Dessert? I can guarantee he gets none until he stops behaving like a two-year old in a gold-plated sandbox.
Okay listen. Like you, I’ve been unable to look away from the daily idiot-grams tweeted by the Demagogue Who Would Be King. Inside these last burning days of July, I’m boiling, not because of the heat dome currently centered over the nation, but because one loud-mouthed pied piper whose only credential is that he has made some money is piping a tune straight out of the Third Reich.
Into this end-of-the-world-as-we- know-it scenario, I have inserted a little fantasy. In the Isak Dinesen’s story Babette’s Feast, a French Chef, a refugee who has been working for two dour and stripped down Danish sisters, makes one memorable meal for her benefactors. It’s clear as one course replaces the next, the food has both regenerative and transformative powers: A romance is rekindled, crabby pettiness is replaced with neighborly joie de vivreand sensuality breathes life into Scandinavian stoicism.
Ignoring Herr Millionaire’s latest call for foreign nations to meddle in his fight for the House He Would Make White, I tried to come up with a menu that would transform the Big White Shark from Jaws into an animal whose size matches his I.Q. At the very least, my goal would be to wipe the sour from his puss and reduce his testosterone emissions to within normal limits.
For starters, I’d serve Agadashi Tofu—creamy tofu surrounded by a translucent fried batter and sunk lovingly in a warm salty broth. Tofu ranks high on the list of foods packed with estrogen, a hormone that would immediately cause Mr. Reality TV to replace his too often touted “I” with a more communal “We.” Bonus, it might also soften the frequency of references to his “member” in political debates, if not the member itself.
The first course would folllow with YUUGE platters of raw oysters, big fat ones like Kumamotos, which would be served by a nice pairing of gorgeously round and fleshy women dressed as bondage mistresses and are-those-real-or-are-they-fake drag queens. Of course, No cocktail sauce allowed. After which I predict like all good fascists, The Emperor Who Has No Clothes will embrace his inner Submissive and go hence forth on his knees.
The main course has to be Deep Fried Brains. We’ll say they’re croquettes. Immediate improvement as he gobbles them all.
Unless of course I can find a recipe for Humble Pie.
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