The rule for pomegranates reads:
Discard the pith and eats the seeds
A feat that calls for more bravado
With our friend, the avocado
Nut Job
Tag: food
Against the Grain
Ever eaten whole grain bread
And sworn you’d chewed on bark instead?
Creature Feature
When dining out we’re well aware
Our manners are on view
We open doors like Fred Astaire
Insisting… After you!
Which silverware to use and when
And how to hold a glass
While tackling pommes parisienne
Delineate one’s class.
But not so in the cinema
The difference is stark
Because it’s hard to be bourgeois
And crack nuts in the dark.
The lighting’s low so patrons know
When they’re not being watched
It’s fine to eat an Oreo
Retrieved from off your crotch.
You eat out of a bucket
Like a hog out of a pail
And when you’re done, you chuck it
Like a Molotov cocktail.
Wonder what life’s like inside
A real safari park?
Round up loads of humans
And then feed them in the dark.
Game of Cones
I have a dog whose name is Spark
Who sometimes takes me to the park
Where we enjoy an evening stroll
I feed the ducks; he’s on patrol.
An old pro, Spark knows all the tricks
From playing dead to fetching sticks
His latest one involves a scheme
Which bags him loads of free ice cream.
He’ll spy a toddler on his own
Who’s struggling with a waffle cone
One far too big for little hands
And all the balance that demands.
Spark uses charm and big, brown eyes
To get him closer to the prize
Then as he nears these little ones
That’s when he grabs the cone and runs.
I’m deeply saddened by each theft
And every howl from the bereft
Whose double-scoops of lemon lime
Perpetuate this life of crime.
The mothers round on Spark and curse
So I make sure they’re reimbursed
Which throws the whole plan in reverse
For he was taught to steal a purse…
Less Cargo
Our friend, the snail, needs never pack
For all it owns is on its back
It heads out on the open road
Quite unencumbered by its load
Snails never need to book hotels
Instead they curl up in their shells
Emerging when they feel the need
To partake in an evening feed
We mock the snail, its sluggish pace
And yet some pay to watch them race
Ironic, say the French, and crude
Who view them solely as fast food
Secret Santa
The day before The Night Before
The office turned into a store
With gifts galore from Santa’s stock
At lunchtime, right on one o’clock
A furtive glance across the room
As someone tried to wrap perfume
A figure hunched behind a fern
(the new girl had a lot to learn)
A friend will cough to help a mate
Disguise the sound of Sellotape
Shirley’s eyes revealed a glint
Each time she dropped another hint
In knowing just what not to tell
She kept the weak under her spell
And Andy, bless him, the poor dear
Just hoped he’d get it right this year
For Sue, who longed for something French
He’d bought a Jean-Paul Gautier wrench
Old Davey Wilcox saved a packet
He thought the whole idea a racket
His gifts were met with trepidation
Bought at his local petrol station
All dreams of wintry escapades
Were dashed by half-price wiper blades
Still, pity those who drew Pru’s name
The dowager who ran the game
And claimed the true meaning had gone
Then priced her gift on Amazon
Big Tony came to stuff his face
So ate at an alarming pace
Before they wrapped it up for Luke
Whose wife was just as bad a cook
Stollen, edam, Toblerone
Belgian nougat in a cone
Baby Jesus, Heaven sent
Now came via the continent
I’ve seen several scars happen
Over a slice of marzipan
Paper plates now put aside
Each festive tummy satisfied
Fiona stood to give a toast
But belched up Captain Morgan’s ghost
So Lenny then began to lift
And sift until he found his gift
50 ml of CK One
Would do quite nicely for his son
Aww, it’s lovely… that’s so sweet
As girls are wont to coo and tweet
With every present they unwrap
And gaze upon whilst in their lap
Which makes guys pause and think a bit:
This Santa thing’s made me a hit
That perfume seemed to animate her
I’ll say ‘hi’ at the laminator
So Merry Christmas one and all
Be pleased you got a gift at all
Enjoy that glass of Triple Sec
In your new purple turtle neck
Watch Your Tongue
When canny cannibals suggest
You call round as a dinner guest
You’re right to feel suspicious
They’re hoping you’re delicious
And if the book next to the pan
Is How To Serve Your Fellow Man
It’s time to quit the venue
‘Cause guess who’s on the menu?
Local Weirdough
“I’ve gone into hiding.”
“We’re in a Pizza Hut.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” Laverne lowered her voice. “Look around… what do you see?”
“Happy fat people.”
“All of them?”
“All the ones eating pizza,” I was able to confirm.
“What about him on his own over at the salad bar? What’s his story?”
“That’s a woman.”
“Okay, whatever, but ask yourself this: what type of person comes to Pizza Hut to load up on celery?”
“Maybe she’s the nurse.”
“Restaurants don’t have nurses.”
“This one should.”
“John, what am I always telling you?”
“It’s only a phase?”
“That was your mother.”
“Never make eye contact while eating a banana?”
“That was your cellmate.”
“If someone’s crying don’t ask them if it’s because of their haircut?”
“There are two types of people in this world: those who like pizza and -”
“- nurses?”
“Communists.”
“You’re why aliens don’t talk to us.”
“The Macarena is why aliens don’t talk to us,” Laverne sniffed. “Anyway, I need to talk to you about something else.”
“Shoot.”
“How can I get myself into The Bible?”
“Oh my God…”
“Is that what I should do? Should I pray?”
“That wasn’t praying.”
“Then you, my friend, have just blasphemed,” Laverne waved a menacing finger in my direction.
“Since when have you been religious?”
“Pam’s published an eBook.”
“And…”
“It’s a collection of poems which are just dreadful.”
“So…”
“I think one’s about me.”
“Because…”
“It tells the story of a beautiful Mesopotamian goddess.”
“You’re from Wisconsin.”
“Maybe it wasn’t always called that.”
“So, you’re thinking that if you’re a goddess you should be in the same book as God.”
“I should at least be on the cover with Him,” Laverne reasoned.
“Right, here comes the waitress so would you please come out from under the table?”
“Are you ready to order?” the young woman asked.
“Have all of these animals on the menu been freshly killed?” Laverne enquired, emerging to take her seat.
“Please excuse my friend, she’s Mesopotamian,” I interjected.
“Uh huh…” the waitress was going to need a lot more.
“She was just looking for somewhere to bury the leftovers.”
“You’re not really allowed to do that,” she advised us.
“Then I’ll just have the buffet special,” Laverne set down her menu.
“Anything to drink?”
“I’ve just topped up my gourd so that won’t be necessary, thank you.”
“I’ll have the Buffet Special and a Coke,” I jumped in again.
The waitress stared at her pad, unsure of what to write.
“Two Buffets Specials and one Coke.”
“Right,” she sighed with relief. “You confused me there for a minute.”
“I apologise,” Laverne continued, “it’s just that all of this takes me back.”
“All of what?” the waitress asked.
“These ancient murals. That one, for example, is it Babylonian?”
“That’s Cher at The Oscars.”
“So it’s not a mummy then?”
“I can check, if you’d like.”
“Would you?”
“I’ll be right back with your drink so please help yourself to the buffet,” the girl managed to get out, before backing into the table behind her on her way to the kitchen.
“Mesopotamia?” Laverne laughed.
“From a mud hut to Pizza Hut within the blink of an evil eye.”
“We’ve got her on the run, poor thing.”
“Excuse me, but did you find your earring?” a dashing maître d’ approached our table.
“How did you know that’s what I was looking for?” Laverne asked, delighted.
“It’s my job to notice everything. For example, I also noticed that you didn’t order a drink. May I get you one now?”
“A gin and tonic would be lovely,” came the order.
“When I return, I’ll help you look for your earring,” he promised, before waltzing off.
“Dark and swarthy with an accent. Good thing he wasn’t selling sand because you’d have ordered it as a starter.”
“You know us Valley Girls,” Laverne sighed, “we just can’t resist a man in cuneiform.”
Heavenly Blast
If everything God made is good
From right back to the start,
Why is it He invented food
That makes my granny fart?
Mr Ormsby At Large 