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.
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