Cooking Lessons Not Going So Well
I’ve started taking cooking lessons. My early specialty is a spicy mascara gumbo. Yes, my fellow students often complain that it’s too airy and overcooked — although there is the one that claims that it vaccinated him against hair cancer while immobilizing his ears — but I think it’s a wonder of modern chefitude.
One day I’ll open up a restaurant, maybe called something like Get Your Spicy Mascara Gumbo Here, or You Probably Won’t Be Beheaded If You Eat Here. You know, something catchy that’ll make my restaurant the talk of the towns. And then I’ll serve that gumbo and maybe something made out of fish eyes that I haven’t invented yet. And probably other things also! The world is my oyster, and I will scoop out its slimy bits and replace them with marshmallow to make it more appetizing to the corn syrup-damaged American tongue.
But before I can get my restaurant off the ground, I’ll need to stop flunking out of my cooking classes. I think the instructor is putting too much emphasis on the other students’ opinion of my cooking, if you ask me. Just because everyone else makes their goat cream sauce with butter and milk doesn’t mean that I should fail if I make mine out of bits of rubber that I found on the sidewalk and discarded turbans. That just means I’m unique and different and all kinds of good things like that.
Maybe I can sue the teacher into declaring me a master chef. I mean, how dare he judge me. My people are a proud and noble people who have lived off of bits of rubber and turbans for generations, and I am deeply offended that some random person — especially one that I’m paying real live money to — can insult their taste buds with his big red “F” scrawled on my plates and his smaller but still quite red “see me” that I found written on my forehead after last night’s class.
Sorry, but there’s just no excuse for that. Any lawyers in the audience want to take my case? I can’t offer you real live money because I gave it all to this so-called cooking school, but I can offer you a swarthy gazpacho (no, it’s not a dark soup at all, why does everyone ask me that?) whose fragrance has driven lesser lawyers to suicide; one whiff and they realize that they have settled for a far less delicious career than the one I have chosen. At least, I’m assuming that’s the reason for their suicides. They’ve all been pretty sudden and unexpected. You’d think after the first several I’d learn to expect them, but I don’t seem to do that at all.