Given that I spend lots of quality time with my beak in a bowl, I often tend to bond with food in more ways than I care to share or can hose off before blokes dare stare. Aside from a green veggie or two, generally I bow to chow which consists of quarantined islands of browned cow or pink sow. I don’t like my farm meat co-mingling or lingering long on my lips or plate, ‘cause those calories have a BIG job down South adding doughy softness to my hips and my weight.
My wife likes salads with colors galore, chunks of veggies, twigs, sprouts n’ sprigs, but if you gaze upon what I graze, it is just a leafy green sea of plain Jane nutrition-less iceberg ennui. My ruminant palate prefers to ruminate sans surprises, so the last thing goat-goofs like me find appealing, is a pot of porridge with colorful nuggets free-styling and keeling. Remove all rainbow mystery treats from my feed bag and please rush, since clearly the stuff stuck in my cup should be served ONLY in six shades of mush.
So keep your bulky pulp pox and crammed jam full of seeds away from my jelly jar or juice box needs. Get a clue ‘cause I eschew goo which should ordinarily be smooth too like chunk-free peanut cream, bricks o’ butter, or grit-less paste for dingy teeth and craggy face. Don’t tread upon the red badge of my colored ketchup or insight a hateful coup over my caffeinated sodas of caramel hue. Keep your facts to yourself and stay on your side of the fiber tracks - just leave me alone, fat n’ happy, with my white- bread filled sacks.
If your tea teases me sweetly with tapioca boba and fancy faloodah, I’m sure to be in a very bad food MOODa. Just keep my chocolate pure and wax free, and dare not exhaust raspberry laced wafts anywhere near me. I admit I’m a little provincial and prefer to pen my manifesto in black like my coffee and white like my milk. So leave your colorful Neapolitan to someone more cosmopolitan, because this fat gorilla savors wolfing down ANY fav-flavor - as long as it’s just PLAIN vanilla.