INT. NIGHT – KITCHEN
Alex is seated on a designer high stool from Tarjé at a marble counter in a tidy kitchen (with clean baseboards, thank you very much) that appears to also serve as a plantain warehouse. A mid-sized plate piled high with ravaged chicken bones rests at his right. At his left: collard green-scented candles and a flute of the finest red Kool-aid. Luxury, ho. Trillville’s “Some Cut” plays softly in the background.
I love food the way Donald Trump loves the applause his anus-mouthed ramblings elicit from his loyal, unmoisturized flock of Fuckboy Franks and Dumpsterheart Debbies. My devotion to food mirrors the potential Dickhead-In-Chief’s passion for masking his stage four melanin envy with his special brand of short-dicked xenophobia — the pestilent, rabid kind that convinces me that if reverse racism were real, more often than not, it should probably look and feel like a baseball bat to the motherfucking face because fair is fair.
My gluttonous reputation is internationally known, pleighboy. I get DMs with the raunchiest recipes instead of sexytime offerings. The people of Internetland tag me in food-related posts — “Alex, have you seen this nine-tier red velvet Oreo wedding cake/chicken castle/solid gold nacho situation?” or “This cheesecake eating contest/30-pound burger/chicken wing festival reminded me of you, Alex!” — day pon day via Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, text and carrier pigeon. So while I relish any opportunity for midday calorie-fueled wet dreams, I’m never not hungry or plotting my next meal(s). Y’all are such enablers.
Read the rest over at VerySmartBrothas.com.
Previous musings on food: "I Went To Memphis For A Screening of Underground and Here Is What I Ate," also via VerySmartBrothas
In the meantime, follow my Instgram account dedicated to my foodie exploits: Instagram.com/AlexGottaEat.
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