As you might have noticed, The Bloated Belly staff slacked off for a bit. Like a good laxative, Harold returns us to regularity. — Lewis
It’s Friday, the sun is shining, and our thoughts, naturally, turn to beer swilling and short shorts. Call us washed-up, pathetic hornballs if you must, just don’t call us late for Friday afternoon beer swilling with nubile co-eds in short shorts. No, dear reader, do not do that. Please.
Yes, a taste of summer has finally arrived here in the Twin Cities, and with it the Annual Unveiling of Legs and Cleavage (AULC) that sends desperate, oversexed men like Lewis and me into irrational piques of fantasy and, quite literally, heat. To be sure, it’s all we can do to keep one another from sniffing unsuspecting women’s asses (some nearly on display!) as we saunter around Dinkytown, one braless-sighting from turgid.
That’s right, Dinkytown. Whereas we generally choose our Friday lunch destination with cuisine front-of-mind, I can make no such claim for today’s outing. That’s not to say that our destination—Kafé 421—was anything but satisfying, but frankly, we’d have gnawed on grandma’s pantyhose if we thought it would’ve put us in the heart of Hornytown. Thank goodness we didn’t have to.
This Kafé 421 is excellent. The lunch specials—lamb panini for Lewis, cod on onion role for me—were remarkably tasty and reasonably priced. And it wasn’t lost on us that the front of the house bar offers a wonderful perch from which to watch the eager students with their as-yet-unspoiled-idealism, and matching perky breasts, parade by.
Neither is it lost on us, dear reader, that those of you who, unlike us, have learned to utilize more than just the brain stem may find this sort of commentary off-putting. We understand. After all, both Lewis and I were raised to respect and revere women, and if respect equates to fear, then respect women we do. And I’d be the last person to dismiss such objections with a glib reference to political correctness as pejorative term.
That said, I have no interest in varnishing the truth in a feeble attempt to make myself look better. Thus, I must lay bare (anyone else horny?) the fact that sex and its kissing cousin consumption rule my life. And Lewis’, near as I can tell. And, hell, everyone’s for that matter.
At lunch we were discussing Easter and the absurdity of the bible-as-gospel-truth phenomenon and the Koran-as-gospel-truth phenomenon and then the ABSURDITY of believing a harem of VIRGINS awaits those who BLOW THEMSELVES UP. Talk about your pathetic hornballs. Who buys this stuff?
I don’t mean to bash religions, nor do I mean to paint billions of believers with the broad brush of a few whackos. I mean only to point out that gratification of our most base urges (getting laid and getting drunk and eating to excess for me, not necessarily in that order) is behind most of what we ascribe to any number of motivations. We’d all be better off if we simply made that more transparent.
Our promise to you, dear reader, is that we will be at the fore of this refreshing movement to embrace candor. We won’t pretend to have noticed her eye color. We won’t clog up the front of the wine tasting lines as though we’re interested in the grape. And when we visit a bistro solely to ogle the hostess’s rack, we won’t tell you we went for the chowder.
Go forth and self-gratify.