Houston is Filthy

Mr. Lindsey said I don’t have to write about Offred anymore, so I won’t.  She’s really whiny and has terrible, if any, foresight and I don’t much care for her. Besides, Ofglen is the badass. Make the book about her Margaret. Rewrite.

I’ll write highly inappropriate haikus about food instead. This technically is an “in-class reading” as outlined by the blog directions on the AP Literature website. There’s a creepy plastic dinosaur on the website as well, it’s quirky enough to satisfy even the most stringent of counter-culture hipsters.

After some light “Googling” I’ve identified what is recognized as “sitophilia”, or a sexual attraction to food, after reading the opening line to a horribly abrasive website, “When a Hamburger is…More than Just a Piece of Meat…” I personally like to call it “the Houston Jimmies”; that’s gross. But this blog is not about judging people based on their sexual preferences, it’s about judging people who have no couth about it.

This really requires context because I’d hate for the Dallas Independent School District to get a bee in its bonnet about a subtly sexual blog post. It’s like God; you would think it would have better things to do than listen to some man pray that his cat makes it out of surgery, but there you go. One small, insignificant post about sex and you’re dead. DEAD. SEX. Let the game begin. Ok, context.

In class, Mr. Lindsey forced us to read overtly sexual and pseudo-artistic haikus about food that were written by overworked people in Houston; that little smoky, humid hub of Texas being the breeding grounds of those who cultivate depravity. I can’t breathe in Houston. The fog is thick, but the thinly veiled attraction to foodstuff is thicker still. Some people are really artsy too; they like to use the word “kissed” instead of “touched”. Oh, let’s read on. Something to the tune of “The outreach of an ancient Mayan world kissed my lips,” says a lonely, lonely woman who thought it would be exotic to sprinkle chili powder in her hot chocolate. There was someone else who talked about “popping peas” and “juicy cherries”; uncomfortable on their own, but sexual dynamite if you unify those two ideas. This is so wrong. Mr. Lindsey said it’s because there’s nothing to do in Houston but have sex with your food. Clearly.

Anyways, here are my attempts to stand on the shoulders of nasty giants.


 “Zebra Cakes”
Unwrapped Zebra Cakes
Undressing Little Debbie
Gonna “get some stripes”

The box literally says “Get some stripes.” And it has a zebra on there that is wearing round sunglass frames with square lenses. I’d fire the artistic director if I was Debbie. She probably inherited the company when she was little, and now she’s the CEO. She’s Big Debbie. She’s a big girl. Yes, a big girl…

(I’m from Houston. I have the disease.)

“Popcorn”
Pop pop pop pop pop
Pop pop pop pop pop pop pop
Pop pop pop pop pop

Now, I would classify this as Dada poetry really. It’s genius.



“Sliced Ham”
Lounges thick like slabs
Lies like meaty, pink tongues
Let’s taste these ‘tasters’

“Metaphysical Brownie”
Brownies nice and rich
Speak proud to my forlorn soul
I am so artsy