Zen and the Male Art of Barbequing
Tis the holiday weekend and like any other red blooded carnivore on the North American continent, I’ve got the patio grill fired up, I’m cranking the Steve Miller tunes, drinking various bottled alcohole beverages and otherwise relishing in all things Barbeque (NOT to be confused of course with "barb au que" which roughly translates in French as 'Beard of Ass'...and that's a whole other addiction!). However, I’d be misleading you if I said that this is something that is best enjoyed on the long holiday weekends. In truth, I’ve been suffering from Barbequitis for the past month or so and loving every juicy, flame grilled moment of it.
Real men cook meat. That’s just the way nature intended it from the earliest times of primitive Neolithic man. You don’t think that poor uni-browed ‘Ugh’ the Caveman settled for meatless tofu patties when he came home empty-handed from a hard day of wrestling brontosaurs on the prehistoric plains do you? Of course not! Any types of non-barbequing girly men, particularly those with their eyebrows still immaculately intact*, can keep their Spinach Salads in their own backyards because no tofu-whachafuckits are ever going to be placed on MY barbeque grill! They are definitely among the wretched soulless vegetarian pychopaths that evolution has singled out to inevitably wear dresses and perform ‘Hello Dolly’ showtunes by moonlight in city parks and are certainly not welcome at my patio parties! I just don’t trust the anti-meat non-barbequing types. They are basically one step from making clothing out of other peoples skin, tucking their penises between their legs while dancing seductively in front of full length mirrors and threatening to hose somebody down if they don’t put their lotion on.
I think the instinct to cook meat over an open flame is embedded into the DNA makeup of every male on the planet**. If it used to breathe air, chew grass, or has ever had growth hormones coursing through it’s veins then I want it’s butchered carcass laid out and sizzling on my grill. Even my cat knows to immediately run for his life and hide when he hears that tell-tale “WHOMPF!” of the barbeque being lit for fear that he may be viewed as a link of sausages in my eyes and end up roasting on the grill himself. Hell, I’m even tossing inanimate objects and household appliances on the grill just to see how quickly they melt and see what kind of buzz I can get from inhaling the generated toxic fumes. It’s safe to say, that I love my barbeque! I have even fantasized about having sexual relations with it and I have more than once ended up sporting a chubby after having indecent thoughts involving the barbeque’s igniter hole.
It’s just that I find every aspect to barbequing to be an absoutely orgasmic experience. Ideally, as I digest my buffet of roasted flesh, I’d like to relax with a cigar and smoking jacket afterwards while recieving a handjob from a young supple barbeque groupie as I watch bikini clad girls jumping on trampolines. Many a Saturday afternoon before I owned my first barbeque I’d spent just sitting in my parked car outside the local Deli wacking off to Rush tunes on the radio and thinking about the cuts of meat on display in the front window of the shop. Hey, it’s what I would then recognize as my “Erogenous Zone”. What can I say?
If barbequing were an Olympic event, then I’d be Jesse-fuckin-Owens! I approach the art of barbequing like a professional boxer would approach a championship fight. In the heat of battle, I’m likely to take quick breathers between rounds of flame broiling to sit on a small tool in the corner while I’m sponged down by a team of trainers. “I can’t see the beef anymore. Cut me, Mick!” Even weather is no deterant for this dedicated grillsman. I’ll be outside trying to light the barby in the middle of a hurricane before I ever try and cook my stuffed Pork Loin in the oven. Witches could be flying by on broomsticks and I wouldn’t care as long as they didn’t try and pilfer one of my beloved Lamb Chops.
* The scorched loss, or partial loss of ones eyebrows is considered a badge of honor among seasoned grillsmen.
** Along with the worshipping of female breasts and the need to engage in home rennovations.
Real men cook meat. That’s just the way nature intended it from the earliest times of primitive Neolithic man. You don’t think that poor uni-browed ‘Ugh’ the Caveman settled for meatless tofu patties when he came home empty-handed from a hard day of wrestling brontosaurs on the prehistoric plains do you? Of course not! Any types of non-barbequing girly men, particularly those with their eyebrows still immaculately intact*, can keep their Spinach Salads in their own backyards because no tofu-whachafuckits are ever going to be placed on MY barbeque grill! They are definitely among the wretched soulless vegetarian pychopaths that evolution has singled out to inevitably wear dresses and perform ‘Hello Dolly’ showtunes by moonlight in city parks and are certainly not welcome at my patio parties! I just don’t trust the anti-meat non-barbequing types. They are basically one step from making clothing out of other peoples skin, tucking their penises between their legs while dancing seductively in front of full length mirrors and threatening to hose somebody down if they don’t put their lotion on.
I think the instinct to cook meat over an open flame is embedded into the DNA makeup of every male on the planet**. If it used to breathe air, chew grass, or has ever had growth hormones coursing through it’s veins then I want it’s butchered carcass laid out and sizzling on my grill. Even my cat knows to immediately run for his life and hide when he hears that tell-tale “WHOMPF!” of the barbeque being lit for fear that he may be viewed as a link of sausages in my eyes and end up roasting on the grill himself. Hell, I’m even tossing inanimate objects and household appliances on the grill just to see how quickly they melt and see what kind of buzz I can get from inhaling the generated toxic fumes. It’s safe to say, that I love my barbeque! I have even fantasized about having sexual relations with it and I have more than once ended up sporting a chubby after having indecent thoughts involving the barbeque’s igniter hole.
It’s just that I find every aspect to barbequing to be an absoutely orgasmic experience. Ideally, as I digest my buffet of roasted flesh, I’d like to relax with a cigar and smoking jacket afterwards while recieving a handjob from a young supple barbeque groupie as I watch bikini clad girls jumping on trampolines. Many a Saturday afternoon before I owned my first barbeque I’d spent just sitting in my parked car outside the local Deli wacking off to Rush tunes on the radio and thinking about the cuts of meat on display in the front window of the shop. Hey, it’s what I would then recognize as my “Erogenous Zone”. What can I say?
If barbequing were an Olympic event, then I’d be Jesse-fuckin-Owens! I approach the art of barbequing like a professional boxer would approach a championship fight. In the heat of battle, I’m likely to take quick breathers between rounds of flame broiling to sit on a small tool in the corner while I’m sponged down by a team of trainers. “I can’t see the beef anymore. Cut me, Mick!” Even weather is no deterant for this dedicated grillsman. I’ll be outside trying to light the barby in the middle of a hurricane before I ever try and cook my stuffed Pork Loin in the oven. Witches could be flying by on broomsticks and I wouldn’t care as long as they didn’t try and pilfer one of my beloved Lamb Chops.
* The scorched loss, or partial loss of ones eyebrows is considered a badge of honor among seasoned grillsmen.
** Along with the worshipping of female breasts and the need to engage in home rennovations.
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