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.

A friend (read: sexual deviant) once spoke of the grapefruit as "ABSOLUTELY the most sexual fruit in the entire world". She then took a giant step backward, squeezed a wedge of ripe grapefruit over her light brown locks, shuddered violently, curled her toes, and let out an orgasmic wail, half-reminiscent of Meg Ryan and half humpback-in-heat. It was, in a word, magical.

But I can't say I completely disagree. The hue. The juiciness. The melon-ness of it all does sort of drip with eroticism. But in the land of fruit sexiness, the grapefruit is but a role player. Look at the facts. It's competing with bananas (the King Dong of all fruits), cherries (evocative of lips, balls AND virginity), kumquats (yeah), and of course, the vaginaberry. What? That last one is just something I made up to kinkify the world of produce? Fair enough. Moving on.

In this iteration of grapefruit, it's lining the top of a cheesecake. Nothing too titillating about that, right? But it's like the chef knew the cheesecake alone wouldn't be enough to stir the loins of his diners. "Sex it up," he says. "Give it a kick in the ol' passion parts." "Arouse the beast inside the stomachs and pleated khakis of our customers." So he chose grapefruit. Not peaches. Not apples. Not the vulgar little kumquat. Grapefruit. He had his balls laid out on the table, and to awaken the sleeping giant that is his man meat, he went with the grapefruit. The grapefruit! The fluffer at the produce aisle orgy. The waiter at the food cart's bootylicious bacchanalia. The extra in Foods that Fuck: The Untold Story. The motherfucking grapefruit.

But, you know what? If the grapefruit is good enough for a chef with his globes on the table, it's good enough for me. So I salute you, grapefruit. May you be forever linked with beautiful, unabashed coitus. Or, at the very least, an outside the pants handie.

Maybe it's the tiny, sprouting hairs. Maybe it's the pink coloring. And maybe, just maybe, it's my deviant, twisted mind. But goddamn, if this Raspberry Shortcake isn't the most vaginal dessert I've ever seen, I don't know what is. You could fashion a menu consisting entirely of Labia-pops, Clitoral Sorbet, and Cooter Pies and I think it would make me blush less than this.

Somewhere, Georgia O'Keefe is cursing herself for not becoming a pastry chef. Unless she's dead. Then she's rolling over in her grave. Unless, she was cremated. Then she's praying the wind picks up so she can get in someone's eyes and make them all pissed off. Vengeful, vengeful artists.

But this thing...it's just so...a vagina. A so obviously delicious one at that. Like, freshly shaven and right out of the shower. It's almost beckoning. If it had lips (ones that spoke) they'd be blowing me kisses and whispering my name.

(I can imagine the chef laying down the first layer of cake all innocently. "Well, nothing suggestive about that. That's just shortcake." Then he puts down the cream. Then the raspberries. Then the second layer of cake. Then he takes a step back, sort of cocks his head to the side and lets out a slight giggle. Then the sous chef comes in, sees the pastry chef laughing, and he starts laughing. Then the maitre' d stumbles in and sees the other two laughing. Eventually, it's the three of them, all cackling like hyenas, making period-related jokes as they pour oodles of raspberry coulis all over their creation.)

In short, order this. It's scrumptious, reminiscent of delectable lady parts, and ripe for parody. It's the dessert that truly keeps on giving. And if you're at all interested, yes, the dessert is served cold. Just like a woman.

What can you say about the French? They're apathetic towards bathing and conflict. Fanatical about wine and hairy armpits. And they fucking love mimes. Nothing but extremely attractive characteristics, right? Right.

Now, out of nowhere, they start making this toast. (What's that? French toast has, literally, been around for centuries? I'm sorry, you say I should check my facts before going on anti-franco diatribes? And I should leave the house more? And my personal hygiene has lately become cause for concern? Noted.)

But let's not dwell on the Frogs. Let's talk about their creation. Their brunchy gift to the world. Their reason to arise at the crack of noon on a Sunday. Their French Toast. It really is a thing of beauty, isn't it? Its fluff, eternal bliss. Its gooeyness, straight out of folklore. Its crispy edges, undoubtedly sent down from above on a band of barrel chested steeds, powdered sugar raining down from their flowing manes. That's the way it is in my head, at least. The reality is much less sexy.

But the finished product? I don't even want to order it. I want to wine and dine it. I want to dote on it. I want to be seen with it. I want to take it to a chic bistro in a trendy part of town.

I want to order it the most expensive bottle on the list. I want to gaze at it through the candlelight and reveal my soul to it. I want it to intuitively understand every nook and cranny of my psyche. I want to kiss both sides of its neck. And run my fingers through its hair. I want to give it the world, and the life it deserves. I want it. Inside me.