You can mash potato. And you can do the twist. But tell me baby (tell me baby), can you twice bake potato without having your eyes roll into the back of your head, your toes curl up and your entire body spasm in shear orgasmic delight? If so, you're probably missing eyes, a nose, taste buds and a soul.

The beauty of the twice baked potato lies in its simplicity. Also, the bacon bits and gruyere. The recipe follows a basic taste edict. If baking once makes something good. Baking twice will make it inspired. It's a rule I've applied to my thrice-fried pork knuckles and my 68-time beer-battered Ding-Dongs.

A simple Google search for "twice baked potato" amasses 256,000 hits. A similar YouPorn search for "twice baked potato" curiously amasses zero. Have I gone mad? Does "twice baked potato" not sound infinitely more appealing than "pregnant amateur ebony double anal"? Why is that a thing people pleasure themselves to? Who are these people and how do they not find the potato, cheese, onion combo immensely more appetizing than the knocked up, stretch-marked, jungle fever combo? For my utterly sane, like-minded, food-rogering compatriots out there, have no fear. You are not alone. And rest assured, I will once again be offering my annual class, "The Twice Baked Potato's G-spot and You". Plenty of spots are still available. Come hither.

This is what the most expensive sandwich in the world looks like. Like a standard smelly deli club sandwich. But just like a fat girl or a piñata, it's what's on the inside that counts. Inside this $200 sandwich is the planet's finest chicken, ham, hard-boiled quails' eggs and, wait for it, white muh-fuckin' truffles. Suck it, barbecue chicken panini! This sandwich makes Lobster Thermidor look like Oysters Rockefeller. Hard boiled quails' eggs? I'm not even sure what a quail is. Suffice it to say, I would still love to eat their unfertilized embryos. White truffles? Just the oil from those suckers is enough to make a grown man cry. The limeys at Cliveden in Berkshire, the geniuses responsible for this delightfully gluttonous waste of money, threw in the whole thing. Entire truffles. Recession be damned! I think it's time for me to empty my pygmy bank account, hop across the pond, slap Mr. Bean in the face, snog the chef, and hastily devour 1,182 calories of jaw-dropping, cock-lifting, club sandwich. Jolly good.

Due to public outcry from some of my Canadian readers (yes, you read that correctly, Canadian followed immediately by the word readers) who felt slighted at the absence of even one Caesar reference, I have been forced to make amends. The ladies, who I can only assume were renegade fur trappers living in New York on a top-secret beaver hunting mission, held me at hockey stick-point and demanded I atone for my blunder. Calm down, Canucks. I said "blunder" not "blubber".

Anyway, for my non-curling friends with no public healthcare option, this is the Canadian version of the Bloody Mary. They call it a "Caesar". Caesar, the man, was a military and political leader who pretty much turned Rome into the badass empire you know from Gladiator. Caesar, the drink, is a Clamato-infused bastardization of the Bloody Mary. But the CTV-watching lumberjacks up north didn't stop at a half-clam, half-tomato juice produced in New York to make this drink all their own. The maple syrup mongers then said to themselves, "what do we love more than anything on the planet?" And after 3 hours of praying to a bronze bust of Wayne Gretzky, they finally answered with, "Rimjobs". So they added a rim of celery salt for a splash of red on their already entirely red concoction. You know, cause that's our color, eh? And finally, they garnished it with THE EXACT SAME THING that garnishes a Bloody Mary and called it a day. Voila, your quintessentially Canadian cocktail, the Caesar.

How can we ever count the myriad gifts Philadelphia has given the world? There's the enlightened thinking that went on inside Independence Hall spurring liberty and justice for all. And then there's the time hundreds of drunken assholes (read: Eagles fans) hurled snowballs at Santa Claus. And who can forget the nimble hands of Quaker/upholsterer/thimble enthusiast, Betsy Ross? Or the nimbler trigger fingers of all the upstanding citizens that helped land Philly consistent top-billing in the annual "Most Dangerous Places to Live" contest. (Not only is Kabul safer, it has a vastly superior public education system.) But by far, the best thing to come out of Philly since the Fresh Prince inexplicably found a cabbie in West Philadelphia that drove him 2,393 miles to a mansion in Bel-Air is the Cheesesteak. Philadelphians talk about their cheesesteak like they talk about their own children. And they glorify it like they glorify their domestic abuse. There's a constant debate in the city of brotherly love and rampant gang violence over which the official home of the Philadelphia Cheesesteak, Pat's or Geno's? The answer is who the shit cares? If anyone is willing to combine frizzled beef, cheese, bread, and early-onset heart disease, wrap it all in butcher paper, and serve it with a certain amount of vitriol, you can't really go wrong. Pat, Geno, we all love what you do. Keep pumping out those delicious creations, and I'll keep pumping out my unborn children. And somebody, for the love of god, get this man a cheesesteak.

Here's to a true warrior in the fight against the diabolical hangover. Here's to not needing a handful of Advils, 14 glasses of water, and a prayer. And here's to the only morning cocktail named for a virgin deity on the rag. Here's to the Bloody Mary!

We don't need no sunglasses to fight the sun's evil glare. We can sit in the shade cast by our gigantic, overly-garnished glass. We don't need to apologize to those schoolchildren we vomited upon. We'll be that drunk again momentarily. And we don't need to vaguely recall hazy details from the scene of an unidentified stranger's bedroom. We've got breakfast booze!

Which means no more talk of whatsername, whatsisname and what ball gag? No more worrying about those kids with regurgitated taco meat caked into their pleated, flannel skirts. And certainly no more crying about the HJ's, BJ's, and DWI's we both gave and received last night. Because when we can get drunk during breakfast, we can get almost anything. Thank you Bloody Mary, and Happy Friday everyone.

This is how women were made. Adam (the original #1 Dad) tore into his torso, Marilyn Manson style, and ripped himself out a mate. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. It was actually "God" who ripped the rib out of Adam's ridiculously toned torso. And it was "His" enlightened idea to create women. Just so Adam would stop "Diddling" the wildlife. Well, that's all just dogmatic semantics. The fact is chicks come from ribs. Like this one. They're born slathered in rosemary-infused barbecue sauce. They smell like hickory. They taste like magic and unicorns and Sunday afternoons. And when they touch you it feels like 8 million pins and needles thrashing about inside your penis. Wait, strike that. That last one was Chlamydia. Back to women. I could not think of a more suitable progenitor for them than the spare rib. Think about it. Both rate very high on the succulence scale. Both can be purchased in Chinatown for a nominal fee. And both always leave you in the end (pun very much intended). As for which one I prefer, women or ribs? I say eat one, snuggle the other. The only problem is my sheets always end up covered in glaze. Sad, gross and true. Just like auto-erotic asphyxiation.

U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A.! Yes, it's true, rooting for America is like cheering for cancer to metastasize. But sometimes, you just have to appreciate dominance. Take the case of the hot dog. This über-phallic delicacy was invented in the 1480's in Frankfurt, a city known mostly for getting the balls bombed out of it during Dubya Dubya Two, but also for its tubes of intestine-wrapped, mystery-meat. The aptly and ridiculously-named "frankfurter" was considered classic German fare for centuries, to the point where wieners were often ceremonially handed out at imperial coronations. That's not even a joke. That's just Germany. This was the case until around 1870. Until we got American all over their asses. Until we stole their delicious meat pipes and made them our own. They say a German immigrant brought them to Coney Island and the rest is history. I, however, choose my own history. I picture us going in there, guns blazing, CCR blaring, cocks all boned up, and stealing their recipes, mocking their ridiculous accents, and making the sex with their finest beer wenches all while shredding on our American-made electric guitars. And from that day forth, the hot dog has been revered in this country as the most American thing since date rape. The hot dog has also become synonymous with freedom, George Washington, the 4th of July, baseball, trans-fat and morbid obesity. And I couldn't be prouder. We also added variety to the standard sausage of yesteryear. For example, the dog above slathered in ketchup, mustard and relish is all-beef and Kosher, hence the lack of foreskin and overbearing mother.

In the spirit of the Olympic games, I've been trying to shake my rabid jingoism and appreciate everything America's Hat has to offer. Obviously, it's been difficult. However, according to Google and a few expats taking asylum in the Lower East Side, the "great" white north is actually responsible for some pretty awesome stuff. For instance, there's hockey, sketch comedy set to goofy music, 95% of the world's fresh water, Ryan Reynolds' cheese-grating abs, polar bears, Pamela Anderson's ball-dropping hotness, circa 1996 (Although her tits are American-made) and finally, poutine. Poutine, from the French meaning, "Soon to be poo" is a brilliant combination of french fries, gravy, cheese curds and socialized healthcare that can only be described as Quebec's finest attempt at an apology for Céline Dion since Emanuelle Chriqui. Now, I can pretty much endorse anything fried, covered in gravy, and smothered in cheese. But then they go and name it something that sounds like a magazine for adolescent feces, how could I not get behind this dish? Congratulations 'Nucks. Though I had my doubts about Bryan Adams, clearly, the poutine shows you knew what you were doing. And after I dig into a piping hot plate of it, with glowing hearts, you'll see me rise. My moose knuckle, that is.

In honor of St. Valentine and his eponymous Day celebrated the world over with Jergen's, Kleenex and loneliness, I present this handsome Devil's Food Cake topped with a blooming, O'Keefian rose. Two of the archetypal participants in any Valentine's Day. The dessert and the flower. One, a strong, genuine, rich gourmet treat whose only aim is to please. And the other, a prickly, flora whore, who slowly drains the lifeblood from its delicious partner with soul-sucking, succubusian thorns. Really, it's no wonder "Rose" is a female name, while "Cake" is just a pretty awesome band. So in lieu of regaling you with tales of fare fornication, I'll leave you with a simple, Happy Valentine's Day. Sorry, it's a day late. My typing fingers are still a little chafed from my marathon celebration.

For better or worse, high-resolution pictures of delicious foodstuffs do things to me. (Clearly.) Some of the things are ordinary, some border on salacious, and some, well some just make me earnestly question my own well-being. Here are some things that this meatball hero does to me: Gives me heartburn. Gives me heartache. Gives me loin ache. Gives me a feeling in my stomach that says, "Shh, it's okay baby, melty cheese is here, everything's going to be alright". Makes me jealous of the photographer. Makes me jealous of the chef. Makes me jealous of the man/woman that gets to fellate/cunniling the photographer or chef. Afflicts me with PTSD (Pre-Terrific Sandwich Disorder), OCD (Oversized Colon Displacement), and ADHD (A Distended Hardened Dong). Makes the entire Dirty Dancing soundtrack play on repeat in my head. Makes spirals pirouette in my eyes. Drops my jaw to cartoonish depths. Hangs my tongue from my mouth like Rosie O'Donnell at an all-you-can-eat lezzer buffet. And finally, this picture works its way into the depths of my soul, draining every emotion I can muster for a fellow human being and takes all of that love, and desire, and admiration, and funnels it toward inanimate edibles that will never, ever, ever love me back. Not quite a thousand words. But definitely a whirlwind of emotion.

In the immortal words of the 69 Boyz, and the Watson to their Holmes, the Quad City DJ, "To the front, to the front, to the back, to the back, now dip baby dip, come on, let's dip baby dip, dip baby just dip, baby dip, baby dip." Now, I'm not sure if they were talking about a certain avocado spread or fingerblasting your teenage girlfriend in her parents' garage, but one thing is certain: Those mutha' fuckas was spot on. It truly is all about the dip. Whether it's Tostitos, Sun chips, Baked Lays, a shriveled up scrotum, Herr's, Utz, the same shriveled up scrotum now dipped in blue ink, or Pringles... the same principle always applies. You're going to want to dip them in, on, or around something moist. Personally, I'd have to agree with the culinary genius that whipped up the creamy indulgence pictured above. If you're going to dip, might as well plunge an Original flavor Sun Chip into a thick, green, cilantro-laden guac served from the hollowed out testes of a recently-neutered, gigantic, black man. Just sayin'. So, bravo sir or madam on the inventiveness of the plating, the attractiveness of the dish, and the general disregard for at least one man's genitalia. Here's to hoping the foreskin stays far, far away from the tamales.

Oh, cheese. What can we say about it that hasn't already been said? Nothing, other than it comes from the dirty, sagging tits of large, hairy animals that eat where they shit, shit where they fuck, and fuck without that awkward, post-coital cuddle sesh. All that being said, how did cheese get to be so goddamn fine? There are a few theories. One is the taste. Another is that the acidification of milk and subsequent addition of coagulation-inducing enzyme rennet is just fucking hot. Yet another, and the one that fries my particular zucchini, is the stink. More accurately, the stank. There's just something naughty, and boner-producing, about wondering whether you're actually chewing a hunk of Camembert or sucking the toes of a street-walking, Thai whore. Maybe it's the confusion. Maybe it's my propensity for Thai working girls. Or maybe, just maybe, I like the idea of my food coming from the dirty, sagging tits of large, hairy animals. Whatever it is, I just know I want that cheese inside me.

They wrapped the what in who? Yeah, that's right. They wrapped the banana in strips of bacon. Thereby creating the first ever... wait for it... Ba-nana. That's like wrapping your high school guidance counselor in Lindsay Lohan. I mean, you know the inside's good for you and you should probably take its advice alone. But it's just more palatable wrapped in something delicious, but ultimately detrimental. So you end up telling people you ate a banana, but really you just got your first STD. Still though, I totally get it. Just look at it. It's sweet and gooey in the middle, but salty, warm and bacon on the outside. You know, lest you need to fellate it. So, at the end of the day, you just have to say, "Sorry banana, I'm going to wrap you in the coke slut of pork products, throw in my Herbie Fully Loaded DVD, and make like a circus seal.

Phallus joke. Cream filling joke. Asian fella who acts white joke. Now that that's out of the way, I can get to the heart of the entry. Here's a list of previously unknown facts about the Twinkie--that beautiful golden sponge that does to your arteries what Family Matters did to the mid-nineties TGIF lineup. Zing!

1. A Twinkie's cream filling alone can power a standard issue hobo for a fortnight.

2. The first ever Twinkie ran for and won a seat in the House of Lords on three separate occasions.

3. If you gently tickle the underside of a Twinkie with the tip of your middle finger, the cream becomes harder than a pedophile at gymnastics camp.

4. You can't feed them after midnight.

5. You can legally marry a Twinkie anywhere below the Mason Dixon line.

6. There are 62 different ways to extract the cream of a Twinkie without destroying the integrity of the cake.

7. 62 of them are fellatio.

8. The inventors of the Twinkie were siamese twins joined at the pinky.

9. If you play a Twinkie backwards you can hear, "Paul is dead".

10. The Twinkie sits atop the United States Department of Agriculture's food pyramid where it has been worshipped in certain circles as, "The Divine Giver of Pleasure and Boners and Vaginal Moistness" since the early 1930's.

I'm not going to lie. You could melt cheese over a dead baby and I'd probably eat it. So it goes without saying that filling a buttery pastry with diced tomatoes, some green shit, and the melty, gooey goodness of the Gods is so far up my alley, the picture alone is making me walk with a limp. Alley, of course, meaning butthole. But it's not just the cheese. Look at the shimmer of the tomato. The supple, yet flaky, dough sheath. And the cheese. Oh, the cheese. Look at that motherfucking cheese. Dionysus herself could not have crafted an object more worthy a thorough, salacious boot knocking.

Ohhh. Herro Dumprings. Wrapping yourserves suggestivery around that bowr of dericious dumpring graze. Arr fried and firred with derectabre animar fresh. I can't wait to simurate feratio on you and swarrow you whore untir you're in my berry. Scandarous rittre dumprings. (My apologies to the entire Asian community for the flagrant racism of this post. I know your rich and storied culture has helped make the world a better, more beautiful place to live. Also, thank you for math and having tiny ding dongs.)