Get in Mah Bell-ay!

God. Maybe I should lay off the bowling balls.

I am pretty sure that God had some help in Her basic designs for systems on Earth. For example, She obviously let some guy archangels take the reins on the childbirth process because when She decreed that bigass babies had to emerge from a tiny, little hole in the genitals, the men on the design team stole some furtive peeks at their pee-pees and nominated women for the baby-popping. Another area in which I know male seraphim or cherubim or some other ‘im had their meaty fingers: food. God would have just concocted a simple, bland, inexpensive nourishment, which would only provide muscle-building sustenance since She knows how important it is for all Her creatures to look sexy and lithe and fertile, especially in a thong.

The first idea that the all-male food-design team tossed around probably concerned life-long supplies of breast milk, but they realized it would be problematic once the incisors came in. When they couldn’t imagine a simple and inexpensive solution other than titty-juice, they decided it would be best for mortals to choose their own fare based on individual preferences, and that, above all, meat was good. And so began humanity’s never-ending struggle with front-porch-chunkage. Thanks, bastards.

Why does food have to taste so fricking good? A better idea would be for food to have only neutral or bitter tastes, plus only neutral or rotten smells. That way, we would avoid spoiled or poisonous foods, much like in the current system, but we would not be tempted to inhale a jumbo bag of Kit-Kats because of their dreamy creamy, crispy, oh-so-chocolaty taste and texture. And we would not now have hips the size of a UFO and thighs that rub together in any weather, but especially on humid, sticky days, so that the tender flesh chafes, and the only way we can find relief is to leave work early to sit spread-eagle in front of a goddamned box fan. Thanks again, bastards.

Sometimes food is so enticing that even if you are already full enough (12-ounce steak— medium rare—with blue-cheese crumbles, house salad with extra croutons and Thousand Island, buttery home-made honey-wheat bread, and loaded baked potato) that your stomach and intestines are making little creaking noises from the strain, when the dessert tray comes around, you try to force out some gas from one end or the other to make more room for a warm, scrumptious apple crisp with vanilla bean ice cream. Warning: If you have eaten previously in the day, and there is even the slightest chance that your colon has company, you may find your panty hose full of poo, and let me tell you, that is one uncomfortable walk to the car; so proceed at your own peril.

Just the other night, I noticed some attractive fried chicken, stewed tomatoes and okra, fresh, sweet cornbread muffins, and bow-tie pasta salad with sun-dried tomatoes and black olives beckoning from the school cafeteria’s buffet line. Did it matter that moments before I had commented that I was about to puke from the enormous dinner I had already eaten before work? God, no. It is a sin to pass up good Southern cooking, and you never know when and if you will have your next meal. Unless you’re like me, and then it is probably in about three hours. But we humans are hard-wired for that feast-or-famine doohickey. (The bastards, yet again.) Fortunately, the belly is elastic, much like alllll the waistbands in my closet.