Genitalia: a small country in the southern hemisphere, noted for its peculiar geography . . .
The poets wax lyrical about the act of love, despite the fact that the equipment involved looks like roadkill . . .
There's an old joke:
Q: Why do dogs lick their genitals?
A: Because they can.
If men could do that, they'd never get out of bed in the morning.
Have you ever had that dream where you can suck your own cock? If you woke up with backache and a strange taste in your mouth, maybe it wasn't a dream . . . Even worse, is the dog giving you funny looks, and being much more affectionate than usual?
Considering their function, the most beautiful thing in life, why are genitals so ugly? And, as for the foreskin; what was Mother Nature thinking? Which brings to mind:
I was in the pub, during the Swine Flu panic.
Me: "I woke up this morning, and turned on the breakfast news: Swine Flu! We're all doomed . . . Then I bought my morning paper: Swine flu! We're all doomed . . . Buying a coffee in the canteen. On the radio: Swine flu! We're all doomed . . .
It used to be geographical: Egyptian flu, Spanish flu . . . Then I guess they ran out of countries, so it's animals now: Bird flu, swine flu . . . What next? Crayfish flu, wasp flu . . . and when they run out of animals: Geranium flu . . .
"Anyway, I've got it sussed: I'm gonna convert to Jewishness, so's the swine flu can't get me . . ."
Jewish dude, sitting at the end of the bar with a couple of friends: "You're going to convert to Jewishness? I think you mean Judaism."
Me, doing Jewish accent and gestures: "Jew dey is, Jew dey isn', who can tell?"
Jewish dude: "Oy veh . . . So, you think converting to (sigh) Jewishness will protect you from swine flu?"
Me: "Well, Jewish folks can't have anything to do with pigs, right? It's gotta be worth a go. It can't hurt, can it?"
Jewish dude: "It could hurt: You'd have to be circumcised . . ."
Me: " Well, you know what they say about circumcision?"
Jewish dude: "I'm going to regret this, but, OK, vhat do they say about circumcision?"
Me: "It's no skin off my nose."
Jewish dude: "A goyische Jackie Mason, yet . . ."
Me: "Hey, you do a pretty convincing Jewish accent yourself!"
Landlady: "That's because he is Jewish, you idiot."
Jewish dude (pointing at his impressive schnozzer): "Vhat? You can't see the nose?"
Me: "See it? I could pick it for you, I'm nearer to it than you are."
Landlady: "Ien!" Turns to Jewish dude: "I'm sorry about him . . ."
Anyway, you know how if you lie on your back and watch your bollocks, after a while, the right one will haul itself upwards? Then, a while later, it will lower itself back down. Nothing will happen for a while, then the left one will haul itself up . . .
It occurred to me that you could film this, speed it up, and set it to music!
When I were a nipper, I caught my helmet in my zip. The worst thing was, I had to go to my mum for help. We were poor, and my mum couldn't afford to ruin a perfectly good pair of school trousers (I guess she could have cut out the zip, and sewed a new zip in, but she couldn't be arsed) so she gripped the zip, and yanked it down . . . If you listen carefully, you can still hear the echo of my screams. These days, I favour button flies.
And why do yer genitals sweat so much? Working as a bus driver, I'm sitting in the driving seat nine hours a day. In the summer, the smell in the cab would make your sinuses implode. You know you've done a day's work when yer knackers are welded to yer undercrackers.
Depictions of sex on TV:
Apparently, all American women have sex with their bra on. It's all beautifully choreographed. Genitals don't seem to be involved at any stage. Also, there's no grimacing, grunting or squelching; I must be doing something wrong.
The worst sexual experience I ever had was after a party in Dartford. A girl was giving me a blowjob; she got overambitious, gagged, and vomited all over my nadgers.
Despite all this, I'm rather fond of my genitals . . . even if they do look like the Muppet from Hell . . .
Friday 26 July 2013
Zit really that bad?
I totally want to go to the pub, but I've got this humungous caldera of a zit right in the middle of my forehead. I don't know why I bothered to shave and brush my teeth; anyone who looks at me will see nothing but a huge, pus-drenched malignancy.
I'm not usually self-conscious, but the last time I went to the pub with a zit like this, the first thing anyone said to me was "That's a nasty spot you've got there!"
I was like "Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. Hey everybody, look at my tumour!"
It's one of those ones that doesn't quite come to a head, so trying to squeeze it just makes it worse. I've tried gouging it with the auger blade on my Swiss army knife, but that doesn't seem to have helped. It's now so swollen, if it stuck out any further I'd look like a Dalek.
I could put a plaster over it, and pretend I've been in a fight, I suppose.
Fuck it, I'm going to the pub anyway. After nine pints of lager, I won't care if the damn thing crawls onto the top of my head and starts jumping up and down, waving at people.
Back from the pub. Amazingly, although people stared at my megazit, no-one said anything, even when steam started coming out of it. Apparently, VolcanoWatch raised their Alert Status to "Condition Red, with bells on". When it does finally erupt, it may affect global climate patterns. Anyone within a 500 km radius is advised to stock up on canned food and bottled water . . .
I'm not usually self-conscious, but the last time I went to the pub with a zit like this, the first thing anyone said to me was "That's a nasty spot you've got there!"
I was like "Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. Hey everybody, look at my tumour!"
It's one of those ones that doesn't quite come to a head, so trying to squeeze it just makes it worse. I've tried gouging it with the auger blade on my Swiss army knife, but that doesn't seem to have helped. It's now so swollen, if it stuck out any further I'd look like a Dalek.
I could put a plaster over it, and pretend I've been in a fight, I suppose.
Fuck it, I'm going to the pub anyway. After nine pints of lager, I won't care if the damn thing crawls onto the top of my head and starts jumping up and down, waving at people.
Back from the pub. Amazingly, although people stared at my megazit, no-one said anything, even when steam started coming out of it. Apparently, VolcanoWatch raised their Alert Status to "Condition Red, with bells on". When it does finally erupt, it may affect global climate patterns. Anyone within a 500 km radius is advised to stock up on canned food and bottled water . . .
Absolutely the worst thing ever
The second worst thing I ever tasted was when I was walking up a grassy hill on a windy early Autumn day, just as all the craneflies were hatching. Orrible bleeders, yer craneflies; like flying spiders (shudder). Completely unnecessary fuckers. I was toiling up the hill, mouth open, breathing heavily, when the wind blew a cranefly straight into my gob. As the legs twitched and tickled inside my mouth I reflexively bit down, and the damn thing's long, fat abdomen burst, flooding my tongue with insect ubermank. I could still taste the grimness a fortnight later, despite buying up all the mouthwash in Southeast England.
So, what was the first worst thing I ever tasted, I hear you ask? (It must be you asking, cos all the Voices ever do is complain).
It was new year's eve, after the very much pub. I stopped for a Chinese take-it-away, but instead of ordering the usual chicken chow mein, I thought "I'll try shomeshing a bit dirrefent! What'sh (hic) the mosht exotictic thing on the nemu?"
After several attempts, I picked up both menus in both my right hands. They were printed upside-down, so I bent myself over until my head was upside-down too.
"Aha! Shtir-fried octopush wiv shpringing onions and root gingerer. That shounds pretty etoxic."
As soon as I got home, I tried a mouthful. It was truly vile, even worse than cranefly gunge. But for some reason (in fact, over a dozen reasons, of the sort that come in pint glasses) I ate the whole culinary abortion anyway.
In the morning, I woke up feeling like a toxic waste spill with eyeballs, but I managed to drag myself into work (no way am I losing my bank holiday bonus, dammit).
I was OK for the first three rounders, but just before the fourth and final rounder, while I was sitting at the bus stand, I felt a mega fart coming on. I lifted one butt cheek and let rip.
"Hmm," I thought, "surely farts shouldn't be sludgy?"
Yep, I'd shat myself. The octopus aftermath smelled even worse than it had tasted. Oh fuck, what do I do now? There's no way I'm gonna call control and say: "Control: Papa Bravo three zero. I need to return to garage cos I've shat meself." I'd never hear the last of it.
So I opened the cab window and put the passenger saloon blowers on full blast, to create a pressure differential, and set off on my last rounder. Amazingly, no-one noticed a thing! I guess the assault screen works both ways. Even more amazing was what happened on the return leg.
It's every bus driver's dream, under normal circumstances: a gorgeous, sexy girl came and stood by the cab and started blatantly chatting me up - and I was in no position to do anything about it! All I could think was:
"You wouldn't even be talking to me if you knew what I'm sitting in."
So, what was the first worst thing I ever tasted, I hear you ask? (It must be you asking, cos all the Voices ever do is complain).
It was new year's eve, after the very much pub. I stopped for a Chinese take-it-away, but instead of ordering the usual chicken chow mein, I thought "I'll try shomeshing a bit dirrefent! What'sh (hic) the mosht exotictic thing on the nemu?"
After several attempts, I picked up both menus in both my right hands. They were printed upside-down, so I bent myself over until my head was upside-down too.
"Aha! Shtir-fried octopush wiv shpringing onions and root gingerer. That shounds pretty etoxic."
As soon as I got home, I tried a mouthful. It was truly vile, even worse than cranefly gunge. But for some reason (in fact, over a dozen reasons, of the sort that come in pint glasses) I ate the whole culinary abortion anyway.
In the morning, I woke up feeling like a toxic waste spill with eyeballs, but I managed to drag myself into work (no way am I losing my bank holiday bonus, dammit).
I was OK for the first three rounders, but just before the fourth and final rounder, while I was sitting at the bus stand, I felt a mega fart coming on. I lifted one butt cheek and let rip.
"Hmm," I thought, "surely farts shouldn't be sludgy?"
Yep, I'd shat myself. The octopus aftermath smelled even worse than it had tasted. Oh fuck, what do I do now? There's no way I'm gonna call control and say: "Control: Papa Bravo three zero. I need to return to garage cos I've shat meself." I'd never hear the last of it.
So I opened the cab window and put the passenger saloon blowers on full blast, to create a pressure differential, and set off on my last rounder. Amazingly, no-one noticed a thing! I guess the assault screen works both ways. Even more amazing was what happened on the return leg.
It's every bus driver's dream, under normal circumstances: a gorgeous, sexy girl came and stood by the cab and started blatantly chatting me up - and I was in no position to do anything about it! All I could think was:
"You wouldn't even be talking to me if you knew what I'm sitting in."
". . . you may be a Pikey!"
If you haven't seen it, I can thoroughly recommend the 'Blue Collar Comedy Tour' DVD, featuring Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, Ron White and Larry the Cable Guy. Get hold of a copy, you'll be glad you did.
One of the things on the DVD is the '. . . you may be a redneck!' jokes. Eg: "If you've ever unloaded your pickup by lowering the tailgate, backing up at speed, and stamping on the brake - you may be a redneck!"
I found that nearly all of those jokes applied to me and my family, you'll be completely unsurprised to hear. The guys on the DVD are from the Deep South. There are a lot of parallels between the Southern Good Ol' Boys and us South Londoners. Eg: When someone hears a Saaf Lundn accent, they think: 1) Stupid; 2) Racist; 3) Violent; 4) Criminal. Which is so unfair - I'm totally not a racist!
Anyway, as a Saaf Lundner, I can totally relate to the Southern thing. (The 'Physicals' - Turkish bus drivers - at Potters Bar bus garage call us English drivers 'Rednecks'). One of the 'you may be a redneck' jokes on the DVD was: "If you've ever mown the lawn and found an old motorbike engine - YMBAR!"
Well, my dad once persuaded me to mow the lawn; he didn't offer me any money (Yerravinna woolly one!), it was more like "Mow the lawn or die."
The neighbours had petitioned the council to get a court order to force the pikeys at number 43 to sort our place out, cos it was lowering the tone. We had a massive triffid of a fuchsia bush entirely blocking access to the front door (up until now we'd dealt with it by simply using only the back door). I held the lawnmower up like a lance and charged the beast, singing (to the tune of the Sex Pistols' 'God save the queen') "No fuchsia, no fuchsia, no fuchsia for you!" When I tackled the grass, I found an old motorbike frame (Cossack 500). OK, so it was a frame rather than an engine, but I think it still counts.
So I started to think up my own YMBAR jokes, from the minor (If you've ever gone into Mcdonalds and ordered two quarterpounders with cheese, then taken the top bun off one, and the bottom bun off the other and put them together to make a halfpounder - YMBAR!) to the major (If you've ever had your house condemned as an unsafe structure because of your DIY efforts - YMBAR!) This last requires some explanation.
When we got kicked off the estate in S London, my parents scored a bungalow in NW Kent. The only reason they could afford to buy it was that the previous incumbent had been a Destroy-It-Yourself enthusiast, who had wrecked the place with his improvements. He had hacked a hole in a major supporting wall to install a 'serving hatch'. (The house was laid out so that, to get from the kitchen to the living room, you had to walk past the bathroom, two bedrooms and the front door. There was a dining table in the kitchen, but like all good rednecks, we ate all our meals in front of the telly, resting the plate on a folded newspaper on our knees). He had then done a loft conversion, putting in an open-plan staircase, which totally blocked access to the serving hatch. The staircase rested on a single-course wall, above the living room door, with no RSJ to support it.
My older sister got herself a boyfriend, who was a builder. In order to ingratiate himself with the parents, he offered to re-point the kitchen chimney for free. When he got on the roof, as soon as he touched the chimney, it toppled over and crashed through the roof of the 'conservatory' (actually just a wood and corrugated fibreglass thing laid between the house and the garden wall). Anyway, when the wall beneath the open-plan stairs cracked and the living room door would no longer open, my dad got him to hack a new doorway from the kitchen, further weakening the supporting wall, which cracked from foundations to roof. This house was the one we spent the longest time in during my childhood, and therefore did the most damage to.
We moved to a dilapidated terrace house in Dartford. The kitchen had a bare concrete floor, and the only facility was a bucket hung on a tap. There was no bathroom, and we had an outside toilet. I thought of a YMBAR joke regarding this: "If you've ever stood on the back doorstep and pissed into the kitchen drain cos you can't be arsed to put your coat and boots on and fight your way through the undergrowth to use the khazi - YMBAR!"
I have a few stories about the outside khazi. It had no door, and faced the garden wall, which was 6 foot high. One day, after eating some rather elderly sausages, I was sitting there making distressing noises. A head popped up, over the wall - a curious passer-by on the street. He was like: "Oops, sorry mate!" If I'd been in any condition to get off the bog, I'd have jumped over the wall and twatted him!
Our neighbour over the back objected to having pikeys living there. He expressed his discontent by dumping all his garden cuttings over the wall, blocking access to the khazi. I pushed down the windows of his car, and filled it with the cuttings, then forced the windows back up. He didn't bother us again.
But the worst one was when an advert appeared in the window of the local shop at the far end of the street: "ATTENTION! Due to an unfortunate accident, my collection of tropical spiders has escaped. Some of these spiders are very poisonous, so if you see an unusual spider, DO NOT approach it, but call this number . . ."
I am a total wimp when it comes to spiders. So when I went to the khazi, bustin for a cack, and found a huge orange and white tiger-striped arachnid there, I was more than a little disconcerted. I fetched a newspaper and attempted to whack the thing, but it scuttled behind the cistern. Well, knowing that a potentially poisonous 8-legged monstrosity was lurking behind me, however badly I needed a poo, I couldn't have opened my bowels with a crowbar! I decided that I could pursue no more judicious course than to emulate the sanitary habits of our domestic felines. I therefore scraped a hole among the bushes, and did my business au naturel. Some instinct prompted me to look up (in mid-strain) and I saw our nextdoor neighbour at an upstairs window, with an expression on her face which I can only describe as 'appalled'.
When we moved out of there, local property prices doubled overnight.
One of the things on the DVD is the '. . . you may be a redneck!' jokes. Eg: "If you've ever unloaded your pickup by lowering the tailgate, backing up at speed, and stamping on the brake - you may be a redneck!"
I found that nearly all of those jokes applied to me and my family, you'll be completely unsurprised to hear. The guys on the DVD are from the Deep South. There are a lot of parallels between the Southern Good Ol' Boys and us South Londoners. Eg: When someone hears a Saaf Lundn accent, they think: 1) Stupid; 2) Racist; 3) Violent; 4) Criminal. Which is so unfair - I'm totally not a racist!
Anyway, as a Saaf Lundner, I can totally relate to the Southern thing. (The 'Physicals' - Turkish bus drivers - at Potters Bar bus garage call us English drivers 'Rednecks'). One of the 'you may be a redneck' jokes on the DVD was: "If you've ever mown the lawn and found an old motorbike engine - YMBAR!"
Well, my dad once persuaded me to mow the lawn; he didn't offer me any money (Yerravinna woolly one!), it was more like "Mow the lawn or die."
The neighbours had petitioned the council to get a court order to force the pikeys at number 43 to sort our place out, cos it was lowering the tone. We had a massive triffid of a fuchsia bush entirely blocking access to the front door (up until now we'd dealt with it by simply using only the back door). I held the lawnmower up like a lance and charged the beast, singing (to the tune of the Sex Pistols' 'God save the queen') "No fuchsia, no fuchsia, no fuchsia for you!" When I tackled the grass, I found an old motorbike frame (Cossack 500). OK, so it was a frame rather than an engine, but I think it still counts.
So I started to think up my own YMBAR jokes, from the minor (If you've ever gone into Mcdonalds and ordered two quarterpounders with cheese, then taken the top bun off one, and the bottom bun off the other and put them together to make a halfpounder - YMBAR!) to the major (If you've ever had your house condemned as an unsafe structure because of your DIY efforts - YMBAR!) This last requires some explanation.
When we got kicked off the estate in S London, my parents scored a bungalow in NW Kent. The only reason they could afford to buy it was that the previous incumbent had been a Destroy-It-Yourself enthusiast, who had wrecked the place with his improvements. He had hacked a hole in a major supporting wall to install a 'serving hatch'. (The house was laid out so that, to get from the kitchen to the living room, you had to walk past the bathroom, two bedrooms and the front door. There was a dining table in the kitchen, but like all good rednecks, we ate all our meals in front of the telly, resting the plate on a folded newspaper on our knees). He had then done a loft conversion, putting in an open-plan staircase, which totally blocked access to the serving hatch. The staircase rested on a single-course wall, above the living room door, with no RSJ to support it.
My older sister got herself a boyfriend, who was a builder. In order to ingratiate himself with the parents, he offered to re-point the kitchen chimney for free. When he got on the roof, as soon as he touched the chimney, it toppled over and crashed through the roof of the 'conservatory' (actually just a wood and corrugated fibreglass thing laid between the house and the garden wall). Anyway, when the wall beneath the open-plan stairs cracked and the living room door would no longer open, my dad got him to hack a new doorway from the kitchen, further weakening the supporting wall, which cracked from foundations to roof. This house was the one we spent the longest time in during my childhood, and therefore did the most damage to.
We moved to a dilapidated terrace house in Dartford. The kitchen had a bare concrete floor, and the only facility was a bucket hung on a tap. There was no bathroom, and we had an outside toilet. I thought of a YMBAR joke regarding this: "If you've ever stood on the back doorstep and pissed into the kitchen drain cos you can't be arsed to put your coat and boots on and fight your way through the undergrowth to use the khazi - YMBAR!"
I have a few stories about the outside khazi. It had no door, and faced the garden wall, which was 6 foot high. One day, after eating some rather elderly sausages, I was sitting there making distressing noises. A head popped up, over the wall - a curious passer-by on the street. He was like: "Oops, sorry mate!" If I'd been in any condition to get off the bog, I'd have jumped over the wall and twatted him!
Our neighbour over the back objected to having pikeys living there. He expressed his discontent by dumping all his garden cuttings over the wall, blocking access to the khazi. I pushed down the windows of his car, and filled it with the cuttings, then forced the windows back up. He didn't bother us again.
But the worst one was when an advert appeared in the window of the local shop at the far end of the street: "ATTENTION! Due to an unfortunate accident, my collection of tropical spiders has escaped. Some of these spiders are very poisonous, so if you see an unusual spider, DO NOT approach it, but call this number . . ."
I am a total wimp when it comes to spiders. So when I went to the khazi, bustin for a cack, and found a huge orange and white tiger-striped arachnid there, I was more than a little disconcerted. I fetched a newspaper and attempted to whack the thing, but it scuttled behind the cistern. Well, knowing that a potentially poisonous 8-legged monstrosity was lurking behind me, however badly I needed a poo, I couldn't have opened my bowels with a crowbar! I decided that I could pursue no more judicious course than to emulate the sanitary habits of our domestic felines. I therefore scraped a hole among the bushes, and did my business au naturel. Some instinct prompted me to look up (in mid-strain) and I saw our nextdoor neighbour at an upstairs window, with an expression on her face which I can only describe as 'appalled'.
When we moved out of there, local property prices doubled overnight.
Table manners
I was chatting to some of my human friends in the pub tonight, and the subject turned to table-manners. The humans were talking about people eating left- or right-handed. I was like "Eh? Surely you just shovel the grub into your gob any old way?"
I told them about the first time I was invited by a 'citizen' girlfriend to have dinner with her parents. It was a roast dinner, the best part of which (surely we all agree) is the gravy. I was brought up to waste nothing; so, after I'd cleared my plate, I picked it up and started to lick it clean. I looked up to see horrified looks from the citizens. "Wot? Did I do something wrong?"
Which reminded me of the time I met my brother's mad Moroccan friend, Moustafa. Mad Mous has a bizarrely caved-in face, quite grotesque to look at. Of course, none of the citizens would be crass enough to ask him what the hell happened to his fizzog. Well, you know me, I'm nothing if not insensitive, so I asked him about it.
Apparently, in Morocco, young men don't get to have girlfriends without a promise of marriage, dowry etc. So, the young lads would go to the edge of town, where there was a donkey tethered in a field. They would relieve their frustrations on this animal, who apparently seemed not to mind. But Mous did something she wasn't expecting: he used his tongue on her! Outraged by this, or possibly merely disconcerted, she expressed her disapproval by hoofing him in the face, hence his gruesome appearance.
It just goes to show, table-manners are more important than you might think.
I told them about the first time I was invited by a 'citizen' girlfriend to have dinner with her parents. It was a roast dinner, the best part of which (surely we all agree) is the gravy. I was brought up to waste nothing; so, after I'd cleared my plate, I picked it up and started to lick it clean. I looked up to see horrified looks from the citizens. "Wot? Did I do something wrong?"
Which reminded me of the time I met my brother's mad Moroccan friend, Moustafa. Mad Mous has a bizarrely caved-in face, quite grotesque to look at. Of course, none of the citizens would be crass enough to ask him what the hell happened to his fizzog. Well, you know me, I'm nothing if not insensitive, so I asked him about it.
Apparently, in Morocco, young men don't get to have girlfriends without a promise of marriage, dowry etc. So, the young lads would go to the edge of town, where there was a donkey tethered in a field. They would relieve their frustrations on this animal, who apparently seemed not to mind. But Mous did something she wasn't expecting: he used his tongue on her! Outraged by this, or possibly merely disconcerted, she expressed her disapproval by hoofing him in the face, hence his gruesome appearance.
It just goes to show, table-manners are more important than you might think.
9 disugusting recipes you'll wish you'd never heard of
There are plenty of repulsive 'bush tucker' foods in the world, from witchetty grubs to monkey brains, but for sources of truly horrifying foods, we have to look closer to home. Much closer. Too close, in fact.
1) Foreskin banana
Oh no, this is totally not the worst one on the list!
The Sakalava tribe of Madagascar are all for recycling. They also practise circumcision. (You know what they say about circumcision? - It's no skin off my nose!) Put the two together, add a banana, and you have a delicious item of quaint ethnic cuisine. Seriously, at the boy-child's circumcision ceremony, the severed foreskin is placed on the end of a banana (Sigmund Freud will be spinning in his grave) and eaten by the child's grandfather. Chewy!
2) Foreskin Soup
It's not only Madagascar where folks like to chow down on a morsel of dick skin: they're at it in Canada as well. In 2009, no less a personage than the Governor General of Canada, Michaelle Jean, participated in a Hasidic ritual which involved her eating actual foreskin and lentil soup. She is reported as saying that it was 'kinda like chicken, but more tender'. Eeewww - lentils!
3) Placenta Lasagne
There are apparently many health benefits to be gained by a mother eating the placenta after giving birth, both for herself and the baby. I suppose it's no more disgusting than . . . nope, can't think of anything that even comes close.
There are many (way too many) placenta recipes on the Internet. Most of them start by telling you to cut off the cord and the membranes (excuse me while I hurl), and that the placenta must be fresh - no more than three days old. Well, you wouldn't want to eat a mouldy placenta, would you?
This recipe for Placenta Lasagne is fairly typical:
Ingredients: 1 to 3 lb minced placenta, depending on how many portions you're serving.
(Wait a goddam minute! You're gonna serve up your afterbirth at a fucking dinner party? Do your guests know what they're gonna be eating? And what wine would you serve with that, anyway?)
I'll spare you the details. Basically, you make it like regular lasagne, using minced placenta instead of minced beef. I'll just have a salad, thanks.
4) Urine Cocktail
While there are many who espouse the health benefits of urophagia, there are just as many who warn of the health dangers of the practise. For the undecided, here is a (physically) harmless substitute:
Ingredients:
2 oz gin
1 oz lime juice
3 oz club soda
Serve warm.
"Serve warm" ? That is just wrong. So wrong.
5) Urine avec les champignons psychedeliques
Interestingly, the Koryak people of Siberia are reported to have used the psychoactive Amanita muscaria mushroom, commonly known as fly agaric, as a ceremonial entheogen (ie, it makes you see gods, or at least pixies). The mushrooms have side effects which include nausea, twitching, sweating and drooling. These undesirable effects can be avoided by passing the mushrooms through a human filter, since the active alkaloids are unchanged as they pass through the human body, allowing the urine to retain the intoxicating effects of the mushroom: those who drank the urine of those using the mushroom would experience the psychoactive effects themselves. Tribesmen who could not afford the mushrooms drank the urine of those who could; tribesmen drank their own urine in order to prolong the experience; and tribesmen on trips (in more ways than one) carried their own urine with them. They sometimes concentrated their urine by partially freezing it and ingesting the remaining unfrozen liquid.
6) Placenta Smoothie
This one would be pretty revolting even without the placenta. If you can drink this without gagging, I salute you (and move a long, long way away from you).
Ingredients:
1/4 cup fresh raw placenta
8 oz V8 juice
1/2 cup carrot
2 ice cubes
Blend at high speed for 10 seconds and serve.
Serve to who? Not me, lady! The online recipe describes this as "a tasty thirst quencher". I will never, ever be that thirsty.
7) Turd Cake
I hope this novelty cake is made out of chocolate. Mind you, it's Japanese, so you can't be sure . . . (Google 'Japanese scat girls' and you'll see what I mean. Or rather, don't.)
8) Turd Burgers
A Japanese scientist, Mitsuyuki Ikeda, has developed a way to produce synthetic meat from human faeces. He was approached by Tokyo Sewage because of an 'overabundance of sewage mud'. They asked him to see if he could find a use for it, and he came up with a method to extract protein from the sewage and form it into steaks coloured with red food dye and flavoured with soy extracts, which have been called 'poop burgers'. Test subjects have reported that it tastes remarkably similar to beef.
9) Placenta Pate
In 1998, Britain's Channel 4 was reprimanded for broadcasting a programme in which a woman's placenta was served to, and eaten by, twenty relatives and friends. A spokesman for the Broadcasting Standards Commission described the programme as 'disagreeable'.
The presenter, a TV cook called Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall (no, honestly, that's his real name!), devised a recipe using the afterbirth of a lunatic- er, I mean, a woman called Rosie Clear to make pate to be served at a party to celebrate the birth of her daughter, Indi-Mo Krebbs (see, told you she's a lunatic. 'Indi-Mo Krebbs' ?).
The placenta was fried with shallots and garlic, flambeed, pureed, and served on focaccia bread. Mrs Clear's husband, Lee, had seventeen helpings (weirdo!) but the other guests were 'less enthusiastic'.
1) Foreskin banana
Oh no, this is totally not the worst one on the list!
The Sakalava tribe of Madagascar are all for recycling. They also practise circumcision. (You know what they say about circumcision? - It's no skin off my nose!) Put the two together, add a banana, and you have a delicious item of quaint ethnic cuisine. Seriously, at the boy-child's circumcision ceremony, the severed foreskin is placed on the end of a banana (Sigmund Freud will be spinning in his grave) and eaten by the child's grandfather. Chewy!
2) Foreskin Soup
It's not only Madagascar where folks like to chow down on a morsel of dick skin: they're at it in Canada as well. In 2009, no less a personage than the Governor General of Canada, Michaelle Jean, participated in a Hasidic ritual which involved her eating actual foreskin and lentil soup. She is reported as saying that it was 'kinda like chicken, but more tender'. Eeewww - lentils!
3) Placenta Lasagne
There are apparently many health benefits to be gained by a mother eating the placenta after giving birth, both for herself and the baby. I suppose it's no more disgusting than . . . nope, can't think of anything that even comes close.
There are many (way too many) placenta recipes on the Internet. Most of them start by telling you to cut off the cord and the membranes (excuse me while I hurl), and that the placenta must be fresh - no more than three days old. Well, you wouldn't want to eat a mouldy placenta, would you?
This recipe for Placenta Lasagne is fairly typical:
Ingredients: 1 to 3 lb minced placenta, depending on how many portions you're serving.
(Wait a goddam minute! You're gonna serve up your afterbirth at a fucking dinner party? Do your guests know what they're gonna be eating? And what wine would you serve with that, anyway?)
I'll spare you the details. Basically, you make it like regular lasagne, using minced placenta instead of minced beef. I'll just have a salad, thanks.
4) Urine Cocktail
While there are many who espouse the health benefits of urophagia, there are just as many who warn of the health dangers of the practise. For the undecided, here is a (physically) harmless substitute:
Ingredients:
2 oz gin
1 oz lime juice
3 oz club soda
Serve warm.
"Serve warm" ? That is just wrong. So wrong.
5) Urine avec les champignons psychedeliques
Interestingly, the Koryak people of Siberia are reported to have used the psychoactive Amanita muscaria mushroom, commonly known as fly agaric, as a ceremonial entheogen (ie, it makes you see gods, or at least pixies). The mushrooms have side effects which include nausea, twitching, sweating and drooling. These undesirable effects can be avoided by passing the mushrooms through a human filter, since the active alkaloids are unchanged as they pass through the human body, allowing the urine to retain the intoxicating effects of the mushroom: those who drank the urine of those using the mushroom would experience the psychoactive effects themselves. Tribesmen who could not afford the mushrooms drank the urine of those who could; tribesmen drank their own urine in order to prolong the experience; and tribesmen on trips (in more ways than one) carried their own urine with them. They sometimes concentrated their urine by partially freezing it and ingesting the remaining unfrozen liquid.
6) Placenta Smoothie
This one would be pretty revolting even without the placenta. If you can drink this without gagging, I salute you (and move a long, long way away from you).
Ingredients:
1/4 cup fresh raw placenta
8 oz V8 juice
1/2 cup carrot
2 ice cubes
Blend at high speed for 10 seconds and serve.
Serve to who? Not me, lady! The online recipe describes this as "a tasty thirst quencher". I will never, ever be that thirsty.
7) Turd Cake
I hope this novelty cake is made out of chocolate. Mind you, it's Japanese, so you can't be sure . . . (Google 'Japanese scat girls' and you'll see what I mean. Or rather, don't.)
8) Turd Burgers
A Japanese scientist, Mitsuyuki Ikeda, has developed a way to produce synthetic meat from human faeces. He was approached by Tokyo Sewage because of an 'overabundance of sewage mud'. They asked him to see if he could find a use for it, and he came up with a method to extract protein from the sewage and form it into steaks coloured with red food dye and flavoured with soy extracts, which have been called 'poop burgers'. Test subjects have reported that it tastes remarkably similar to beef.
9) Placenta Pate
In 1998, Britain's Channel 4 was reprimanded for broadcasting a programme in which a woman's placenta was served to, and eaten by, twenty relatives and friends. A spokesman for the Broadcasting Standards Commission described the programme as 'disagreeable'.
The presenter, a TV cook called Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall (no, honestly, that's his real name!), devised a recipe using the afterbirth of a lunatic- er, I mean, a woman called Rosie Clear to make pate to be served at a party to celebrate the birth of her daughter, Indi-Mo Krebbs (see, told you she's a lunatic. 'Indi-Mo Krebbs' ?).
The placenta was fried with shallots and garlic, flambeed, pureed, and served on focaccia bread. Mrs Clear's husband, Lee, had seventeen helpings (weirdo!) but the other guests were 'less enthusiastic'.
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