Posts Tagged ‘sex’
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.
1. Boris Johnson in the Queen Vic. Get out. Just get out. This also applies to pretty much any other politician and any other soap, with the exception of perhaps Tony Benn on, say, Hollyoaks – now that I’d like to see. (I just generally like seeing his lovely little face.)
2. Jonathan Ross climbing inside Barbra Streisand’s rectum on his show this Friday, staying there for an hour and not having ANY other guests on. Jesus man, put it away, she’s just a person. And why weren’t they sat on the sofa? Too good for a sofa is she? Unbelievable.
3. X Factor contestants literally throwing themselves on the floor and weeping upon discovering they’ve not got through to the next round. Pathetic. Such displays of emotion should be saved only for bereavement. Or for when you’re having a bad hair day and your jeans are too tight and you’ve got a new spot and you’ve forgotten your MP3 player and the bus is full of chavs playing ‘music’ on their mobile phones and you’ve got cystitis. OR SOMETHING.
And I’m sorry but your wife dying/pet having a sex change/coat missing a button/whatever sob story the producers have dug up about you, makes not one shred of difference to your chances of winning – or shouldn’t, so you can take that misplaced sense of entitlement and shove it. The world doesn’t owe you a singing career.
4. Waking up every morning to the sweet smell of rotting crap and festering shite after the fourth consecutive week of bin strikes. I’m not getting political; I’m not saying the bin men don’t have the right to strike. I’m just saying I’d prefer not to have to risk contracting hepatitis by picking my way through mounds of litter to get to work each morning and then pay £80 a month for the privilege.
Things that make me go aww…
People saying nice things, and not because they want sex or biscuits; because they mean it.