Posts Tagged ‘nachos’
The title of this blog post is a clever, ironic and highly satirical comment on the fact that we’ve just had a general election (in case you missed it) and everything’s a bit buggered, like what it is in Aldous Huxley’s book. It’s also display of my considerable literary knowledge, in that it shows I’ve read a book. Actually, it doesn’t. It shows I know the title of a book. Pretty impressive either way.
Speaking of which, I like my books like I like my men: exciting, many layers, and purchased from a charity shop for 50p. (A shiny cover and a moth ball-like smell are desirable but not compulsory.)
Hilarity aside though, I do love my thrillers and consume them like I consume nachos: fast. Any thriller will do as long as it keeps me in suspense and keeps me turning those pages.
What I don’t like, is crap ‘chick lit’. For starters, the name sounds like a part of the female genitalia. Men, you might need some help from a lady in identifying which part. HA HA HA. I made a sex joke. Hilarious. Anyhoo, I really don’t need to relate to a genre in such a personal way in order to want to read books from it. You may as well call them ‘books for people without penises’. This would be slightly more cumbersome to say, granted, but at least it doesn’t sound like clit. We’re British for god’s sake.
Another crap thing about crap chick lit is the way in which they all seem to be stuck in the fucking 1950s. The female protagonist in these books is always ‘sassy’ and ‘independent’ to begin with, but that’s just a silly front. What she really wants is for a big strong man to rescue her from the scary modern world and occasionally throw her over his knee when she gets a bit flighty. It’s for her own good. We may have the vote, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves here girls! Yep, that’s the world according to low grade chick lit. I’m exaggerating slightly for comic affect (I know, you’re in stitches), but seriously, read one. You don’t even have to be a bone fide English Literature aficionado like myself to read the startlingly subtle subtext.
A particularly bad one, if you feel as though your brain cells are weighing you down these days and you could do with discarding a few, is Love Rules by Freya North. What a pile of utter dross. The sex scenes were a particular revelation. Note to Freya: MY VAGINA IS NOT MY ‘SEX’. Nor is it my ‘heat’. No woman has or ever will call her vagina her ‘sex’ or her ‘heat’ in the history of womankind. It’s a vagina. I can’t fully remember what she called cocks, but it may have been ‘mound’. And I can’t imagine any man has ever got his ‘mound’ out in a moment of passion, unless he’s Ken, of course, in which case, he’s always bumping mounds with Barbie.
You’re thinking about dolls having it off now aren’t you?
You disgust me.
I’ve just realised this blog post has become much more about genitalia than about books. Brilliant.
I disgust myself.
On that note, I’m off to find me a man with a nice big mound to take me away from all this scary grown-up world stuff.
I like nachos.
I had some the other day that were top-notch; piled high with chilli (veggie, of course), salsa, sour cream, guacamole, chillis and cheese. Awesome. They made my mouth so very happy and went so very well with lots of red wine. As all things should.
This is in stark contrast to disappointing nacho experiences I’ve had in the past. The worst of which took place in Cairns, Australia (did I mention I went to Australia last year? It was great). Instead of the aforementioned delights, I was presented with tortilla chips, topped with pasta sauce, diced carrots, and peas. Yes, that’s right folks, you read right, PEAS. ON NACHOS. The sick, sick, bastards.
If I’d wanted Doritos with Dolmio and peas, I’d have cooked for myself.
Nachos aren’t nachos if they don’t have all the correct ingredients; they’re just tortilla chips with some crap on them. It’s like sticking a hot dog on a plate next to some ready salted Walkers, and calling it a Sunday Roast.
The point being, some things need all the correct ingredients to make them work. Which leads me to the main thrust of my post (PARDON THE PUN, HA HA HA): nachos are not like sex.
Granted, both involve peas and diced carrots more often than not. But that’s where the similarities end.
Unlike nachos, sexual intercourse (to address it by its full name) can incorporate all the correct ‘ingredients’ and still be a disappointment, leaving you wishing you’d ordered something else entirely.
To clarify; I don’t pay for sex. I’m just running with the whole nachos-in-a-restaurant analogy. Keep up.
So anyway, sex. You could be given a generous portion, eat with a fantastic technique (this analogy’s totally messed up now, I’ve lost thread of who’s eating what, or whom, but I’ll battle on regardless) and you’re still left unsatisfied.
On the flip side. A potentially less ‘obvious’ choice from the menu might turn out to be the BEST fucking meal you have ever eaten and my god, you just want to tell everyone about it. In a “hey, I had an awesome meal last weekend and, no, you bloody well can’t have any” kind of a way.
When you try to put your finger on what made it so damn tasty, you just can’t. Suppose it’s a secret ingredient that some dishes just have.
In an ideal world, of course, we’d be able to bottle this secret ingredient and carry it with us at all times, for ‘emergencies’. For those occasions when all the main ingredients are there but it’s just a bit, well, bland.
We’d also be able to carry around guacamole, salsa, sour cream, melted cheese and chilli, for those Dorito-with-Dolmio catastrophes.
I already do that, obviously, but it’s pretty messy; I keep getting salsa in my make-up bag and sour cream in my diary. And I smell of Mexico.
So someone needs to invent all those things together in one non-messy formula. We could call it Nachos-on-the-go!
You make it, I’ll name it and make us rich.