

that comes after your finished meal.

It causes you to sit and brood,

"How can dessert bring me this zeal?"

I can't succumb to carnal bliss

with two cookies, ice cream, and mint.

But, it's likeness, female's abyss,

When heads are tilted, both eyes squint.

I think for now I'll plead the fifth.

On my conduct, rather seedy.

But chaste and I as one is myth.

Faced with food, my eyes go beady.

Pervert! Glutton! Shouts I won't duck.

Talk to the chef. He makes. I fuck.

Why do they only warn us about the sun? I've been staring directly into this bloody, shimmering, beacon of all that is holy for hours now. And though I haven't gone blind, there have been a litany of other, er, complications. Hour 1: I fail to notice, and thus, neglect to respond to all calls, texts and emails. Hour 2: I fail to notice, and thus, neglect to respond to all calls of nature. (I pee and poop myself.) Hour 3: Still fixated on the hunk of of meat, I begin to question my metabolism, in that I'm peeing and pooping myself after just 2 hours of beefy hypnosis. Hour 4: Riding a throne made entirely of my own byproduct, I clear out the nearby cubicles. I hear muffled voices that fail to penetrate my rapture. (I am later told the vague noises were, in fact, quite direct and pointed: "Dude, I'm pretty sure you shit yourself.") Hour 5: With my salivary glands running on salivary fumes, I come to. True, I've seen better days. But I've also seen worse. Thankfully, the mesmerizing beauty of charred animal flesh etched into my occipital lobe will continue to suppress the stench of human waste as I make my way home, filthy, exhausted, and somehow, oddly satiated.

So here's how it probably went down. Two chefs, clearly at the top of their games, were sitting around the kitchen when one turns to the other and says, "Hey, remember that mac and cheese you made the other night?" "The one with muenster, and cheddar, and gruyere?" "Is that the one that made my pants a little smaller." "That's the one." "Well, let's get a ball of that, and fucking fry it." Then, they pause. Their eyes slowly scan the horizon moving left, then right, then back again. In a flash, they begin to ravage each other. Toques, and aprons, and checkered pants soar from their sweaty, contorted limbs. Hours of intense, visceral, animalistic boning ensues. Then they fry up a couple of the little delicacies and the world is forever thankful.

Oh, hello there Creme Brulee doughnut. Well, of course I noticed the gooey magnificence oozing from your innards. And yes, your perfectly-bronzed, flambeed shell absolutely makes me feel a little naughty. But do you really want me to put...that...there? What's that you say, your custard is still warm? Hmmm, well, I suppose there's no harm in just the ti--Oh-Lord-Pastry-Jesus, you are one dirty, dirty doughslut, Creme Brulee. I love you?

I want to get to know this taco. And I mean that in the biblical sense. You know, the way Adam knew Eve. I want to get up inside this Eve taco and part thy tortillas with mine holy scepter. I want to sprinkle lime on this burning bush of temptation and add my own crema blanco. I want to part its chorizo sea, worship at its salsa altar, and enjoy a post coital smoke of its heavenly cilantro. And if I didn't just exhaust the entire extent of my biblical knowledge, you better believe I would describe some other unholy, sacrilegious things I'd do to it. Praise Jesus for the little Mexican lady that cooked this one up.

Things happen when you combine meat, cheese, bacon, oozy, molten pig fat and a digital SLR. Namely, I get a boner capable of smashing redwoods into sawdust. Fortunately for the world's forests, all I've got to smash here is my desk. Unfortunately for my employer, that desk now has a penis-sized hole in it, making it look more like a whack-a-mole game than a place to do work. Seriously though, look at that thing and just try to stop your pants from shrinking. I still can't tell if I'm sitting in a pool of saliva or something slightly more viscous. Thank you cheeseburger. Thank you for making this the most awkward workday since Hot Dog Day fell on Take Your Daughter to Work Day.