This one if for Luc
I am the world's greatest barbecue pit dancer, and have been since the great poulty civil war. I wear a crown of kebabs, a skirt of spare ribs and two polish sausages dangle elegantly from each of my ears.
Men cannot resist my tangy musk (it's eau de mesquite, you know) as I parade around my smoke stack kingdom, collecting taxes from the pheasants.
I am royalty you know. I sit upon a propane tank thrown to digest rotten daquiries and curdled coleslaw that linger in my butterball belly, seemingly deep in teriyaki thought.
But you see, I am an unhappy princess. If you look very close you may see a trickle of A1 sauce excreting from my meatball eyes. I am unloved, my sirloins quiver for a lover but the spatula proves to flaccid, and the grill is too linear minded. My parents, the Hamburger Helpers, have often tried to marry me to the other aspects of the American Patio Deck Dream. But the Beer Baron proved to surly, and the sprinkler was way too predictable.
This is why I dance, to seduce the kind of man who'd raise a sautee brush before he'd ever raise his voice. For I am a tender beast, like a souffle... or George Bush's sense of reality. And I cannot be tamed with trinkets or tongs alone.
But alas, I am a lost soul. The world's charcoal tooth and kerosene lust has been ceded to the freeze dried microwave vapidness of modern day america. No longer does the fire burn in men's heats, no longer does the passion of the grill envoke the spirit of the quest, the quest for the all american meal.
So until the sheep come back to the slaughter, I dance a lonely dance. My mutton mouthed misery crying out to the smoky sky, calling out to the abandoned beer guts and patio chairs of the world.
Those of you who remain must love your meat as if it were a lady. Remember to press your patties, not push and to flip with with the same patience and chivalry as nibbling on a young lasses ear lobe. And always, always keep the rythm of the heat just right.
For if you don't love your lonely burger queen, she just might bite back.
Men cannot resist my tangy musk (it's eau de mesquite, you know) as I parade around my smoke stack kingdom, collecting taxes from the pheasants.
I am royalty you know. I sit upon a propane tank thrown to digest rotten daquiries and curdled coleslaw that linger in my butterball belly, seemingly deep in teriyaki thought.
But you see, I am an unhappy princess. If you look very close you may see a trickle of A1 sauce excreting from my meatball eyes. I am unloved, my sirloins quiver for a lover but the spatula proves to flaccid, and the grill is too linear minded. My parents, the Hamburger Helpers, have often tried to marry me to the other aspects of the American Patio Deck Dream. But the Beer Baron proved to surly, and the sprinkler was way too predictable.
This is why I dance, to seduce the kind of man who'd raise a sautee brush before he'd ever raise his voice. For I am a tender beast, like a souffle... or George Bush's sense of reality. And I cannot be tamed with trinkets or tongs alone.
But alas, I am a lost soul. The world's charcoal tooth and kerosene lust has been ceded to the freeze dried microwave vapidness of modern day america. No longer does the fire burn in men's heats, no longer does the passion of the grill envoke the spirit of the quest, the quest for the all american meal.
So until the sheep come back to the slaughter, I dance a lonely dance. My mutton mouthed misery crying out to the smoky sky, calling out to the abandoned beer guts and patio chairs of the world.
Those of you who remain must love your meat as if it were a lady. Remember to press your patties, not push and to flip with with the same patience and chivalry as nibbling on a young lasses ear lobe. And always, always keep the rythm of the heat just right.
For if you don't love your lonely burger queen, she just might bite back.