Gluttony Digest #1 by Gluttony Digest

GLUTTONY DIGEST THANKS: Addis Ababa Sport Bar, Washington, D.C. www.meshcap.com Pizza “the Size of Your Face” The Saloon, a.k.a. “The Saloony Bin”, Washington, D.C. 18th Street N.W. Korean Grocers, Washington, D.C. DR. MENDELSON’S GRUNDLE BALM™ Rite Aid Brand Pink Bismuth Minneapolis “Meat Raffles” Robert Kaplan, Esq. Maker’s Mark Bourbon Whiskey “Phil” Clinton The Continent of Australia www.filepile.org The Fox & Hounds, Washington, D.C. Mike Hack His High Holy Eminence, Pope John Paul, II Man-Servant Heccubus & Zazie Orange Door, Richmond, VA Highland Brewing Co., Asheville, NC America’s Hat Julien Shapiro’s Freedom BBQ’s Is-ness/Now-ness www.moderndrunkardmagazine.com Shaolin Subliminal Aerobed™ Air Mattress Manufacturers, Inc. Kitty Livingston Michael Fransen Robert Valette 24/7 Falafel Joint, Washington, D.C. “The Gyro Hotline”, Washington, D.C. Richard Buckner Results: The Gym, Washington, D.C. Pho 75, Arlington, VA The Hobo Spirit The “Smokin’ Hot” Bosses of America Gluttony Digest Turkey Burgers/Pork Chops of Doom The Editors’ and Contributors’ Loving Parents The C.B.M. of Washington, D.C. Antibiotica W. & The 2003 “Bases Loaded” Softball Squad

ISSUE 1, VOLUME I

PRICE FREE

HONOR ROLL The Editors of Gluttony Digest would like to recognize the following contributors, for rising above and beyond the call of duty, by presenting a few awards:

The Spring 2003 DR. MENDELSON’S GRUNDLEBALM™ Co-“Most Valuable” Contributors Award Sahil Godiwala Jacob Nassif Christopher “Dil” Parkison

The Spring 2003 AEROBED™ AIR MATTRESS MANUFACTURERS, INC. “Most Improved” Contributor Award Brinton H. Adams

The Spring 2003 WWW.MESHCAP.COM “Most Inspirational” Contributor Award Wm. Bung

NOTES

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Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2003 07:37:14 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: Errata Greetings. Thank you to the many contributors who have thus far reminded The Editors that according to the modern Gregorian calendar, the month of March has 31 and not 30 days, and hence, per The Editors’ March 10, 2003 e-mail (subject line: Update) which announced their high hopes that all submissions to would be made by “the end of the calendar month”, the “official”, yet previously described as “arbitrar[y]” and somewhat meaningless, deadline of this coming Sunday should by all rights be this coming Monday, instead. The Editors hope that their error hasn’t caused any of you to lose too much sleep. The Editors fully admit to never quite capturing which months have however many days. Id est, The Editors have always wondered why, if the earth rotates on its axis exactly 365.25 per solar orbit, and we’re keen on holding fast to twelve as favored denominator, the powers that be don’t simply decree that every month be made 30 days and ten and a half hours long? No confusion. No silly mnemonics. No freakish leap years. Perchance, some day. Best regards, The Editors.

IN DEDICATION:

From: Sam Dvorchik [<redacted>] Sent: Friday, March 28, 2003 12:20 PM To: Marc Pfeuffer; Jake Nassif; Sahil Godiwala Subject: Re: I had a dream last night. Needless to say, it was fucked up. But I think we may be able to mine it for some GD graphical ideas, if I may be so bold, possibly the cover (?) W/o going to far into the depths of my tortured psyche, the image burned into my mind’s eye is a well-dressed- but extremely fat man (we’re talking orca fat, think Mr. Creosote from the exploding fat guy scene in MP’s The Meaning of Life) in the process of or about to begin, eating himself. Somehow, he’s contorted himself in such a way as to allow him to chomp into his own chubby foot, which is itself encased in a hoagie (sub, grinder, hero) roll, which is in turn, overflowing with all the fixings and dripping all manner of clashing Dagwood-style ingredients (anchovies, alpacas, marshmallows, mayo, Xenadrine, Dick Cheney, sherbet).

Sorrell Brooke

Somehow, this fits into the snake-eating-its-own-tail overarching, meta-journal style that is GD, right? Just a thought.

APPENDIX B: A NOTE ON TYPEFACE GD is printed entirely in Trebuchet MS, a common typeface easily found standard on most word-processing programs. Its selection by The Editors was quite arbitrary, until they happened across the definition of a trebuchet, which is hereby summarized:44 The trebuchet was the dominant siege weapon in European warfare from 850AD to 1350AD, lasting one hundred years after the introduction of gunpowder. In England, it was called an ingenium, and the technicians who serviced the weapon were known as ingeniators (i.e, engineers). Larger versions were able to throw boulders, cattle, or even shunned negotiators. Rotting flesh was also a popular projectile. The trebuchet operates by harnessing the potential energy of a suspended weight. There are multiple variables in the design, which can be adjusted to optimize range and projectile-weight. In the trebuchet’s modern usage, “hurling” has become a gentlemen’s sport in Texas, where an active hurling society exists.45 At present, work is being completed on “Thor”, a trebuchet equipped with a hundred foot long throwing arm, using a 55,000 pound counterweight. Its design should easily allow for the hurling of ‘57 Buicks.

44 45

See http://nfo.edu/trebuche.htm for further information. Go figure.

Warren G. Harding and Warren G, “the Alpha and the Omega of 20th century gluttony”

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“and ya brain’s sayin’ ‘… yeeeahhh….’”

Harding survived just a few weeks longer. (Perhaps, we’d have long ago conquered France, in search of the devine secrets of Reblochon’s creamy and herbal aroma, and there would’ve been no threat of a U.N. Security Council veto, and the pending war in Iraq (er... um... what about my rack?) would’ve some international legitimacy.) Meanwhile, The Editors are hard at work editing the pieces submitted thus far and anxiously await submissions from the talented and attractive contributors who know very well who they are, and who need not be embarrassed in such a quasi-public forum as this e-mail. Best regards, The Editors. Date: Wed, 19 Mar 2003 16:38:36 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: Kissing your sisters (or brothers, depending upon your sexual orientation and gender)

1801 Wyoming Avenue, N.W. Apt. #25 Washington, D.C. 20009 - 1958 gluttonydigest@yahoo.com

Errata: Warren G is Doctor Dre’s cousin, not Snoop Dogg’s. He dueted with Nate Dogg (no relation to Snoop Dogg, but a member of the LBC) on the much-ballyhooed “Regulate” which featured a sample from the movie “Young Guns” which arguably boasted more yahoos than DoH. That’s when I reached for my revolver.

THE EDITORS: Marc S. Pfeuffer Samuel G. Dvorchik

Washington, D.C. Washington, D.C.

THE CONTRIBUTORS:

Sahil Godiwala1 Jacob P. Nassif2 Kelly B. Pollock3 Aurélie C. Shapiro4 Kevin Wheeler5 Collin Keeney M. Tucker Farman A. Wyatt Courtney Julien Shapiro6 Wm. Bung Brinton H. Adams Christopher “Dil”7 Parkison

New York City, New York Minneapolis, Minnesota Richmond, Virginia Washington, D.C. Asheville, North Carolina Bologna, Italy Washington, D.C. New York City, New York Washington, D.C. Boston, Massachusetts Hoboken, New Jersey Washington, D.C.

THE INTERN: Eli Dvorchik

Date: Wed, 19 Mar 2003 15:25:19 -0800 (PST) From: GD <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> To: Sahil Godiwala <[redacted]> Subject: Re: Kissing your sisters (or brothers, depending upon your sexual orientation and gender) But you agree w/r/t the Olympic alternate reference, right? Date: Wed, 19 Mar 2003 17:29:12 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: Kissing your sisters (or brothers, depending upon your sexual orientation and gender) Actually, no: the US boycotted the 1980 games to protest the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. The 1984 games were held in LA, and those were boycotted by the Soviets, Romanians, &tc. Y’all need a fact-checker. Bitches. Date: Wed, 19 Mar 2003 17:16:38 -0800 (PST) From: GD <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> To: Sahil Godiwala <[redacted]> Subject: Re: Kissing your sisters (or brothers, depending upon your sexual orientation and gender) But you agree that Harding was a closet cheese maniac, right? Date: Thu, 20 Mar 2003 07:49:08 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: Kissing your sisters (or brothers, depending upon your sexual orientation and gender) Sheeps milk. Not cow’s milk. That’s for poor folk.

New Marlboro, Massachusetts

A.k.a. “The Healer”. As well as contributing material, Mr. Godiwala can be thanked for much of GD’s copy-editing. The Editors hereby announce that any mistakes found within are strictly his fault. 2 Any illustrations you encounter both on the cover and herein are due wholly to Mr. Nassif’s talents, which are also on display at www.meshcap.com. 3 GD encourages your support of Orange Door, an art gallery run by Mr. Pollock, et al, in fair Richmond, Va. The Editors hope to hear from Kelly soon. 4 A.k.a. “Shapirotron”. Miss Leleroni is hard at work developing her own website, and The Editors expect great things: www.aurelgrooves.com. 5 GD’s inaugural poet laureate and brew-master, mind you. 6 For a good time, visit www.theraspberryexpress.com. 7 For as long as The Editors have known him, Christopher has gone solely by the moniker “Dil”, which he claims is short for “dildo.” The Editors have no reason to doubt this.

Date: Wed, 26 Mar 2003 08:43:28 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: Time is running out... but, not really. Or, is it? Greetings. Today is the 26th of March. Officially, the deadline for submissions to Gluttony Digest is this coming Sunday, March 30th, as the Editors must soon commence the tedious process of laying out the debut issue, if GD is to hit the stands on its originally scheduled launch-date of Tax Day, April 15th. Of course, as you well know, The Editors are horrible procrastinators and won’t actually be starting any work in earnest until – say – in all probability, April 13th; so, if you’re feeling anything like the contributor who recently phoned The Editors in the middle of the night, babbling in total panic, explaining how he’s suffering a horrible case of SARS from his trip to Phnom Penh, and he’ll be working ‘round the clock to finish his submission, unless of course he dies: Relax. The Editors remind you that you have a real job (well, most of you) and that you are volunteering your time and energy, &tc., and you shouldn’t feel any stress to meet a deadline, especially one that was selected so arbitrarily. Lean back and let The Editors do all the worrying. But do realize that at a certain point, The Editors will lack the wherewithal to edit your piece and re-layout GD1, and thus, your submission may’ve to lay dormant until GD2, if there ever is such a thing. When is that certain point? The Editors really haven’t a clue. Like the great Justice Potter Stewart w/r/t hardcore pornography, The Editors will simply “know it when [they experience] it.” Meanwhile, those of you in closest contact with The Editors will surely have warnings in the form of terse e-mails announcing how quickly you’d better get your sweet ass in gear, or else. Best regards, The Editors.

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Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 09:31:21 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off)

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CONTENTS Introduction

page

by The Editors

I quit. Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 08:06:18 -0800 (PST) From: GD <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> To: Sahil Godiwala <[redacted]> Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off) You’re quitting the closet and admitting your a homo? Congratulations, Sahil. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

Mailbag

by GD’s Faithful Readers

Of Gods and Pastries

by Christopher “Dil” Parkison

Ask “The Healer” by Sahil Godiwala

Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 10:08:34 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off)

Please, Pope, Please…

What does that even mean?

Happiness (A Venn Diagram) & Faith (A List)

Warren G! I need booze.

by Samuel G. Dvorchik

by Jacob P. Nassif; The Editors & Certain Contributors

Bologna da Bologna by Collin Keeney

Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 12:32:30 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off)

Weapons of Ass Destruction

Not gay. Straight. Do I get another gift certificate if Warren G and Harding win? I’ll treat you to a jalapeño popper platter. Mmm... popper platter.

A Calculus of Panic (Prose)

Date: Friday, March 14, 2003 1:34 PM From: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com To: ‘Sahil Godiwala’ <[redacted]> Subject: RE: In dedication (a run-off) Yes, “poppers” are a great way to relax before an initial encounter from the rear. However, avoid ingesting anything as spicy as a jalapeño, as their enzymes tend to irritate on egress. Date: Wed, 19 Mar 2003 14:30:08 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: Kissing your sisters (or brothers, depending upon your sexual orientation and gender) Greetings. The results are final, and there’s a dead heat, contributors! Rather than conducting another cumbersome run-off, The Editors, via late-night satellite teleconferencing, have gathered their executive authorities and have decided to co-dedicate the inaugural issue of Gluttony Digest to both Sorrell Brooke, and the “alpha and omega of 20th century excess”, Warren G. Harding and Warren G. Mr. Brooke, of course, played the affable Boss Hogg on TV’s inexplicably popular “The Dukes of Hazzard”. Boss Hogg (whom The Editor’s guess was the County Executive of fictional Hazzard County, Georgia... no mention of electoral politics in DoH recall to mind) was best known for his extreme appetite, insatiable greed, and complete and utter hostility toward the Duke family, including cousins, Bo and Luke (as well as their scab replacements, when the Duke boys we all knew and loved were off competing in the NASCAR circuit, i.e., holding out for more cold hard Reagan-era cash), and Master Patriarch “Uncle Jesse”, which manifested in Hogg’s absolute neglect of the remainder of his charge. (He couldn’t even manage a paved road... The Editors shudder to think of the literacy rate for Hazzard County under the Hogg regime.) Despite portraying such a corpulent character, Mr. Brooke was actually a man of relatively athletic build, having had to don several dozen kilograms of prosthetic and synthetic blubber for each scene. In fact, The Editors have learned that Mr. Brooke was an alternate in the 1980 Los Angeles Summer Olympic games, running the third leg in the 1600m relay. Sad to say, Mr. Brooke left this earth in 1994, having succumb to cancer of the colon. (Oddly enough, in a DoH reunion episode, filmed in 1998, no mention was made of Boss Hogg whatsoever. The producers instead chose to base the action on an unspoken and rather incestuous relationship between Bo and the aging, sagging Daisy.) Warren G was a mildly successful rap artist of the early 1990s. The Editors are told that Mr. G may’ve some relation to Snoop Dogg, depending upon the popular definition of “cousin”. Gluttony Digest’s intern is researching this allegation and the associated contemporary linguistics, as The Editors enjoy more of his fine mountain blend. (Man! this kid can brew a cup of java.) Warren G. Harding was president of these states united from 1921 to 1923. He died of a massive coronary while in office. Little else is known about the reclusive Harding. White House lore has it that Mr. Harding was an aspiring choreographer and an aficionado of fine, imported cheeses. It’s rumored that immediately prior to Mr. Harding’s death, he was in the midst of finalizing an executive order declaring March 1 through 7 “National Fine and/or Imported Cheese Week.” The Editors can only wonder what the state of international affairs would be like today, had Mr.

by Wm. Bung

by Brinton H. Adams

Travels with Ned

by M. Tucker Farman XENADRINE™! Now 85% by Sahil Godiwala

8 10 12 13 14 16 20 21

Off!!!

To Workout or Not to Workout (An Equation) by Aurélie C. Shapiro

“Fuckly”: The Current State of Verbal Gluttony by Collin Keeney

Cheese Dip (A Recipe) by Sahil Godiwala

Throngs of Thongs by Julien Shapiro

Play Ball!

by Christopher “Dil” Parkison

Redeemable Vice

by A. Wyatt Courtney

The Letters Fromunda by Kevin Wheeler

Epilogue

by Marc S. Pfeuffer

23 25 26 28 29 32 34 37 42

Appendix A: The Making of Gluttony Digest

Appendix B: A Note on Typeface

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INTRODUCTION

From: [Wm. Bung] [<redacted>] Sent: Tuesday, March 11, 2003 11:14 AM To: Marc Pfeuffer; Sam Dvorchik Subject: RE: Fwd: THIS IS NOT SPAM (From your friends M. Pfeuffer and S. Dvorchik)

Spring, 2003.

ASHINGTON D.C. - WELCOME. A FEW WORDS on medium. Gluttony Digest is more than likely something that’d be best accessed intertronically,8 though The Editors and, to a lesser extent, The Contributors, have chosen the tried-and-true old-fashioned paper method instead, because, frankly, the associated technology is a smidge intimidating, and a tiresome process for novices, and something they’ve decided they’d do just as well to avoid.9 So, here’s GD making its solemn debut on fourteen trusty sheets of 8½ by 11.10 Understand, dear reader, that even in today’s technocratic world, paper has its distinct advantages: no antiquated dial-up network is necessary for access, first off, and better yet, you can handoff this copy to your friends, family, &tc., when you’re finished with it, without having to cumbersomely copy and paste some obscure URL11 into an e-mail, thus overcrowding and already bloated bandwidth. At any rate, here goes.

“Just what is a Gluttony Digest, anyhow?” Well, that’s asking a mouthful. GD started out as project hypothesized in The Editors’ living room12 to investigate and analyze the ways and means of over-consumption in modern day Western Hemispheric 8

I.e., via the world wide web, information-superhighway, &tc. The Editors hereby credit Ms. Shapiro for introducing them to the synonym. 9 Please do us the kind favor, yet, of not confusing GD with an example of a “zine”-formatted medium. The Editors are not even positive a second installment will follow. I.e., considering GD a periodical might be a tad ambitious, if not presumptuous. 10 Realize, of course, that GD was entirely produced via computer, and printed/PDF’d using associated technology, &tc. The Editors were not busy at work type-setting and mimeographing. They are not troglodytes or technophobes. 11 One that would most likely contain an embarrassing domain, e.g., “geocities”, because The Editors are poor and cannot afford their own personalized, stylized domain name at their current meager salaries, in this ever downward-turning economy. 12 Which also happens to be one Editor’s bedroom, in which he sleeps nightly upon a factory-refurbished air mattress. A sad state of affairs, indeed.

Well, I thought about the old enema trick, but I don’t really want the whole tube-up-my-ass procedure. I’m not down with foreign bodies entering down there (unless it’s an old dude’s finger), and this is so much better. So very satisfying. I am eagerly anticipating my diet fuel tonight. Date: Tue, 11 Mar 2003 07:19:20 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: In dedication (a vote) Greetings. Again, overwhelming responses to yesterday’s inquiry from The Editors. So that they can return to their day jobs, The Editors are arbitrarily taking the candidates having been nominated thus far and calling for a vote. Reply with your preference. The top three choices will enter into a runoff, to be held this Friday, 14 March 2003. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

Allin, GG (death metal antihero) Brooke, Sorrell (actor who played “Boss Hogg” on TV’s “The Dukes of Hazzard”) Beuller, Ferris (character from movie of same name, played by Mathew Broderick) Bus Boys everywhere (for bringing bread and water to the people) Carter, Nell (TV actress/Broadway diva) Christ, Jesus H. (known, inter alia, for transforming water into wine) D.C. Metro employees (known for their abject corpulence) Dickerson, Eric (football player; known for his complete and utter inarticulateness) Enya (new age vocalist) Fox News Fox, Rick (basketball player; known for wearing hair in a distinct fashion labeled “The Toilet-head”) G, Warren (rap artist of little importance) Gilyard, Jr., Clarence (the lone black actor from the movie “Top Gun” who played the character “Sundown”; also appeared on TV’s “Matlock”) Godiva, Lady (historical nudist and equine enthusiast) Hambone (featured on TV’s “Geraldo”; too large to exit own house; exterior wall was removed so that he could be fork-lifted to safety) Harding, Warren G. (29th president of the United States; allegedly African American) Honda, Accord, early 90s model (belonging to M. Tucker Farman; disappeared from the streets of Washington, D.C. following an infamous night of drinking at Stetson’s Bar, circa 16th and U Streets, N.W., Washington, D.C.) Longley, Ty (guitarist from the 70s buttrock outfit “Great White”) Moon, Keith (drummer for “The Who”) Norgay, Tenzing (allegedly prominent sherpa) Patane, Roberto (unknown) Presley, Elvis (inventor of the deep fried peanut butter and bacon sandwich) Sheep, Dolly the (first genetically cloned animal) Stray domestic animals of North America Vicious, Sid (punk rock legend/I.V. drug pioneer; died at age 21)

Ok, there’s the list. The Editors apologize for not being able to include more nominations. Please vote by 1200h, Thursday, 13 March 2003. Best regards, The Editors. Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 07:10:22 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: In dedication (a run-off) Greetings. The primary for GD dedication candidates is now closed. The Editors thank you for your participation. The run-off candidates are as follows. Please cast your vote by the close of business, Monday 17 March 2003. Best regards, The Editors. 1. 2. 3.

Sorrell Brooke (a.k.a. Boss Hogg) Fox News The ticket of Warren G. Harding and Warren G, dubbed “the alpha and omega of 20th century excess.” From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off) Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 09:17:19 -0600 Warren G and Harding. because they’re mine, mine, mine and I’ll get an extra Ruby Tuesday’s gift certificate out of it. My goal is to get at least $100 worth, and then drink myself stupid. Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 07:30:08 -0800 (PST) From: GD <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> To: Sahil Godiwala <[redacted]> Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off) Ruby Tuesday’s gift certificates are not redeemable for alcohol. The Editors apologize. You’ll have to stuff your face on deep-fried sundry appetizers.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -48From: Marc Pfeuffer Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 1:24 PM To: Sam Dvorchik Subject: FW: Monday Morning

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -5-

living.13 And it’s metastasized from there into something a bit more amorphous. Something, perhaps, sinister. No, scratch

GD is a snake eating it’s own tail. 13 From: Brinton Adams [<redacted>] Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 11:51 AM To: Sam Dvorchik Subject: Re: GD clarifications Yes, you fuck, I see. No worries. So what I really want to do is create a think piece for the modern, under 30, disenfranchised who feel that their little bite of the dirty-water dog with extra chili and sauerkraut is not enough. I must speak from the heart. Therefore, I believe my first submission will be an historical review of sorts, a compendium of the reasons, explanations and logic used to avoid going to work. From the most outrageous to the most sincere, from the heights of stupidity to the serene plateau of truth, I will explore the plethora of excuses and catastrophes that have kept us all from punching in at 9:00. What do you think? It will require a little research but the product might be quite entertaining. P.S. Your inclusion of “adumbrate” did not go unnoticed. Very nice. Always, Brit Date: Mon, 10 Mar 2003 11:16:18 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: In dedication Greetings. “Overwhelming” is the only word The Editors can employ to describe the intellectual tsunami created by this morning’s call to arms. The Editors are considering quitting their jobs in order to fully harness the raw force of nature GD has become. The Editors humbly thank you for your submissions, ideas, &tc., and please, keep ‘em coming. Meanwhile, as with any formal publication, The Editors would like to dedicate the premiere issue to someone special. Current candidates include: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Sorrell Brooke (the Yale43 educated actor who played Boss Hogg on TV’s “The Dukes of Hazzard”) Keith Moon (the drummer for The Who) Nell Carter (TV actress/Broadway diva) GG Allin (if you aren’t familiar with Mr. Allin, then you shouldn’t be) The stray domestic animals of North America

If you would like other candidates considered, please notify The Editors promptly. A vote will be held later in the week. Best regards, The Editors. From: Sam Dvorchik [<redacted>] Sent: Tuesday, March 11, 2003 9:28 AM To: [Wm. Bung]; Marc Pfeuffer Subject: Re: Fwd: THIS IS NOT SPAM (From your friends M. Pfeuffer and S. Dvorchik) [Your submission] is literally too funny for me to read at work. The other drones are looking at me like they’re about to attack en masse; antennae are twitching. B[u]nger, very solid work on the subject of very loose stool. I think I speak for both myself and Marc when I say this is exactly what we were hoping your column would be like. From: Marc Pfeuffer Sent: Tuesday, March 11, 2003 9:35 AM To: Sam Dvorchik; [Wm. Bung] Subject: RE: Fwd: THIS IS NOT SPAM (From your friends M. Pfeuffer and S. Dvorchik) [Wm. Bung], you should consider an enema. My God.

Apparently, Mr. Brooke attended Columbia University as an undergraduate, as well.

A [Former] Mission Statement: GLUTTONY DIGEST – asks… “What’s bloating you?” “OVER DOING IT” IS a part and parcel of human nature – to exceed the bounds of healthy consumption – because we’ve evolved from a species whose very survival depended upon the efficiency of caloric intake and conservation. Multiple layers of fat, for our primordial ancestors, was insurance, not a liability, as it was nature’s only way of storing energy for later use. There were no such things as mini-fridges, no preservatives, no leftovers, for all intents and purposes. Hence, we posit, for better or for worse, men and women today are genetically destined to follow this tragic/comic pattern: eat, drink, defecate, sleep, ad nauseum. It’s our goal at GD to shed light upon the sometimesgrotesque world of over-consumption, not via FOX-style glorification, but as an accurate account of everyday Western living. Whether it’s overeating, binge-drinking, sloth-like hibernation, or the frequent and unpleasant consequence of our irresistible inherent urges, GD’s mission is to examine the raw habits of unchecked appetites. What you’ll find here will be objective, scientific, editorial, anecdotal, glamorous, dangerous, informative, confessional, and hopefully, a window into the belly of modern man – homo gluttonous. Thus, GD is an organization of independent editors and contributors strategically positioned across the globe to bring you a critical exposé of human ingestion. Yet, our sight only reaches so far. We need you, the reader, to contribute your personal experiences to our monthly collection, so that a more complete record of human gluttony will be safeguarded for our progeny. As our great-grandchildren pop calorie tablets and wash them down with synthesized-protein smoothies, they may wonder just what drove men and women of the 21st century to such morbid extremes – what possessed a couple of twentysomething Washingtonians to polish-off a quart of three-dayold cheese dip with a wooden spoon? How could so much alcohol be absorbed into one New Yorker’s bloodstream as to induce nine consecutive hours of quasi-comatose slumber on his neighbor’s snow-covered driveway? What happened to the twelve college students on a Super-Bowl Sunday when their apartment’s plumbing failed shortly after the last of 144 hot-wings were eaten?

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GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -47-

that: GD is completely benevolent;14 after all, it’s only paper. See supra. What we hope follows will be harder to compartmentalize. Certainly, it will feature discussion – some abstract, some subjective, some factual, some theoretical – regarding gluttony per se in the common, fast-food-eating/S.U.V.-road-hogging lifestyle fashion. But, more importantly, this issue will reflect the notion that concept, in and of itself, is an unnecessary (perhaps even gluttonous) convention, and in the end-run, would only serve to limit GD’s overall potential. Thus, for GD’s premiere, The Editors have asked The Contributors to submit a one thousand word or less composition15 regarding any topic (or lack thereof) of their particular liking. Mind you, The Contributors are not professional writers. Rather, they’re merely respected acquaintances of The Editors of some sort or another. The Editors have asked The Intern to make coffee. The Editors, themselves, have worked strenuous hours struggling to divine some thematic thread with which to weave the submitted mélange together. Please bear with them. But enjoy in the meantime. 16

> They misunderestimate me. > I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity. > I know that the human being and the fish can coexist. > Put food on your family! > Knock down the tollbooth! > Vulcanize society! > Make the pie higher! Make the pie higher! From: Marc Pfeuffer Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 10:24 AM To: Sam Dvorchik Subject: FW: Monday Morning I don’t know if Brit understands what we’re after. Perhaps you could make it more obvious. From: Sam Dvorchik To: [Brinton Adams] Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 11:15 AM Subject: GD clarifications Dear Brit, Boy, you New Yorker’s sure are sensitive these days! I apologize if any offense was taken: “you fuck” was meant in an endearing ‘Dennis the menace’ type lovable li’’’ rascal connotation, “As in “Hey good morning, John, you fuck. New tie? How’s the wife and kids? Great! Go fuck yourself!” All in fun. That said, I think you are misunderestimating the flux and span of the literary goals and mission of Gluttony Digest. Allow me to adumbrate: As an aspiring literary journal of sorts, we need original submissions, so while a short piece detailing your personal response to the discovery of the world’s biggest cheeto would meet submission guidelines, a copy of the original, copy-righted CNN news report does not... Possible lead: “Reading of the discovery of what might be the world’s greatest cheeto, I was filled with a bright orange sense of awe and dread. I cried for the mistakes of the past and for the future of our children. Oh I cried like a little bitch.” But again, much monkey popping in your general direction for your prompt discovery of the article. That is one big cheese-ball indeed and a good find for all concerned. Of course, the whole GD enchilada is entirely voluntary and you may perceive little utility value in participating; entirely your choice and no hard feelings if you decide to take a pass. Consider though that, if the initial submissions are any indication, the end product (which will be crudely bound, with accompanying art and a meta-journal of the making of GD) is going to be pretty damn funny, and produced entirely by people we know, or friends of people we know that we would probably like if given the chance to meet them. All potential contributors were nominated to the staff for their substantial endowments in the sense of humor department and, if nothing else, GD will surely serve as a historical--and, yes, hysterical-document, capturing a small, yet oh so delicious, slice of modern American humor among a select group of loosely connected, smart, funny and young adults, and hopefully, giving a random audience a few chuckles, likely while said audience is on the toilet. That said, I know you could be a valuable contributor, as you excel at character-finding. Hoboken is a veritable treasure trove of literary inspiration; take a Dictaphone to your favorite late night food vendor and meet some characters. Please call if you what to discuss any ideas further. Best, Sam P.S. I drove Tucker’s car to Silver Spring, MD and back yesterday and can confirm it is quite badass.

Figure 1. “Put everything in here.”

From: Marc Pfeuffer Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 11:24 AM To: Sam Dvorchik Subject: FW: Monday Morning Top shelf. “The making GD” has prospered this morning.

(cont’d) These answers must be preserved for the future of mankind. Help us to define human gluttony and its cost. Do your duty. 14

Or, is it? &tc. 16 Image shamelessly lifted from www.moderndrunkardmagazine.com. Please don’t sue, The Editors beg. 15

From: Sam Dvorchik [<recacted>] Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 12:51 PM To: Marc Pfeuffer Subject: RE: GD clarifications Yes, I really like the way its taking shape... with the inclusion of internal correspondence, there’s definitely a Charlie Kaufman-esque angle developing. A deliciously self-aware development indeed.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -46-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -7-

MAILBAG

Date: Sun, 9 Mar 2003 19:00:38 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: Update

by GD’s Faithful Readers

Greetings. Today is Monday, the tenth of March, 2003. The Editors would be thrilled beyond words to have all submissions in by the end of the calendar month, as it’s their hope to go to press by mid-April. If you’re planning to submit something, let them know soon, if you don’t see your idea referenced below. Or, don’t. So far, for inspirational purposes, here’s how the debut’s shaping up: Sahil has written promotional material for Xenadrine, and an advice column, styled “Ask the Healer.” Sherpas. Monkeys. Oh, my.

Alpacas.

Dil has written a thoughtful soliloquy on the intersection of breakfast pastry and Greek mythology, and has prepared an opening day baseball line up. He is prodigious. He will submit more, The Editors are certain. Collin has mused on being hung over in Italy. The Editors are intimate with his drinking patterns and expect further ramblings soon. Aurélie has mentioned an idea of explaining her frustration vis-à-vis the modern sandwich. The Editors are expecting great things, as she coaches Bases Loaded to its first softball win in franchise history. Kelly is compiling a personals/dating page while care-taking Marc’s liver, which he left in Richmond over the weekend, along with his respect for tattooed women. Jake has made a Venn diagram explaining happiness, is working on a GD logo, &tc., and will no doubt contribute something enlightening in the written form. (How about an interview with Witt w/r/t driving from Minneapolis to Des Moines for Long John Silver’s?) Brit, what about you. You fuck. Tucker is transcribing recent late night conversations he’s had with infomercial telephone operators. Marc is editing his ass off while trying to learn rudimentary page layout. He’s writing a short story based on sordid lives of the crazy black men (C.B.M.) of Adams Morgan. He’s also busy not getting fired from his job. He sleeps on the floor. Cut him some slack. Wheeler is crafting a poem. The Editors realize it’s wrong to rush genius. So we’ll leave him be. Nice Wheeler. Sam is exploring the world of competitive eating, while following up on recent news of the French seeking a Papal audience to petition the removal of gluttony from the list seven deadly sins. Wyatt is doing God-knows-what, but The Editors are certain it will be good. Andy is deep uncover working on a Waffle House exposé. Keep it like a secret, please. [Wm. Bung], Sam is editing your proctology e-mail(s) and will consult with you shortly. The Editors encourage you to unleash your fiery wrath. Carte blanche, baby. Spargo, The Editors hope that your trip to New York for St. Patrick’s day lights a fire “down under” your arse. Eli is doing great work with the coffee. A regular Juan Valdez. Keep it up, kid. Someday this’ll all be yours. The Editors might’ve forgotten some important names. Beg pardon, they had a rough weekend. Otherwise, maintain your high journalistic standards and – please – under no circumstances use your GD corporate account until The Editors settle a dispute with a certain adult entertainment website.42 We’ll let you know. Meanwhile The Editors are gushing with hopeful pride, like expectant fathers. Also, remember that The Editors are looking for visual material as well as articles, so dust off your tripods, &tc. A D.C. staff meeting is in the works, too, though Ruby Tuesday’s balked when The Editors inquired whether there was a price break on bulk margarita purchases. So we’ll have to figure something else out. Suggestions are welcome. Best regards, The Editors. From: Brinton Adams [<redacted>] Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 9:35 AM To: GD Subject: Monday Morning Dear Editors, I appreciate your vote of confidence and gentle nudging-on. There are a select few from whom being called “a fuck” really means something. So without getting all emotional on your asses, I will try to add to the growing mass of this American -cultural dingleberry. Sam, I personally thought I might get a little credit for noting the world’s biggest cheeto. I guess since I a) did not find the cheeto and b) did not have it surgically removed from some part of my lower G.I. tract it is really is unimpressive and inadmissible. Fine. For now, I would like to submit the following:

This unfortunate situation is yet to be fully resolved.

EAR

GD, I

REALLY enjoy

Gluttony Digest. I think it’s insightful and irreverent and at times, even entertaining. How can I get a piece of the action? -Jim Kloofsen, DDS, Chicago, Illinois Dear Dr. Kloofsen, You raise an excellent question. If, in fact, there is another installment of GD in the works, The Editors will certainly entertain the notion of including contributions from the likes of you. Please send all material to the contact address listed on the masthead (preferably by electronic mail), and The Editors will consider publishing it. However, they shall return nothing. Thank you. Dear GD, The crossword puzzle included in the last edition of Gluttony Digest has me and my wife scratching our collective heads. Are you ever going to supply the answers? -Dale McGinger, England

London,

Dear Mr. McGinger, The Editors sincerely regret including a crossword puzzle in the previous issue of Gluttony Digest. In fact, it was merely a space-filler, as the clues were entirely arbitrary. Think of it more as an illustration. The Editors hope that you and your wife can find it in your hearts to forgive them. Dear GD, Can you recommend a good mixed drink? -Tonja Welch, The Azores Dear Ms. Welch, The Editors are partial to Maker’s Mark and Ginger Ale, though advise against drinking more than seven on a week night, twelve, on the weekend. Dear GD, Wait a minute. Isn’t this the first issue of Gluttony Digest? Aren’t “The Editors” actually writing each of these letters? Who are you trying to fool? You should be ashamed. -Timothy Leftwhig, Sarasota, Florida Dear Mr. Leftwhig, The Editors have no idea what you’re talking about.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -8-

OF GODS AND PASTRIES17

A: Of course. Venn diagrams are in fact encouraged. Other great suggestions include: sewing patterns, contracts, pleadings, timelines, grant proposals, mathematical formulae, touchtone phone songs, ships’ logs, employment applications, and yes, magic spells.

by Christopher “Dil” Parkison

ASHINGTON,

D.C. - AS I

SIT HERE EATING a coffee roll the size

of a small child’s skull, a curious thought enters my mind – “Do I need to at this entire pastry?” It is very tasty, of course, and modestly filling. The precious glaze, which has slightly melted on the exterior, caused no doubt by the roll’s proximity to my super-size coffee, is now congealing on my goatee. An hour later, as I look forward to lunch, it will remind me of the ecstasy that “I MUST EAT IT was breakfast and provide me with ALL, AND QUICKLY, the added sugar my body craves to get through a day spent sitting flat- OR ELSE FACE THE assed in front of a flickering light SAME FATE AS that sometimes resembles a CRONOS - THROWN computer screen. But I digress…

INTO THE PIT OF

“Do I need to eat this entire child?” Surely Cronos asked himself the same TARTARUS.” question and perhaps hesitated just long enough in contemplation to allow the newborn Zeus to escape. I must eat it all, and quickly, or else face the same fate as Cronos - thrown into the pit of Tartarus. Or should I save a bit for a late morning snack? The crust on my face may not be enough to satiate the desire in an hour hence. But NO! I shall not give in to “what ifs” and the idle speculation of mere mortals. If my body needs more calories in an hour’s time, than it shall have more. I can go down to the deli once more for another roll… or two. I can feign illness and want of fresh air and walk down the street to Dunkin Donuts or the new Krispy Kreme around the corner. I must eat now for there may be no lunch, no hour hence.

EANWHILE, THE GREAT COFFEE at my side demands attention:

thirty-six ounces of half-Guatemalan, half-Antiguan blend, twelve sugar packets, and five creams in a shatterproof, windproof, spill-proof, anthrax-proof, titanium-lined barrel. No styrofoam here. No pansy-assed paper cup with a paper sleeve 17

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -45-

Originally entitled “Friday Morning and a Coffee Roll.”

Q: Your idea is a bit derivative. Aren’t you just ripping-off McSweeney’s? A: McSweeney’s is doubtless an influence on most contemporary literary hodgepodging, as well as GD, we admit. The Editors hope that GD escapes whatever gravity McSweeney’s generates by (1) not limiting content to word-based contributions, or other traditional formats (ships’ logs, people!) (2) shunning the intertron, (3) giving forum to nonquasi-famous non-writers, (4) ok, maybe we are a cheap knockoff version, but (5) at least we’re trying, so (6) lay off, huh? Q: Comment on exactly what a “thematic thread” is. A: Well, that’s not really a question, so The Editors elect to skip it on technical grounds at this point. Q: Your title makes me feel less-than-patriotic at a time when the federal government is asking for national unity, visà-vis my personal acceptance of American/Western values, which no doubt include gluttonous consumption, which you are clearly mocking, if not rejecting outright. Would you consider changing it? A: No. Ok, that’s all for now. Stay tuned, and submit early and often. Best regards, The Editors.

Date: Thu, 6 Mar 2003 08:21:24 -0800 (PST) From: “Marc Pfeuffer” <[redacted]> Subject: THIS IS NOT SPAM (From your friends M. Pfeuffer and S. Dvorchik) Greetings from Marc S. Pfeuffer and Samuel G. Dvorchik (collectively, “The Editors”). The Editors of Gluttony Digest have chosen a more recognizable return address for the time being, understanding that many of you assumed their first two e-mails were unsolicited advertising - and yes thank you very much, they do in fact realize your genitalia are adequate enough to accommodate all those hot pornotropic and barely legal pan-Asian GIRLZ who will provide you with the utmost confidence to work from home while earning a graduate degree in low-rate mortgages, &tc. - and deleted them accordingly, and worse yet, now filter any incoming e-mail addressed from gluttonydigest@yahoo.com directly into your trash bin. Pity. At any rate, if this is all news to you and you’re wondering what this Gluttony Digest is and what it has to do with you, The Editors take this opportunity to briefly (re)explain the concept: A paperbound literary compendium, to which The Editors hope you contribute, of divergent media targeted at a very small and random urban audience who will hopefully find the time to skim it and at least chuckle once or twice or sigh and say - (please, please, please) “Gee-whiz, those kids at GD are all right!”, &tc. (A slightly revised Introduction is attached in Word format if you’re still lost. If that doesn’t help you to discern just what we’re jabbering about, you can catch up by reading the two e-mails below.) Of course, if you’re one of those few brave souls who actually read the first two emails, thank you for being patient and diligent with The Editors, and for the some of you (you know who you are) who’ve actually submitted real live material, which The Editors personally find top-shelf, and worthy of gold stars all around, an extra-special thank you, and a five dollar gift certificate to Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant, which you may collect by sending a self-addressed and stamped envelope to the attention of The Editors at the address found on the GD masthead. (Please indicate by writing “R.T.G.S.” on the bottom left-hand corner of your envelope.) Best regards, The Editors. From: Aurelie Shapiro [<redacted>] Sent: Thursday, March 06, 2003 11:44 AM To: Marc Pfeuffer Subject: heh heh So, if you type in “French military victories” in Google and hit “I’m feeling lucky”, you [directed] to a rather humorous website. My favorite is http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/text/bushmail.html. You can also link to the disco squirrels. Okay back to work. By the way, Ruby Tuesday’s Gift Certificate is “R.T.G.C.” not “R.T.G.S.” 41 Maybe I’ll write a piece about that. Date: Thu, 6 Mar 2003 13:28:54 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday Greetings. Since this morning’s e-mail mentioning Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant gift certificates, The Editors’ in-box has flooded with offers of quid pro quo exchanges of submissions for free food. While the Editors appreciate your enthusiasm, unfortunately, only those who’ve heretofore made submissions to GD are entitled to the aforementioned Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant gift certificate. So, please do not remit a S.A.S.E. unless prior to today’s date you’ve submitted publishable material. (No, links to obscure pimp-related websites do not count, though keep sending them.) The Editors regret being unable to accommodate everyone with a Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant gift certificate. We admit, mere mention of the appetizer menu, boasting eight varieties of deep fried meat and cheese product, has The Editors salivating. Perhaps a first staff meeting could be held at Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant and The Editors will pick up the tab for margaritas. Best regards, The Editors.

She’s a stinker, ain’t she?

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -44-

APPENDIX A: THE MAKING OF GLUTTONY DIGEST38 Date: Thu, 20 Feb 2003 21:14:21 -0800 (PST)39 From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: “and ya brain’s sayin’… yeeeahhh….” Greetings. You are hereby invited to contribute to a new venture: Gluttony Digest. You are among the chosen few because you are (1) an acquaintance of The Editors, (2) they have a hunch you’d like to contribute, and (3) you have something worthwhile to offer. What is worthwhile? At this point, everything. GD’s submission guideline is: anything original and less than 1000 words, or limited to one standard page at reasonable typeface. Examples include, but are not limited to: fiction, essays, cartoons, illustrations, drawings, maps, poetry, recipes, rants, raves, media reviews, translations, found items, lists, anecdotes, correspondence, editorials, missives, “Dear John” letters, scripts/screenplays, humor, tragedy, instructions, dining/drinking establishment reviews, grooming tips, general commentary, photographs, schematics/blueprints, lyrics, tablature, family trees/genealogy, interviews, gambling strategies, &tc. Attached to this e-mail in Microsoft Word accessible format is a brief introduction to GD’s concept at large. Please take a moment to read it and express interest and/or make suggestion in a reply e-mail to gluttonydigest@yahoo.com, if you’ve any whatsoever. N.b.: You will find your name on GD’s masthead, either classified as a contributor or a columnist.40 At present, there is no distinction between the two. Thank you. Best regards, The Editors. Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2003 13:50:26 -0500 From: “Brinton Adams” <[redacted]> To: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: Re:”and ya brain’s sayin’. yeeeahhh..” Can I submit my favorite e-mails from [Wm. Bung]? If yes, then it begs the question: Will any censorship be exercised or will this be a forum for any of our darkest, ludest [sic] fantasies/stories/experiences to have their moment in the spotlight? Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2003 07:51:09 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: Q&A Greetings and thank you to all who’ve so far replied with reaction, comment, acceptance, suggestion, &tc. At this juncture, The Editors will respond to a few specific questions asked by several potential contributors. Q: Are you serious? A: The Editors are at least 51% serious. Q: I don’t have MS Word. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Can you help me? A: Yes, send a self-addressed stamped envelope to GD, 1801 Wyoming Avenue, N.W., Apt. 25, Washington, DC 200091858, and The Editors will promptly mail you a paper copy of the introduction.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -9-

around it to keep my hand from getting burned, containing some sort of “lappa-frappa-chino”. Through the sweet taste of the fine Florida18 sugar and mild influence of Maryland milk, I can taste the sweat of the delicate hand that picked the coffee beans whose extract I now drink: the saccharine and curious mixture of tobacco, millet, and sex. Though sitting at my desk, I am lying on the beach in Trinidad, my man-servant at the ready.

“WLARGE?

HY SUCH A LARGE cup of coffee?”

HA! Why is anything I challenge you - why a “small” cup of coffee? Why a “small” donut? Was Caesar satisfied with a “small” empire? Or was Christopher Columbus satisfied with a “small” world? Was Pamela Anderson satisfied with “small” ta-ta’s? “NO! HA! HA!” I say to those who mock my grandiosity and demand smallness. As if one might say in passing, “I’m living small!” instead of “I’m living large!” HA! HA! It shall all go into my cavernous stomach! The coffee roll is gone, the canister is set for refill, and my man-servant has gone home to be with wife and child. If there is another meal in store for me, then I shall face it as if it were my last- with pride, with respect, with gusto. Long live the Fighters!

Q: I haven’t heard from you in nearly five years: what makes you think I’d want to write for GD? A: The Editors apologize. They’re shameful correspondents. If you write for GD, they’ll promise to at least try harder to keep in better touch. Q: What’s in it for me? A: The strenuous exercise of your constitutional right to free speech and press, whilst hauling your creative rocks out in a medium with other talented people such as yourself, and making the world an (albeit imperceptible) tad less boring, hopefully. In short, mostly nothing. Except very minor recognition in a low-budget paper-bound volume that may or may not even be distributed. Also, for every composition you contribute, GD will make a matching donation to the charity of your choice. Do it for the children, for Pete’s sake. Q: What about distribution? A: The Editors have mentioned the paper format in the previously attached introduction. If all goes as planned, copies will be distributed for free on the streets of various North American cities at some point this spring. Also, The Editors will create a PDF (portable document format) version which will be sent directly to The Contributors electronically, so that they may print, copy, and distribute as they see fit. All told, if GD could manage to circulate 1000 copies, The Editors would be most pleased. Q: I like to make Venn diagrams. Can I submit one?

No one is expected to read this. Some of it’s slightly entertaining, though, and some of it bares the true nature of GD’s very soul. 39 For the love of God, no one at GD can figure out why all the e-mail traffic has a Pacific Standard Time date-stamp. GD is proudly right coast, thank you very much. 40 The Editors eventually abandoned this distinction.

A.k.a. “America’s wang”.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -10-

ASK THE HEALER19 by Sahil Godiwala

Y C - Dear The N Healer, When paying a hit man, is it customary to tip, or EW

ORK

ITY

is a gratuity usually included in the negotiated fee? Waiting In Suspense Dear WIS, Tip you must, but it’s the method of tipping that should really be addressed. The trick is to tip the hit person in kind; that way, the IRS will have one monkey-fucking time tracing it back to you, and you can truly reward the hit person for a job well done. It’s also more personal than just giving money. I’ll turn your question over to my friend, Dobbs, who’s off’d more than his share of first wives, Star Trek conventiongoers, ombudsmen, and fat people: “It’s probably best to go to a few backwoods Appalachian bars, especially in economically ravaged, high-rates-of-alcoholism towns, where you can tip the hit person with shots of lowgrade grain alcohol after the 19

The foul-mouthed “advice” that Mr. Godiwala dispenses in his column does not necessarily reflect the opinions of GD, The Editors, or his fellow Contributors.

deed is done. Personally, I’d recommend the “Hairy Back Hit Man’s Lounge,” right next to the Piggly-Wiggly in Oak Nipple, New York. Just remember, though, to avoid those bars in which the truly desperate scum hang out. It’s hard to employ someone who’s been out of work so long that he’s forgotten what true labor even is.” And if you’re even remotely attractive, you should totally offer sex to the hit person afterwards. Dear The Healer, I think I might be gay. Will my buddies ever speak to me again if I simply blurt it out tomorrow at our weekly winespritzer, show tune, and fullbody Vaseline grappling-gettogether? Worried Anxious Nauseous Guy

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -43-

there’s nothing we can quite prove beyond our simple selves. I.e., no one is knowable in the sense that we know ourselves. Even the most intimate relationships we cherish are all guesswork in the end. Mere mountain tops peaking above the cloud line are all we ever essentially perceive. That we are alone, dear Reader, is the news we shudder to confirm as we grow old. That we shall never taste the thoughts of another or feel drunk on her feelings. And, perhaps, we over-consume because it allows us to momentarily capture the quintessence of our physical boundaries. And if we experience the limits of these inescapable vessels often enough, we can learn to fleetingly intuit the real contours of all the abject strangers bumping and grinding their lives up against ours. And we feel the subtle promise of connection, of community, of a love everlasting.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -42-

EPILOGUE by Marc S. Pfeuffer “If I never meet you in this life, may I feel the lack.” – James Jones.

ASHINGTON,

D.C. – AT LONG LAST, DEAR READER, we meet. A good meal was hopefully had by all. And we arrive at this conclusion with quite a bit to digest. It was my hope at the outset of GD to somehow reach the compulsion we all share - the impulse to overstuff ourselves to excess - to discover exactly why we cannot cease binging until we spill over the brim - and at that point, understand what it all teaches us about ourselves in the end run, if anything. This lesson seems out of reach, at best. At least, though, my hope remains that something common has emerged from all this hodgepodge, that a sense has self-distilled from these fifty-some pages and has spelled out something quasi-universal and recognizable. Something we can examine and perchance invite in as a proxy for the truth. I’m not certain about anything at this point, but here’s my best estimate. Gluttony. From the Latin, gluttire: to swallow, to gulp down. We hear the word and it conjures up the corpulent and unsatisfiable human appetite: man relentlessly consuming the outside, if only to distract himself from the horrible vacancies within. The outside being: the food, the liquor, the sex, the entertainment, the travel, the satiation of the senses in spite of the intellect. What is this lack we hope to fill? Is it even possible to fill it? Doubtful. And we somehow accept this as members of an intelligent species. Perhaps not consciously, but we feel it: That no meal, no matter how delectable, will ever qualify as an interminable taste on our tongues. That no drink will keep us drunk much past the dawn. That no trip will stay us from the eventual want of home. That no lover, sadly, will never leave. But, here we are adrift in a society all but inebriated with the messiah of endless consumption.

ET ME POSIT THIS QUICK THEORY and leave you be: Maybe we

aren’t so obsessed with consuming the outside after all? Rather, suppose for a moment that we’re actually set on digesting our very selves. At all costs, we try to understand our beings by fueling our lives vis-à-vis our own capacities, because

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -11-

Dear WANG, No. Stay in the closet, but make sure you get a few gropes in so you can keep passing as straight. From what you write, your buddies sound like the type of closedminded, gay-bashing, straight dudes that used to “harass” me every day after P.E. If I were you, I’d keep an eye out for Carl, though: I think he figured it out when you accepted that reach-around. Dear The Healer, I followed your stupid advice and now my grundle is more painfully enflamed than ever. What gives?! Totally Angry In North Toronto Dear TAINT, First of all, you fucking Canuck, it’s called a “gator.” Damn. What the hell do they teach you in up there in America’s Hat,20 anyway? “I live aboot the hoose, eh?” Fucking asshole… no wonder they call Canadia “the land of the hopeless ass-lozenges,” you goddamn prick with ears. It’s people like you and your moose-licking buddies that are undercutting NAFTA. Anyway. Sorry. What was your question again? Oh, yes: Fuck off. You should’ve read 20

I.e., Canada.

my instructions more carefully: you are *NOT* supposed to attach the wolverine to your bloodsmeared testicles. Idiot. Leave it to the Canadish to fuck up a simple instruction.

(A LIMERICK) He would step on the throttle And a smile would appear on his face For he thought to himself The Roadmaster is stealth And will lead me away from this place. But Ol’ Sass did not know That Sheriff J.B. Bigelow Was at the end of the road and awake So it is told that Ol’ Sass Took to the gas And paid no mind to the break. Through town he did zag And pulling a big bag Of weed from his pocket to bake Thought “this wouldn’t be so risky If I just had some whiskey So that hands and wheel mightn’t shake.” Undaunted he sped Though not right in the head Thinking “Oh, my soft bed is not far” But to Diane’s great fury They gave ‘Ol Sass a “DEWEY” After sideswiping Bigelow’s car.

~Anonymous

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -12-

PLEASE, POPE, PLEASE by Samuel G. Dvorchik

AIS OUI, THE

FRENCH:

SURE, we Americans know them as frog-

eating, funny-hat wearin’ snobs who folded like a wet serviette in World War II and totally wussed-out of the U.S.’s glorious conquest of oil-rich - but bullet-poor - Iraq. Yet, in light of recent biblio-gastronomical events, maybe this year’s retaliatory re-namings of low-quality, mass-produced American Franco-inspired food stuffs was a tad harsh: A group of French chefs, gourmets, and elite smarty-pants-bible-scholar types is currently waging a battle with even bigger spoils than oil wells (mon dieu!) at stake, particularly for the mass-consuming American fat ass: the fate of our immortal souls. As reported by the New York Times,21 a Frenchie group that calls itself De la Question Gourmande is petitioning the Pope to remove gluttony - au Francais “la gourmandise” - from the official list of the Seven Venial,22 formerly Deadly, Sins. For the culinary coalition - whose members include two world-renowned chefs and several elite froggy academics - the issue is one of semantics: outside of its biblical connotation - sinful food obsession - la gourmandise denotes the warm and true appreciation of food and drink at a well-appointed table that is as much a part of French culture as the Eiffel Tower and haughty unfriendliness. Before his untimely death in a helicopter crash last year, the group’s leader and France’s most famous baker, Lionell Poilane, wrote the Pope to ask that gourmandise be changed to the more appropriate gluotonnerie or goinfrerie, piggishness. In his letter, Poilane cited the great French wines, most notably Chateauneuf-duPape, cultivated for and drunk by generations of popes, as well as a 1999 speech in Warsaw in which his current Popeness fondly reminisced of celebrating the end of exams by scarfing crèmefilled sticky buns - surely, Polaine posited, French gourmandise poses no threat to our everlasting human souls… Then again, food is mighty serious business in France: earlier this year, three-star Michelin chef Bernard Loiseau took his own life - an undebatable Catholic sin - after a leading French food critic deducted two points from his restaurant’s rating… Just something to chew on. Bon appetite.

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The only protection that it offered was a place to catch the pigeon shit. “Does he need a blanket or something?” I asked, “I always keep a dirty blanket in the truck in case it breaks down on the road, or something.” “Oh no, no… no he’s homeless… he’s use to the cold,” the female cop said with a certain kind of pride, like this man is one tough sonofabitch. I really didn’t get it. The guy looked miserable. I wanted to call her fat Officer Aunt Pat but I never got her name. “He just needs a dry place to sleep it off for a while, then we’ll come get him,” Pat said with confidence. “Are you sure that stashing a bum in the back alley twenty feet from a brewery is the best idea?” I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, “ Dry spot my ass! Is stash-a-bum in the police hand book? Were you clowns trained by Chief Wiggum?” But you know cops, they don’t like being humiliated, it just makes them want to beat you with those cop sticks.

AM SURE THE KIDS loved the Art Museum and absorbed some culture. I went to work at the brewery, wondering what, if anything, I could do for Kenny the Eagle. Maybe I should get out of the alcohol trade. Do I, in my line of work, contribute to his condition? Maybe I shouldn’t have that beer for lunch? Maybe I should give it to Kenny.

I stepped out into the alley around lunchtime for my second of the day. I looked up toward the pallets and saw that Kenny’s friend had come back to get his crutches. Kenny tried to stand up but he just fell over on his face. He rolled over onto his backpack, flailing the crutches about. He looked like a turtle on its back, or a cockroach. The vet, who wasn’t too quick on his feet either, yanked the crutches from Kenny’s clutches and hopped up the hill and out of sight. “The Eagle has risen and will rise again.”

21 22

Blume, New York Times, 3/16/03 “Easily forgivable,” quoth Webster’s.

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pallets. I thought they had found this man dead in the alley last night and were dragging his ass through the streets.

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HAPPINESS (A VENN DIAGRAM) by Jacob P. Nassif

“Is everything all right, officer?” I queried. “Yep, nothing to worry about.” I finished my smoke, figuring the authorities had everything well in hand. I stepped inside the brewery door to face the morning’s work. I hadn’t quite gotten my coat off, when I remembered that I had left my coffee outside in the alley. I was met at the door by a moustache and a badge. “He’s not dangerous, don’t worry. He shouts a lot and can’t walk so hot, but he don’t mean no harm. We just thought we’d tell ya that.” “Tell me what?” I asked in full confusion. I looked up the alley and noticed that the officers had moved our pallets from under a fire escape and planted the man they were dragging in a heap between two stacks of dirty pallets. One female officer was shouting at the man about “being good for so long… why’d he have to go and…”

FAITH (A LIST)

by The Editors and Certain Contributors23

“Tell ya that we found Kenny here, greeting a group of school kids at the entrance to the Art Museum. He was too drunk to take to jail, the ER won’t take him, and he’s too fucked up to go to rehab. So…,” hiking his belt and pants up over his belly, “… he needed a dry place to sleep it off. That way we can come arrest him later.” There was a short pause. “We know this guy, don’t worry he’s not harmful. He’s just a drunk. He’d been doing good for so long.” Officer Moustache said. It was about forty degrees and pouring rain. Officer Moustache and the bum brigade had just dumped an unsightly drunk in the back alley, who liked to shout R+B gospel, by the door of a brewery, because he was too far gone to haul to jail. They’d squeezed him between stacks of pallets which must’ve been pissed on a thousand times. They were covered in four day old, rain-soaked, spent grain. The fire escape was about twenty five feet above the pavement, and only about four feet by four feet.

WHAT GD BELIEVES IN Travel America Maps Dogs Cats Crust Self-promotion Sandwiches Love Ribs Vegetables Drinking Alpacas French fries Bad Hair

WHAT GD DOES NOT BELIEVE IN Tourism Patriotism Directions Dogma Cataracts Stuffed crust Commercialism Sand witches True love McRibs Vegetarians/vegans Hangovers Frm. Sen. Bob Packwood (R-Ore.) Freedom fries Bad Hair-Days

In no special order: Kelly Pollock, Aurélie Shapiro, Sahil Godiwala & Jacob Nassif.

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Kenny was feeling mean and spiteful, so he snatched up the crutches, playing “air guitar” over the man. Then he walked on toward the ABC Liquor’s parking lot where the tendollarwhore might trade him a hummer for a nice new pair of crutches. She wasn’t there, but he found more wine while he was there. Crutches are a great way to spare-change it. No one with a conscience can refuse to spare change for even the shadiest of characters when he’s sporting some crutches. The Eagle understood the laws of funk and nature. Never let another get up on your down stroke.

The alley smelled of oil and urine. Kenny was waking to the whistles of far away children. He was still so drunk that the spins hadn’t left his head. He leaned back against the brick wall that serves as the entrance to the city Art Museum. He wiped his face with a blundering motion, smearing the mud and blood together with his stubble. He was hungry, drunk and wet. He reached into his backpack and found a pint of vodka wrapped in a brown paper bag. He unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. The whistling grew louder and soon a swarm of color came spinning around the corner. The school kids found Kenny the Eagle raving drunk, drool swinging from his crusty jowls, piss stains on his black jeans, clasping crutches in his dried out palms. They all started shrieking insanely. Some of the kids were crying, some were pointing and laughing, and one kid pissed himself. The teachers stood aghast, mouths slack-jawed and gaping, beneath the shadow of the Vance monument.

Now morning rolls in like a ton of bricks and lays a few tricks on me. I miss class entirely, I stink of alcohol. I sweat in the early morning sun and think “Why?” Why do the Italians care about Fat Tuesday? I mean, they are Catholic and who in this day and age actually takes Lent

Meanwhile, I was in the alley behind the main street in town drinking coffee and striking a match for the day’s first. Between the Ebony Bar and Grill and a rundown brick warehouse a few yards from the door of the brewery. I turned to shield the wind as I held the match close to the paper, when I saw the first cop. He was dressed for the weather and fully mustached. I turned around and headed toward the brewery door. Walking beneath the fire escape to shelter myself from the wind and drizzle, I turned to check out what the hell a cop was doing down here this early in the morning. Four more officers had joined him. Two of the officers were dragging a man with crutches by his armpits, apparently attempting to help the man stumble less clumsily. The others were looking around a pile of broken

BOLOGNA DA BOLOGNA by Collin Keeney

OLOGNA, ITALY - FIRST, “WHY FAT TUESDAY” BEGS an explanation. I guess that the typical Italian response would be “come no?” or “why not?” Indeed, why not? That’s what I said last night before pouring a liter (or three) of wine, a pitcher of margarita and then a dash of gin and tonic into the mix of pizza, “CRAPULOUS, pasta, &tc, rumbling away in my PERHAPS. BUT stomach.

INTEMPERATE DUE TO CONSUMPTION OF ALCOHOL? NEVER.”

HE RAIN SLATHERED THROUGH the sidewalk.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -38-

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wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction. No one could understand when Kenny would speak, anyway. Some jiving gibberish about a king overlooking the feudal lands that lacked God and potato chips, often warbled from his marred tongue. If Kenny wasn’t crazy, he played the part well. Maybe he played us all. The Eagle always talked religion when he needed a drink.

seriously? I’m sure the Pope didn’t even give up drooling for Lent (this year). Why should I give up anything? Especially meat. I mean, as the rhetorical question goes: “If a Pope24 shat in the woods, would anybody care?” We all know the answer to that, and it’s simply: no.

T WAS RAINING WHEN the buses rolled into Pack Place. There is a giant granite obelisk looming over Pack Square like an enormous geriatric penis. The buses couldn’t park there. They must park around the back, on the block where crookedhat and pregnantman sling rock. They put the rock down only when bicycle cops tinkle through and school buses come into view. Instead, they take a leak behind the dumpsters that reek like rotting flesh, and “what are you looking at anyway.”

I was looking at the teachers. They led these screaming souls in lines passed crookedhat and pregnantman, heading toward a rain soaked granite phallus. The drool puddled from under the stub tongue of Kenny the Eagle at eight A.M. The warm phlegm and amylase broke the dam of his cracked lower lip and poured onto his lapel. Then another gush spilled over and rushed to the concrete. The Eagle’s closed eyes never noticed the splash, nor the mud running down his chin. His cold drenched body sought out what shelter was available at some point Tuesday night. He lay huddled under the marquis of the Art museum in Pack Place. It had been raining for three days straight. Kenny had been drinking whiskey and burgundy since the first drop fell. He fell there to urinate and to stop spinning. The rain began to taste salty and was rising from the ground. His head hit hard against the brick wall and his teeth scraped the concrete as he quietly went into feudal dormancy.

So, that doesn’t really explain why I’m stinking of booze this afternoon, but it should give you some idea of the confused state of mind I’m in. Crapulous, perhaps. But intemperate due to excessive consumption of alcohol? Never. Another thought: why Carnevale? Did anyone ever think that Lent wouldn’t entail naked Brazilian chicks when they first came up with the notion? Apparently it means, literally: “Meat goes out.” I guess that’s somehow apt, especially since meat, et al., often does “go out” fairly regularly during the pre-Lenten period. For some reason, that begs a final question: “Can you footnote a footnote?”25 Strunk & White might offer some advice on that subject, but it would likely be somewhat ambivalent on the source of my sprawling, ambiguous, hangover-inspired pabulum. Roger that. Um… Signing off from “BO”, which falls squarely between “B-P” and “B-I” on most keyboards, in case one can’t find it rightly on the map. ADVERTISEMENT “Hello, I’m Bob Kaplan.

As grundle

season approaches, keep in mind, a wet, cool

day,

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dry,

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grundle.” A message brought to you by DR. MENDELSON’S GRUNDLEBALM™.

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He had robbed a homeless vet of his crutches, scaring the drunk, stubbled, white-haired, Vietnam vet shitless. Kenny came upon the man behind the “Blue Moon” where day-old goods are sometimes left out on the back loading dock for delivery to the food bank. He chased him with a cigarette lighter while screaming about Enoch and Methuselah. The Eagle wasn’t into sharing. The vet couldn’t crutch away fast enough and fell.

GD rips a bit on the Pope, every now and then. Please don’t tell The Editors’ mothers, especially the one that’s Catholic. Thanks. 25 The Editors advise: no, Mr. Keeney, you cannot. Otherwise, they would’ve surely found a way.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -16-

WEAPONS OF ASS DESTRUCTION by Wm. Bung26

OSTON,

MASS. - SO I GOT MY PROSTATE checked the other day. That was a fucked up experience. Ever had an old dude’s finger in your ass before? I have. Not too cool. Not cool at all. But at least I know that I don’t have prostate cancer.27

The doctor told me to bend over a table with my pants around my knees, squirted his hand with this oily lube shit, and the next thing I knew he’d gone to third base on me. I feel violated. Really unpleasant. Can’t say enough about how uncool that was. Other than that, things are pretty normal around here. I mean, every so often an old guy finger-fucks me, but other than that, life hasn’t changed.28 Meanwhile, I’ve been on this new diet, because I’m trying to lose a lot of weight real fast, and it’s working pretty well, so far. I’ve dropped about ten pounds and I have to say that it’s all due to my lactose intolerance.29 Unlike some people who are truly 26

Mr. Bung is contributing under a nom de plume, because he works as a teachers’ aid, and doesn’t want to embarrass himself any further. 27 As of yet. 28 Does anyone know if it makes you gay if you cum with an old dude’s finger in your ass? Perhaps a query for The Healer. 29 According to the National Digestive Diseases Information Clearinghouse website, lactose intolerance is the inability to digest significant amounts of lactose, the predominant sugar of milk. This inability results from a shortage of the enzyme lactase, which is normally produced by the cells that line the small intestine. Lactase breaks down milk sugar into simpler forms that can then be absorbed into the bloodstream. When there is not enough lactase to digest the amount of lactose consumed, the results, although not usually dangerous, may be very distressing. While not all persons deficient in lactase have symptoms, those who do are considered to be lactose intolerant.

Figure 2. The digestive tract.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -37-

THE LETTERS FROMUNDA by Kevin Wheeler

SHEVILLE, N.C. - I SAW THE BUSES rolling in toward Pack Place, packed full of jam-licking little cretins, still amused by the city. The tall gray stacked concrete and glass buildings that catch the cold wave of city sound, swelled in the rain on Wednesday. The children were ripped from the bosom of the southern Appalachians for a field trip to the city. Cars shuffled by to the sound that tires make when pushing water off the street, like what Band-Aids make when ripped from a hairy forearm. Stoplights beckon the droving drones. These youth were far away from familiar. The buses brought them down from the mountain, where moonshine is captured in mason jars and a two pronged ‘seng’ can fetch a good price on the Chinese black market. They were tossed to the twenty-first century Eagle St./Market St. corner. Smart thing that the cops were around.

The very same morning the drool was dripping, droving, and puddling. Its head-waters began in the tiny crevice deep inside the cavernous mouth of Kenny the Eagle. There it puddled up under his black and bruised tongue, no longer a sensory organ, only an obstacle for what little moisture remained within his body. He had chewed off a piece in his sleep one night after finishing the last drop from the hip flask. He thought it was a piece of Vienna Sausage that had crept into the bottle as a gift from Jesus. Kenny was a dreamer, and he usually walked around during the day with a small hand-held radio. He bopped and grooved in wild wanton spurts, smiling at the sky and shouting to the music. He never seemed to move without music. It was as if the radio was his energy source. Almost to the point at which one had to wonder: if the music stopped would Kenny the Eagle just drop into a heap in the street and cease to exist? Kenny always wore the same clothes, regardless of the weather. His rags were all season radials, plus kicking black shades and gold teeth; black Levi’s jeans with a faded brown leather jacket. He was about sixty… or forty, and always carried a backpack. For a lid, he strutted with a faux fur cap in the shape of a football. A smirk slid across his face when spoken to, like he knew some voodoo that could kill you in your tracks, but he

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GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -17-

redeeming vices.” He was absolutely right. While, clearly, some methods of coping are healthier than others, the fact remains that “blowing off steam”, or simply developing healthy interests, is a natural and necessary function of human existence - the inability to do so is quite unsound.

lactose intolerant , I have a much more mild form which gives me incredible gas, and if I overdo it, an exploding ass.

N RESEARCHING THIS ESSAY,

LEARNED that my cross-dressing

cross-trainer is otherwise an unassuming, long-time resident of the neighborhood. When not jogging in drag, he’s been seen banally buying groceries and taking clothes to the cleaners (men’s?). The runner is just another member of the nameless, faceless many. He could be any man on the street who, like the person next to him, requires an effective release from the burdens of day-to-day living. Society dictates that we put our “best” foot forward and trudge ahead, regardless of how it makes us feel. With this in mind, the next time you ignore work for an extracurricular project, greedily swill drink, or shakily dial your favorite Geisha, take solace in the necessity of your actions. Most interesting people are a potent concoction of contradictory elements - without eccentricity, individual interests, and vice, the world would be a truly colorless place and, yes, a “dubious gain.”

HI-TECH HAIKU She’ll Google™ me and discover my history of ones and zeros.

Here’s how it works: I get up and eat a hearty breakfast - whatever I want, donuts, bagels, chips, pizza, steak and eggs - anything. Then I go to work. At lunch I eat whatever I want: usually a salad and some fruit. (I try to eat a light lunch because I go the gym around three o’clock and it helps if I’m not dragging my gut around like it’s a goddamn grand piano.) Then I come home, masturbate into the “WITHIN AN trash can before I get into the shower (burns off more calories and gets the HOUR, I’M heart rate up), wash-up, and then FARTING FIRE take a nap. Around six o’clock I have my liquid dinner: this “Positrim” AND UNSURE health packet that dissolves into a WHETHER THEY large mug of milk. I think that the ARE GOING TO BE amount of milk that I have is especially key, because I have about WET ONES.” thirty to forty ounces, like three beers’ worth of milk. Within an hour, I’m farting fire and unsure whether they are going to be wet ones. Often I’ll check afterwards (feeling around the ass-crack of my pants) to make sure I haven’t squirted myself, when I will fart again, without (cont’d) Common symptoms include nausea, cramps, bloating, gas, and diarrhea, which begin about thirty minutes to two hours after eating or drinking foods containing lactose. The severity of symptoms varies depending on the amount of lactose each individual can tolerate. Some causes of lactose intolerance are well known. For instance, certain digestive diseases and injuries to the small intestine can reduce the amount of enzymes produced. In rare cases, children are born without the ability to produce lactase. For most people, though, lactase deficiency is a condition that develops naturally over time. After about the age of two years, the body begins to produce less lactase. However, many people may not experience symptoms until they are much older. Between thirty and fifty million Americans are lactose intolerant. Certain ethnic and racial populations are more widely affected than others. As many as 75 percent of all African Americans and American Indians and 90 percent of Asian Americans are lactose intolerant. The condition is least common among persons of northern European descent.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -18-

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warning, and feel a blast of hot air shoot across my hand and move quickly towards my nose.

In the early development of his psychoanalytic technique, Freud presents a unitary theory of instincts based on love and work: Eros and Ananke. With the emergence of Fascism, he recognizes the prevalence of yet another, disturbing, factor: aggression. Freud sees that “… men are not gentle creatures who want to be loved, and at most can defend themselves if they are attacked; they are, on the contrary, creatures among whose instinctual endowments is to be reckoned a powerful share of aggressiveness….” No matter how much one tries to satisfy the status quo there remains an ever-present urge to act out. All work and no play makes for an impossibly dull being.

Ninety minutes after taking my dietary supplement I’m on the can reenacting the scene from Dumb and Dumber where Jeff Daniels is stunned by the noises, volume, and smell that his ass is emitting. I swear, having to crap like this is a pleasure that I truly look forward to each night. The feeling of relief and emptiness after such a complete and thorough evacuation of my bowels is something I wish everyone could experience: a truly awe-inspiring sensation. I complete my overwhelming defecation by using up about half a roll of toilet paper to mop up the debris that my ass has spread around my ass. The only thing that I don’t like about this diet is that I absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, leave the house for any reason after six o’clock. I will not stray more than fifteen feet from the can because of the impending explosions I feel rumbling inside my intestines. So I don’t leave the house and the dogs look at me funny. It’s ok with me though; I’d rather do this than be a fat fuck.

I’VE BEEN SICK FOR like two months now. It sucks. Just congestion - a little phlegm and a runny nose - enough to piss me off and make me look like crap. My nose hair is totally out of control because of the constant running and snot blowing out of there. I keep plucking them but they grow back with a vengeance. I feel like a woman now, always looking in the mirror to see if I have a braid of nose hair running down over my upper lip. The worst is that my coworkers are all women, so none of them would ever tell me if I looked ridiculous, and the kids don’t tell because they are dimly aware of anything that’s going on around them. O

Speaking of which, this one kid is still wearing pull-ups to school and is taking massive, smelly craps in them every day after lunch. Then the classroom starts to smell and we have to take him to the bathroom and talk him through changing himself. Totally disgusting.

In a civilized social structure, it is usually unacceptable to act on one’s most destructive urges. In fact, the repression of disorderly impulses enables society to endure. To deflect overt aggression, the individual must develop a portion of their ego into a quasi-policing mechanism: the conscience. This “conscience” is not an inherent instinct; rather, it is a response to society around us. When functioning properly, it turns away aggression, resulting in feelings of guilt. Freud contends that “...the sense of guilt is the most important “FREUD CONTENDS problem in the development of ‘THAT… GUILT… IS civilization. It is the price that we pay for progress, and society is THE PRICE THAT WE therefore a ‘dubious gain.’” I PAY FOR PROGRESS, disagree. While guilt is invariably responsible for distinct levels of AND SOCIETY IS discomfort, it is precisely how we THEREFORE A cope with its looming presence that “DUBIOUS GAIN.”‘ makes people interesting. One can either exacerbate the dread or allay I DISAGREE.’ it. The life/death struggle is a part of everyone and forever locked in stalemate. Guilt, on the other hand, isn’t static. It can be appeased or, at least, temporarily muted. We all try to relieve the pressure differently. Through vice or sport, coitus or estimable acts, each individual pursues their own means of lessening their psychological burden. Mark Twain said, “I have not a particle of confidence in a man who has no

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -34-

REDEEMABLE VICE by A. Wyatt Courtney

EW YORK CITY - WALKING DOWN THIRD AVENUE last Sunday evening, I felt somewhat sickened by the prospect of the coming five days. Following a tremendous weekend of sport, the idea of subways and conference calls fouled my mood completely. Then, from amid the mundane shittery, a truly New York site emerged: the guy who jogs in the middle of the street, against the traffic, in a flowered “muumuu” - all six feet three of him, knees high like a Shetland pony, with make-up and hair done similar to Buffalo Bill. Like he was plodding his way “THE STRAPPING always, against the grain; as much a part of TRANSVESTITE the cityscape as the green burger joint on the corner and the homeless RUNNER, IN A geriatric fumbling with pennies by HEAD-ON COURSE the stoop.

WITH A BUS, REMINDED ME THAT THE FUCKALL ASPECT OF EXISTENCE WAS ALIVE AND WELL.”

Damned if he didn’t improve my mood instantly. The strapping transvestite runner, in a head-on course with a bus, reminded me that the fuck-all aspect of existence was alive and well. No matter what the city did, or where the fickle finger pointed, the impulse to go the other way would always prevail. Playing my part in what sometimes seems like a cliché-ridden re-run of another person’s life, I was pleasantly taken back to the ever-present desire to rip it up in the other direction; the refreshing fact that we all need a release.

TO SIGMUND FREUD, the human psyche is a playground of opposing instincts and urges. People’s minds are constantly challenged by the desire to undermine their own positive, orderly actions. Time and effort devoted to the common path invariably results in an equal and opposite urge to deviate. The tension produced by these conflicting instincts results in an inherent level of discomfort - or guilt. CCORDING

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The worst is that we can see his little legs under the stall when he changes himself and lowers his pull-ups and there’s crap everywhere, all over the diaper, running down his legs. And the kid is totally open about it: “It’s getting itchy.” “It’s all over the place.” “At home, Mommy doesn’t let me clean up my own ‘poopies.’ I need more ‘wipies.’” Nothing short of awful. In my professional opinion as an educator, this kid has serious problems - six years old and he still craps himself, still sleeps in the same bed with his mother, and on any given week will’ve shown up for maybe one day of school. His mother is ruining him and it’s a mess.

NOTHER STRANGE THING happened this morning: one of the

teachers came up to me and asked if I had a girlfriend and then asked me out on the spot. First time that’s ever happened to me. She’s cute, too, so I am pretty happy about that. I guess all the dieting and nose hair plucking has finally paid off.

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A CALCULUS OF PANIC (PROSE) by Brinton H. Adams

OBOKEN,

NEW JERSEY - SO YOU WAKE UP ON – say - a random Wednesday morning. Somehow, and against all the previous night’s protestations of your reason and intellect, you went out, and this time, you really went out. Your body, now reduced to a shit and piss factory by the toxins of last night’s ingestion, is rudely awakened by the alarm clock that you have, unbeknownst to you, hit ten times consecutively to provide the ever wonderful and always dangerous “dream bar sleep”. Your eyes open slightly, still glued shut from the lack of sleep and said ridiculous consumption. You are now slowly and painfully aware of your surroundings. “I’m in my apartment, nice… I’m still clothed and in the living room. O.K., so far so good.” You begin to run down the checklist: before you even get to checkpoint #2 - take piss before you urinate yourself (unless that’s already a fait accompli – Mr. Bung) you gaze at the clock and notice that someone had played a wicked joke on you: it’s nearly three hours fast. Silently cursing your roommate for this rather unexpected and rude little stunt, you grope for your watch to determine how much time you actually have. To your dismay and horror, your worst fears have been confirmed: the alarm clock is correct, and in just under fifteen minutes, people will be gathering for a meeting at which your attendance is most expected. Despite the growing feeling that your organs might be better placed in pickling jars then be asked to perform their biological functions, your mind races to action. At this point you have scant options: (1) Own up to being a degenerate partier with a soulless job (which may now be in peril); (2) Go back to sleep until such a time “this entire fucking mess” magically disappears; or, (3) Use your $120,000 college education to come up with an excuse of your lifetime. Having carefully analyzed the pros and cons of each plan, you opt for door number three and now pray to Bacchus, whom you were merrily toasting last night, to provide divine inspiration vis-à-vis an excuse which will effectively unfuck the situation you so drunkenly stumbled and slept your shit-ass into.

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ever knowingly does evil: we all invariably do what we believe to be best. Improper conduct, then, can only be a product of our ignorance rather than a symptom of weakness of the will. LF: John Lennon - He was the Walrus, nuff said. CF: Frederick Douglass - He escaped slavery, started his own newspaper, led the abolitionist movement, raised a family, and, like Lennon, was a proponent of non-violent struggle. The man can do it all and has great chemistry with the Walrus. RF: George Washington - Great arm. Once tossed a coin across the Delaware river. No one is going to try the hit-and-run with George in right. Pitcher: Albert Einstein - Go ahead, try to hit this guy’s curveball. The master of physics can spin it like a wiffle-ball. Catcher: Jennifer Lopez - If you were the umpire and had to bump and grind against J.Lo’s ass for nine innings, wouldn’t you call the close ones for my team? Thought so. Manager: The “Dilla” Assistant: Bruce Springsteen Pitching coach: Gandhi Batting coach: John Henry Batting Order: 1) Douglass 2) Socrates 3) Zombie 4) Kenobi 5) Washington 6) Napoleon 7) Lopez 8) Lennon 9) Einstein

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All told, visible thongs, regardless of the choice of fabric, are a travesty of public decency and have the unblind writhing in a brine of free voyeur perversion, not unlike the trendy saps jabbering gibberish on cell phones in our public places and on our common carriers, which make the undeaf suffer the selfloathing guilt of eavesdropping. Save it for the bedroom, people.

PLAY BALL! by Christopher “Dil” Parkison

ASHINGTON,

D.C. - THE

STARTING line-up for my “fantasy”

baseball team:

1st base: Rob Zombie - I like Zombie here because he is an intimidator. People might think twice about drawing the easy walk if they know Rob is only 90 feet away and they’ll have to stop at first for at least one pitch to the next batter. 2nd base: Napoleon - The little guy can really move; just look at the way he went from Spain to Egypt to Russia in just a few years. Assistant coach Springsteen wanted to use Alexander the Great, but Alex has a problem going to his left (i.e. the east) and would leave the middle open for seeing-eye grounders.

“ASSISTANT COACH SPRINGSTEEN WANTED TO USE ALEXANDER THE GREAT, BUT ALEX HAS A PROBLEM GOING TO HIS LEFT (I.E. THE EAST)...”

SS: Obi-wan Kenobi - nothing gets through the gaps; the force is with him and our team. 3rd base: Socrates - “Socky” mans the hot corner; he tries to determine whether or not virtue can be taught, and this naturally leads to a careful investigation of the nature of virtue itself. Although his direct answer is that virtue is unteachable, Socrates does propose the doctrine of recollection to explain why we nevertheless are in possession of significant knowledge about such matters. Most remarkably, Socrates argues that knowledge and virtue are so closely related that no human agent

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -21-

TRAVELS WITH NED30 by M. Tucker Farman

ANGKOK, THAILAND - TRAVEL WAS FOR UNDETERMINED length of time. Actually, we’re clueless. No idea how to begin calculations. Been aloft so long. Cannot even comprehend when plane departed, &tc.

Flight log: booze… eat… booze… booze… nap… booze… nap… booze… nap… booze… booze… eat… booze… nap… This cycle repeats for either 26 or 38 hours, depending upon which side of the international date line you are. Understand that Disco Biscuits will play for first time in China and Thailand. Sunday. Arrival in Chiang Mai: “HAVE EXCELLENT poolside nap, wake up at 1950h. Ned thinks its 2100h. DINNER AMONG MANY Have no idea why. Begin WHITE MEN…” walking toward “Night Market”, immediately come to fork in road, choose direction with more lighting. Still looks bleak. Randomly decide to cut through parking lot adjacent to local restaurant (looks popular but no sign of menu, deduce that one must be “in the know”); succumb to abject cluelessness and hire a “tuk-tuk” (three wheeled taxi with outboard/lawnmower engine); walk round Night Market for a while, looking for place to eat… no signs of hope… finally wander into side alley and find large courtyard with many food stands resembling a shopping mall food court. Have excellent dinner among many white men, some with Thai women, some with families. More Night Market: buy whiskey, water, sodas; go back to hotel, tuk-tuk driver gets twice fare amount (“sure you have no change?”). Make reservations for Monday excursion. Monday. Wat (tour guide), Beer (trainee) and Tik (driver) take six westerners and two porcelain Japanese dolls for a one hour 30

Mr. Farman, who recently traveled to Thailand for a two week holiday with his father, pledged to keep a travelogue for GD. The three days worth of hasty dispatches which follow are all that The Editors ever received.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -22-

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drive to the south. Forty five minute elephant ride up mountain. Elephant impresses Ned with enormous bowel movement. Forty five minute trek up mountain to Hmong Village. Thirty minute trek down mountain to spot where Tik awaits. Drive to lunch at makeshift roadside café. Beer. Hike to waterfall, joined by dog that materializes out of thin air and befriends Ned. On to Karen Village, home to largest ethnic group in Thailand (part of Karen people fighting war in Burma.) Bamboo raft trip down river for ninety minutes; somehow captain stands up steering entire way; very brave and/or stupid. Hotel: drinks, attempt to make reservations for dinner; attempts fail; give up; hire driver (moron) who spends two hours driving around Chiang Mai (“Oh, that’s the name of the restaurant, now I know where it is!”); twice tell him to return to hotel (Ned requires bathroom stop) before we give it another shot; eventually abort; thankfully, well “medicated” for experience.

consonants now makes the traveler blush37), specifically those that migrate far from the sheltered waistband of poorly fitting trousers, and should be strictly reserved for lewd and, ahem… cheeky prepubescent novelty usage such as voluptuous motorcycle enthusiast vixens bent over crotch-rockets so as to justify the clever allegorical caption: “Haulin’ Ass”. The traveler had heard a rumor that boasted the thong’s comfort and that when worn one could hardly feel them, or it. Looking up between the iron grating stairs at Edinburgh’s Central Station he was fortunate enough to notice that burly Scotsmen of weaning garment tendencies don’t wear anything at all!! His haste to find lodging thwarted any further investigation.

Tuesday. Pool, beer. “Liberal and progressive” tour guide named Odd (pronounced “Ot”) with driver named Jennifer; tour old city/temples. Odd tells joke: Thai picks up three people at airport tells them they will spend one year on island and can have one thing. Australian: I want to read, gets lots of books; UK visitor wants women, gets 100 Thai girls; traveler from USA: I want to smoke, gets (presumably) tobacco. After one year, Thai guy asks about their experience: Australian: I know everything; UK: I enjoy girls; USA: Can I have a match? I’m in stitches. Last Night. Menu from dinner in Bangkok pre Thai kickboxing: • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Beef & Bull’s Entrails Spices Piquant Local Spicy Bamboo Shoot Cooking Bull’s Tongue Stew Fried Beef with Larger Variety of the Bird Pepper Fried Duck’s Egg Preserved in Potash & Basil Fried Catfish Galingale Fresh Pepper & Curry Algae Soup with Sliced Pork Bull’s Entrails in Soup Fried Frog with Galingale Fresh Pepper & Curry Pork & Entrails Salad Eggs Ant Lion Salad Frog (Spicy) Cuttlefish Salad Fish with Vegetable & Chili Sauce

Fueled by insatiable curiosity, the traveler’s thorough lust for “The Story Behind The P-P-Panty” led him on a field trip/study through the raucous heterosexual pubs in sleazy Edinburgh. After a few pints at Jekyll & Hyde, then a couple a Mary King’s, a few more at The Fiddler’s Arms, some at the Beehive, then Finnegan’s Wake, and lastly, some duty-free Greyhounds at the hostel, the traveler allegedly cranked his seal-pelt underwear (worn inside out supposedly) up the crack of his ass and danced a jig well known to the Scottish highlanders. The traveler has no recollection of this performance and is yet unable to track down the amateur Spielberg who allegedly documented the humiliating affair on home video. Witnesses to the alleged offBroadway spectacle say they could not tell if the traveler whom they now affectionately call “Jiggles” - was smiling due to genuine comfort or genuine intoxication. Sadly, the alleged comfort-question experiment is blurry and inconclusive.

S AN ASIDE, AS FAR A HYGIENE is concerned, something so closely

binding to the sinful regions of feminine plumbing - despite it’s minimal textile surface area - may not smell very pleasant, though taste of course, is subjective. The traveler’s calculations based on observations of what cod fishing lines can do to the wooden sides of a rowboat, suggest that thongs have one tenth the half-life of conventional p-p-panties, taking into account friction coefficients.

As well, The Editors.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -30-

his vantage to determine with any accuracy the designer, country of fabrication, or size because the label, though embarrassingly apparent, was not legible. It could have been the price tag. Oh yes, or rather “Oh no, the horror,” what was that isolated red discoloration roughly the size and location of which would have been Buenos Aires if a Mercator map were projected on the entirety of the small of her back?? A… p-ppimple. Furthermore, based on the ubiquitous orthodontic predisposition of most Brits and the legendary indiscriminant sexual appetite of girls from Essex, the traveler could have safely wagered that the creature’s teeth were as jagged and welcoming to seamen as the Norwegian coastline, not the wholesome white-picketed dental enamel generally associated with Midwest farmers’ daughters and other rural Americana lingerie fantasies of the sort. He should have quickly reported that lassie to the PANTI-Defamation League (located in the basement of the Oslo Nobel Prize building), a ruthless vigilante group whose crusade is to restore and preserve the thread-bare tatters of our world’s skimpy moral fabric.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -23-

XENADRINE™! NOW 85% OFF!!!31 by Sahil Godiwala

X ™! Consumer: In light of the Y C - D Nrecent “death” of one Steve Bechler (former Baltimore EW

The thong variety of women’s p-p-p-… underwear is vulgar and extremely offensive (merely typing the slurry string of

ITY

EAR

ENADRINE

Oriole pitcher, 6’2”, 239 lbs., ERA 13.50, traded to Eternal Damnation in exchange for shitty publicity), we here at XENADRINE!™ feel the need to clear the air about our product33. While the death of Steve Bechler was tragic and probably screwed with his family’s trip to SeaWorld®, it was not unexpected. We at XENADRINE!™ do not market our products to athletes. Why not? Simple. Athletes, unlike most people in this country, exercise regularly. They are devils. XENADRINE!™ is designed specifically for fat-asses who think that popping a few “dreenies” while watching Star Search and eating a tripleassburger with extra gooping will make them thin, Hollywood starlets. Nowhere on our product packaging do we recognize “exercising” as a legitimate activity to engage in while taking XENADRINE!™. I mean, for Christ’s sake, you don’t perform backalley angioplasties on crystal-meth, do you? Use your head, man. To repeat: Our product is not marketed to athletes; specifically, it is marketed to the following people: •

OME HIGH-BROW LITERARY magazines catering to the pursuits of

shallow, superficial, well groomed hunks suggest that the two dimples at the bottom of a woman’s back are erogenous zones, but the traveler was not particularly erogenized, or excited. If he began to salivate it was only due to his fury teased by hunger - his monthly sustenance having consisted of a strict frugal regimen of soup crackers and lemonade - and having read a book on the history of food preservation, he reckoned that those two hams, if well salted, would have made excellent conversation pieces drying from his provincial kitchen rafters.

ORK

• • • •

Sorority bimbos needing to lose those stubborn extra pounds before “Fleet Week”; People who sing show tunes while minxing about in Danskin™ leotards; Fatties; Kickers; and High-altitude mountain climbers.

OUNTAIN CLIMBERS, YOU SAY?

Yes! A thousand times, yes! XENADRINE!™ owes a great debt to the great Sir Edmund Hilary, whose conquest of Mt. Everest was contingent upon XENADRINE!™ usage. When asked why he climbed the Great

The following is based upon an actual advertisement seen at the Duane Reade in New York City’s Chinatown, for reduced-price XENADRINE™. 32 No one Ever Really Dies (N.E.R.D). The Eds: “Huh?” 33 XENADRINE!™ “The next generation in advanced thermogenic technology.”

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -24-

Mountain, the intrepid explorer replied “Because it’s there [and thanks to XENADRINE!™, I could climb it!]” We have a long and storied history with mountain climbers, especially all those really, really good ones who climbed really, really big mountains. Except Sherpas, those sloe-eyed succubae. Damn them, and their perfectly arched feet. When I think of Sherpas, especially Lap Tzong, with his violently erotic $500 per night honey-dipped toes, pulling on a pair of yak-wool socks sloooowly up and sloooowly down, all the while batting his eyes and cooing “does baby like my feetsies?...” (I just get so worked up. I mean, you’ve seen him, right?) So perfect, just so… good… and… wait, yeah, just a bit harder… like that, and a bit to the left, no, more like…, aaaah… please-please-please mooorrrrrrrAAARGHA! Sorry. Damn Sherpas. Anyway.

O SHOW OUR DEEPEST, SINCEREST apologies, we have sent the Belcher family one free case of XENADRINE!™. Additionally, we have placed a suitable-for-framing open-casket ceremony photo of Mr. Belcher on each bottle with a caption reading “You’re next, Mothafuckaaaaah!” so that the Belcher family has a constant reminder of the tragedy of exercise, and the necessity to show tolerance and restraint in our overly litigious society. We know it might be excessive, but we at XENADRINE!™ understand what The Belchers are going through right now, and realize that any effort, no matter how small, will serve to guide them through these tragic times.

To our dear, dear consumers: We have not forgotten about you. We have enhanced XENADRINE!™ to make it the best, most scientificaliest tested, safest fatass-related energy product on the market. After years of testing, we are proud to introduce the new XENADRINE!™ VII ULTRA-MEGA-OK TURBOFUEL™, with extra glarcoose and “phospho”-niceness!!34 These two ingredients, heavily tested on alpacas, house pets, and the profoundly retarded, will add extra pleasure to your sedentary, miserable

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -29-

THRONGS OF THONGS36 by Julien Shapiro

D.C. - THROUGHOUT THE TRAVELER’S little trips, he has often succumbed to the thrashings of regional rites, rituals and tragic traditions: chicken bone roti, diesel grade rum and dirty dog dancing in the islands. Arab species of humans hustling and scamming in their filthy camel-dung-peppered pestilent desert. Norwegian prices, Nordics binging on duty free booze cruises, the grizzly reality of the seal hunting trade (though their hides make sturdy wallets), whale meat (a delicious red meat alternative taboo existing in sufficient numbers to withstand the slaughter of a few, and tasting not unlike its ‘[THE U.K. IS] grazing bovine cousin when properly seasoned and seared). The vile NOT TAKING ANY perfume of his socks that savagely CHANCES, YOU asphyxiated the hounds at Newcastle FILTHY BASTARD.’ Customs, still reeling in the wake of the Foot and Mouth pandemic, causing Officials to immediately confiscate the footwear and burn it because “[The U.K. is] not taking any chances, you filthy bastard.” Despite his pleas, the remnants of the traveler’s rank footwear will not be returned to his kin via the United States Embassy laundry room. Yet, none of these international indiscretions have desensitized the traveler’s fragile senses from the appalling, shameless twofor-one vestimentary faux-pas he observed in the U.S., Scandinavia, Estonia, and lastly Newcastle, as demonstrated by a chubby Brit on a picnic table seated across from him. That pear shaped lunch jockey’s pasty white, blinding like the polar ice cap, girth was exposed by the inevitable anthropomorphic reaction that causes short shirts and ill fitting pants to separate at the waist when the porteur is bent over or seated a la ‘Fonz’. What’s more, the fruit of the traveler’s p-p-panty protest is that this cowgirl was straddled visibly, tightly, barely, and strenuously by a black lace thong saddle. It was difficult from

36 34

According to GD’s intern, glarcoose = calamari batter; phospho-niceness has something to do with iguana secretions.

ASHINGTON,

Throngs of Thongs appears in its original form on Mr. Shapiro’s website, www.theraspberryexpress.com, which you, dear Reader, are once again encouraged to visit.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -28-

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you all to embrace “fuckly” like one of your own, and perhaps even provide him with some well-conceived brothers and sisters. The goal, I suppose, is not to improve the overall verbal fluency (since that would be impossible, and we ARE American after all, not fucking British), but to have fun with it and feast our tongues on the infinite, gluttonous, linguistic possibilities of our most treasured invective.

lifestyle. Not only can you watch that very special episode of ElimiDate35 from your sloth-perch, you can enjoy an extra helping of triple-fried pork fat, confident that the people at XENADRINE!™ are backing you all the way. Thank you, and thanks for your continued support. Sincerely,

CHEESE DIP (A RECIPE) by Sahil Godiwala Yield: more than you can handle. Prep time: under an hour. Required cooking implements: oven, stove, frying pan, foil, baking dish, wooden spoon, oven mitts (or if you’re at Tucker’s, bath towels should suffice) Ingredients: 3 bricks, Velveeta™ (essential, because it doesn’t coagulate as rapidly as cheddar) 1 packet, shredded cheddar 1 packet, shredded Monterey Jack 5 links, spicy Italian beef sausage [in sausage casings, uncooked] 5 links, spicy pork sausage [in sausage casings, uncooked] [optional: 1/2 lb ground lamb, 80% fat/20% lean. Optional because there’s an assload of stuff in this dip, already] 3 handfuls, chopped jalapenos 2 handfuls, chopped green peppers 1 handful, chopped red peppers 1 red onion, chopped 3 handfuls, minced garlic 1 bigass can, crushed whole tomatoes [Certain brands are better because they haven’t as much water – remember – dilution is the enemy.] [optional: Tabasco, habaneras]

XENADRINE!™ Q. Jones President and Chief Scientician XENADRINE!™ Pitcher-Killing Products, Ltd.

TO WORKOUT OR NOT TO WORKOUT? (AN EQUATION) by Aurélie C. Shapiro

WASHINGTON, D.C.

P(W) = h x (wof + CNN - S) B

Where: P(W) = Probability of workout. h = Number of homosexual hunks in attendance; equivalent to “e.c.”, i.e., “eye candy”.

Cube the bricks into more manageable chunks: about 1 square inch. Place all the “cheese” into one large foil baking dish. Remove the casings from the sausage links, place the meat into a frying pan and fry together over medium heat. [Optional-- cut a third of the red onion, dice it, and fry with the meat. (It won’t really matter because the ‘veta will overpower any hope of subtle flavorings.)] When done, drain the fat and place the cooked meat into the baking dish. Combine with cheese, jalapenos, peppers, garlic. Drain the tomatoes and cut into smaller bits, add to mix. Dice the red onion and add to the mix.

wof = A binary coefficient equal to 1, if Wheel of Fortune is playing on the TV at the gym, and equal to 0, if it’s not. CNN = A factor ranging from 0 to 1, depending on the political affiliation of the current host, if said TV is tuned to CNN. S = A constant, derived from my sadness due to missing a daily dose of The Simpsons, which is never on at the gym, much to my chagrin.

Stir mixture lightly to ensure equal distribution. Cover with foil, poke holes in the foil, set oven at 3500, pop it in. Check on dip every 10 minutes for 30 minutes stirring vigorously. Remove from oven. Skim the fat with a wooden spoon, place in friend’s beer. Stir. Replace foil, return to 3500 oven. Stir every 10 minutes. After about 20 minutes, or until all the cheese has melted, set oven to warm, remove the baking dish. Make sure all the cheese has melted. Stir occasionally until tomatoes are visible above the muck. Let it cool for a few minutes. Serve with Tostitos, beer, and four Hail Mary’s. Stay close to a restroom. Trust me. N.b.: Do not ingest after 24 hours have elapsed.

B = Number of beers consumed in the previous twenty-four hour period. m = Motivation to do something other than workout (e.g., attend a happy hour, conduct shopping, &tc.)

You know, the one where Gary Coleman gets a plate job from Lars Ulrich. (The Eds: No, they do not, Mr. Godiwala.)

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -26-

“FUCK”: THE CURRENT STATE OF VERBAL GLUTTONY by Collin Keeney

OLOGNA, ITALY - AMERICAN POPULAR CULTURE has managed to convince our feeble-minded and woefully uncreative nation that adjectives are passé. Gone are the days when the idle conversation would resonate with colorful descriptions of persons, places, and things, and the average literate “…AS WE INCREASINGLY would possess an arsenal of jaunty adjectives like RELY ON A WORD THAT “pusillanimous,” WAS ORIGINALLY “crapulous,” and “rakish.” It’s not that the average INTENDED FOR person might, once upon a EMPHASIS… WE time, have known what INCREASINGLY LOSE OUR these words meant, but also, they would have known ABILITY TO EXPRESS THE how to interject them in INTENSITY OF OUR conversation with gusto. Nowadays, though, if we can THOUGHTS AND managed to force more than EMOTIONS.” one syllable through our bubble-gum impaired maws, “Joe America” can scarcely be counted on to provide anything more entertaining or inspiring than: “Did you see that fucking hit? Christ, David Justice must score more chicks…” To which, the conversational counterpart would most likely respond: “What are you, fucking gay? You wanna bone him or something?”

I know, I know, I’ve probably been more guilty than not of succumbing to the uninspired use of “fuck” and its derivatives as adjective/noun/adverb/all-three-of-the-above in one sentence. But, as we increasingly rely on a word that was originally intended for emphasis, based on all its virile, risqué glory, we increasingly lose our ability to express the intensity of our thoughts and emotions. Go back fifty years, and if you had called out to some passerby: “Watch where you’re goin’, ya fuck!” He probably would look at you like you just cut the Pope’s head off and shat down his throat. You’d probably make him cry. That, or you’d get beaten down by a guy named Biff.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -27-

So, by using the mothership of insults to explain our delight over the taste of a slice of pizza (“This fucking pizza kicks ass!”) or your golfing hook (“Holy shit, I almost fucking hit that fucking dude!”), we’ve not only cheapened the language, but we’ve also debased our ability to express intensity. The cause: verbal gluttony, which can be surmised as the impulse to use our most treasured, heaviest-hitting words in the most mundane sense, because we’ve lost the capacity to appreciate the finer elements of quotidian speech. It’s like pig of a man who can’t really savor the taste of his spare ribs, or how well they are complemented by his 2003 Bartels and James Indigo Zinfandel. His impulse is to douse them with as much barbecue sauce as possible, because it will clearly provide the most intense flavor.

WHAT’S TO BE DONE about it? Can we go around levying fines on people every time they use the word “fucking” as an adverb? Do we allow ourselves to cold-cock that asshole who just said “like, fuck-an-aye man, that movie was kick-ass”? Well, my response is the typically pacifist approach, you know, the fucking non-confrontational one, man. I suggest we trump them. If you can’t beat ‘em, fucking join ‘em. From now on, I’m proposing a new derivative of the word “fuck.” One that has heretofore never been seen written in ink, exchanged over a soda-pop or scrawled on a public school desk. Behold, the newest adverb, the def-est, the most fucking intense. Behold: “fuckly”. A let down? Expecting something a little more pithy? Well, I’m sure you will all come to love “fuckly” as much as I do, because I feel it really fills a void in the overused “fuck” derivations category of our lexicon. It’s more concise: no longer do you have to say “that was fucking great/ fucking sucked,” because now you can simply say “that was fuckly, dude.” As an adverb, it obviates the need for any additional adjectives! Not only that, but it can be a stand-alone adverb as well (an achievement that neither “fucking” or “fuck” can claim). You can now, quite correctly, wow your literary critics with gems like: “I had such a fuckly morning, man. My cat yacked in my fucking ear;” and “That was awfully fuckly of you, Sam, you shouldn’t have put that can of lead paint in your brother’s crib.” O

It is essential, given the state of boil-down in our collective vocabulary, to invent new and witty alternatives to the stale pabulum that infects our daily intercourse. To that end, I urge

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -26-

“FUCK”: THE CURRENT STATE OF VERBAL GLUTTONY by Collin Keeney

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -27-

It is essential, given the state of boil-down in our collective vocabulary, to invent new and witty alternatives to the stale pabulum that infects our daily intercourse. To that end, I urge

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -28-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -25-

XENADRINE!™ Q. Jones President and Chief Scientician XENADRINE!™ Pitcher-Killing Products, Ltd.

TO WORKOUT OR NOT TO WORKOUT? (AN EQUATION) by Aurélie C. Shapiro

WASHINGTON, D.C.

P(W) = h x (wof + CNN - S) B

Where: P(W) = Probability of workout. h = Number of homosexual hunks in attendance; equivalent to “e.c.”, i.e., “eye candy”.

B = Number of beers consumed in the previous twenty-four hour period. m = Motivation to do something other than workout (e.g., attend a happy hour, conduct shopping, &tc.)

You know, the one where Gary Coleman gets a plate job from Lars Ulrich. (The Eds: No, they do not, Mr. Godiwala.)

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -24-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -29-

THRONGS OF THONGS36 by Julien Shapiro

36 34

According to GD’s intern, glarcoose = calamari batter; phospho-niceness has something to do with iguana secretions.

ASHINGTON,

Throngs of Thongs appears in its original form on Mr. Shapiro’s website, www.theraspberryexpress.com, which you, dear Reader, are once again encouraged to visit.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -30-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -23-

XENADRINE™! NOW 85% OFF!!!31 by Sahil Godiwala

X ™! Consumer: In light of the Y C - D Nrecent “death” of one Steve Bechler (former Baltimore EW

The thong variety of women’s p-p-p-… underwear is vulgar and extremely offensive (merely typing the slurry string of

ITY

EAR

ENADRINE

OME HIGH-BROW LITERARY magazines catering to the pursuits of

ORK

• • • •

OUNTAIN CLIMBERS, YOU SAY?

Yes! A thousand times, yes! XENADRINE!™ owes a great debt to the great Sir Edmund Hilary, whose conquest of Mt. Everest was contingent upon XENADRINE!™ usage. When asked why he climbed the Great

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -22-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -31-

S AN ASIDE, AS FAR A HYGIENE is concerned, something so closely

As well, The Editors.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -32-

PLAY BALL! by Christopher “Dil” Parkison

ASHINGTON,

D.C. - THE

STARTING line-up for my “fantasy”

baseball team:

“ASSISTANT COACH SPRINGSTEEN WANTED TO USE ALEXANDER THE GREAT, BUT ALEX HAS A PROBLEM GOING TO HIS LEFT (I.E. THE EAST)...”

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -21-

TRAVELS WITH NED30 by M. Tucker Farman

ANGKOK, THAILAND - TRAVEL WAS FOR UNDETERMINED length of time. Actually, we’re clueless. No idea how to begin calculations. Been aloft so long. Cannot even comprehend when plane departed, &tc.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -20-

A CALCULUS OF PANIC (PROSE) by Brinton H. Adams

OBOKEN,

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -33-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -34-

REDEEMABLE VICE by A. Wyatt Courtney

WITH A BUS, REMINDED ME THAT THE FUCKALL ASPECT OF EXISTENCE WAS ALIVE AND WELL.”

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -19-

NOTHER STRANGE THING happened this morning: one of the

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -18-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -35-

warning, and feel a blast of hot air shoot across my hand and move quickly towards my nose.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -36-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -17-

lactose intolerant , I have a much more mild form which gives me incredible gas, and if I overdo it, an exploding ass.

N RESEARCHING THIS ESSAY,

LEARNED that my cross-dressing

HI-TECH HAIKU She’ll Google™ me and discover my history of ones and zeros.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -16-

WEAPONS OF ASS DESTRUCTION by Wm. Bung26

OSTON,

Figure 2. The digestive tract.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -37-

THE LETTERS FROMUNDA by Kevin Wheeler

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -38-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -15-

As grundle

season approaches, keep in mind, a wet, cool

day,

means

dry,

unchapped

grundle.” A message brought to you by DR. MENDELSON’S GRUNDLEBALM™.

(Not for

use with some grundles.)

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -14-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -39-

BOLOGNA DA BOLOGNA by Collin Keeney

INTEMPERATE DUE TO CONSUMPTION OF ALCOHOL? NEVER.”

HE RAIN SLATHERED THROUGH the sidewalk.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -40-

pallets. I thought they had found this man dead in the alley last night and were dragging his ass through the streets.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -13-

HAPPINESS (A VENN DIAGRAM) by Jacob P. Nassif

FAITH (A LIST)

by The Editors and Certain Contributors23

WHAT GD BELIEVES IN Travel America Maps Dogs Cats Crust Self-promotion Sandwiches Love Ribs Vegetables Drinking Alpacas French fries Bad Hair

In no special order: Kelly Pollock, Aurélie Shapiro, Sahil Godiwala & Jacob Nassif.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -12-

PLEASE, POPE, PLEASE by Samuel G. Dvorchik

AIS OUI, THE

FRENCH:

SURE, we Americans know them as frog-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -41-

21 22

Blume, New York Times, 3/16/03 “Easily forgivable,” quoth Webster’s.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -42-

EPILOGUE by Marc S. Pfeuffer “If I never meet you in this life, may I feel the lack.” – James Jones.

ASHINGTON,

ET ME POSIT THIS QUICK THEORY and leave you be: Maybe we

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -11-

I.e., Canada.

my instructions more carefully: you are *NOT* supposed to attach the wolverine to your bloodsmeared testicles. Idiot. Leave it to the Canadish to fuck up a simple instruction.

~Anonymous

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -10-

ASK THE HEALER19 by Sahil Godiwala

Y C - Dear The N Healer, When paying a hit man, is it customary to tip, or EW

ORK

ITY

The foul-mouthed “advice” that Mr. Godiwala dispenses in his column does not necessarily reflect the opinions of GD, The Editors, or his fellow Contributors.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -43-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -44-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -9-

“WLARGE?

HY SUCH A LARGE cup of coffee?”

A.k.a. “America’s wang”.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -8-

OF GODS AND PASTRIES17

by Christopher “Dil” Parkison

ASHINGTON,

D.C. - AS I

SIT HERE EATING a coffee roll the size

INTO THE PIT OF

EANWHILE, THE GREAT COFFEE at my side demands attention:

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -45-

Originally entitled “Friday Morning and a Coffee Roll.”

She’s a stinker, ain’t she?

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -46-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -7-

MAILBAG

Date: Sun, 9 Mar 2003 19:00:38 -0800 (PST) From: “GD” <gluttonydigest@yahoo.com> Subject: Update

by GD’s Faithful Readers

Alpacas.

This unfortunate situation is yet to be fully resolved.

EAR

GD, I

REALLY enjoy

London,

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -6-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -47-

Figure 1. “Put everything in here.”

From: Marc Pfeuffer Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 11:24 AM To: Sam Dvorchik Subject: FW: Monday Morning Top shelf. “The making GD” has prospered this morning.

(cont’d) These answers must be preserved for the future of mankind. Help us to define human gluttony and its cost. Do your duty. 14

Or, is it? &tc. 16 Image shamelessly lifted from www.moderndrunkardmagazine.com. Please don’t sue, The Editors beg. 15

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -48From: Marc Pfeuffer Sent: Monday, March 10, 2003 1:24 PM To: Sam Dvorchik Subject: FW: Monday Morning

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -5-

living.13 And it’s metastasized from there into something a bit more amorphous. Something, perhaps, sinister. No, scratch

Apparently, Mr. Brooke attended Columbia University as an undergraduate, as well.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -4-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -49-

INTRODUCTION

From: [Wm. Bung] [<redacted>] Sent: Tuesday, March 11, 2003 11:14 AM To: Marc Pfeuffer; Sam Dvorchik Subject: RE: Fwd: THIS IS NOT SPAM (From your friends M. Pfeuffer and S. Dvorchik)

Spring, 2003.

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -50-

Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 09:31:21 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off)

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -3-

CONTENTS Introduction

page

by The Editors

Mailbag

by GD’s Faithful Readers

Of Gods and Pastries

by Christopher “Dil” Parkison

Ask “The Healer” by Sahil Godiwala

Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 10:08:34 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off)

Please, Pope, Please…

What does that even mean?

Happiness (A Venn Diagram) & Faith (A List)

Warren G! I need booze.

by Samuel G. Dvorchik

by Jacob P. Nassif; The Editors & Certain Contributors

Bologna da Bologna by Collin Keeney

Date: Fri, 14 Mar 2003 12:32:30 -0600 From: “Sahil Godiwala” <[redacted]> To: gluttonydigest@yahoo.com Subject: Re: In dedication (a run-off)

Weapons of Ass Destruction

Not gay. Straight. Do I get another gift certificate if Warren G and Harding win? I’ll treat you to a jalapeño popper platter. Mmm... popper platter.

A Calculus of Panic (Prose)

by Wm. Bung

by Brinton H. Adams

Travels with Ned

by M. Tucker Farman XENADRINE™! Now 85% by Sahil Godiwala

8 10 12 13 14 16 20 21

Off!!!

To Workout or Not to Workout (An Equation) by Aurélie C. Shapiro

“Fuckly”: The Current State of Verbal Gluttony by Collin Keeney

Cheese Dip (A Recipe) by Sahil Godiwala

Throngs of Thongs by Julien Shapiro

Play Ball!

by Christopher “Dil” Parkison

Redeemable Vice

by A. Wyatt Courtney

The Letters Fromunda by Kevin Wheeler

Epilogue

by Marc S. Pfeuffer

23 25 26 28 29 32 34 37 42

Appendix A: The Making of Gluttony Digest

Appendix B: A Note on Typeface

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -2-

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“and ya brain’s sayin’ ‘… yeeeahhh….’”

1801 Wyoming Avenue, N.W. Apt. #25 Washington, D.C. 20009 - 1958 gluttonydigest@yahoo.com

THE EDITORS: Marc S. Pfeuffer Samuel G. Dvorchik

Washington, D.C. Washington, D.C.

THE CONTRIBUTORS:

THE INTERN: Eli Dvorchik

New Marlboro, Massachusetts

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -52-

GLUTTONY DIGEST, SPRING 2003 -1-

IN DEDICATION:

Sorrell Brooke

Somehow, this fits into the snake-eating-its-own-tail overarching, meta-journal style that is GD, right? Just a thought.

44 45

See http://nfo.edu/trebuche.htm for further information. Go figure.

Warren G. Harding and Warren G, “the Alpha and the Omega of 20th century gluttony”

HONOR ROLL The Editors of Gluttony Digest would like to recognize the following contributors, for rising above and beyond the call of duty, by presenting a few awards:

The Spring 2003 DR. MENDELSON’S GRUNDLEBALM™ Co-“Most Valuable” Contributors Award Sahil Godiwala Jacob Nassif Christopher “Dil” Parkison

The Spring 2003 AEROBED™ AIR MATTRESS MANUFACTURERS, INC. “Most Improved” Contributor Award Brinton H. Adams

The Spring 2003 WWW.MESHCAP.COM “Most Inspirational” Contributor Award Wm. Bung

NOTES

ISSUE 1, VOLUME I

PRICE FREE