I did not get fat by being a super-picky eater, and whenever we went to dinner at one of my parents’ friends’ houses I was threatened with death if I were to ever complain about the food served just because it didn’t always taste like what my mommy made for me at home. As a result, I was a pretty open-minded kid (with a touch of Stockholm Syndrome™) who was always willing to try something new if you put it in front of me. There are surprisingly few things that I just cannot abide putting in my mouth, and those are: peas, black licorice, lima beans… and liver.
Naturally, this meant that at least twice a year I was doomed to be sitting (and starving) at the dinner table at 11:30pm with a plate of cold, dead, untouched liver in front of me, my eyes red and swollen, my nose running, my voice raw from repeating the words “Ican’teatitcuzitwillmakemepukeandpleasedon’tmakeme” over and over again. I have no idea why it was so important for my parents to win this particular battle, I ate just about everything else they asked of me (including broccoli, collieflowers and asspearagus) but for some reason they just could not let me get away with wasting food that I didn’t want to eat in the first place. It also did not escape me that anagrams of “liver” include “viler” and “evilr” and “rlvei”. ANYhow, when I was about 10, I decided I just had to show my folks that I wasn’t kidding, so I shut up, ate my liver, and promptly barfed it up all over the dinner table. I have not touched it since…
and as you can plainly see, I still grew up to be big and fat strong
Sir Barts-a-lot is a little jealous that StacheBear got to make the french onion soup. Stachey seems to think it’s pretty badass that he’s doing such a froo-froo dish, “There’s not a lot of french onion soup floating around in Oklahoma, especially in the 1950s…”
he’s right, in the 50′s Oklahoma was too busy pulling shit like this
Instead of gayly sipping a delicious bowl of cheese-covered (and clearly feminine) eurosoup, StacheBear proudly tells us his grandparents would have been eating “cat fries”, which are thankfully not made of cat, but are instead the thinly-sliced and deep-fried testicles of a bull. He asserts that they are really good to eat…
and refuses to think about how sucking down on some balls might reflect on his sexuality
Then Stachey gets all ignorant and tells Sir Barts-a-lot that he could let “the French guy” (Bart) make the french onion soup, which means Bart has to remind him that he is Belgian, not French. StacheBear’s response? “Whatever.” Niiiiiiice.
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