Thanks to all our Brothers’ fans for helping with the F&W Mad Lib, featured in the March 2013 issue. Here’s the fun results:
Alarm goes off: I stumble into the kitchen and brew a cup of single–estate COSMOPOLITAN from ZAMBIA. I eat a bowl of homemade DONKEY–milk yogurt and an egg from the BLUE-FOOTED BOOBY I raised in my backyard.
The phone rings: my SECOND COUSIN. “Can you meet us for dinner? There is a brand-new farm–to–LOVE SEAT, nose-to-BUTTOCKS (Sorry Chris!) restaurant we want to check out. It’s where all the EDAMAME-avores are going, and it only uses ingredients from within a 13–mile radius.”
I can’t go, because I’ve got to stay home to finish breaking down a whole ZEBRA. (I sometimes turn the EAR LOBES into BACON.) But I’ve also got a date. We’re going to a new cocktail lounge hidden behind a WALMART, where mixologists wearing TOGAS make cocktails that are harken back to the ISLAMIC GOLDEN AGE.
Before getting dressed, I check Twitter and see that the takedown of CARRIE UNDERWOOD’s new restaurant is blowing up. My favorite quote: “the POLISH tuna tacos tasted like they were seasoned with the tears of a 1,000 ORANGUTANS.” Burn!
I hop on my bike and ride to the new artisan–food market inside an abandoned TWINKIE factory. It’s the only place in town to get gluten–free PETIT FOURS. By the time I get home, I have just an hour to get ready for my night out. But first I have to feed my sourdough starter, which I inherited from my GREAT GRAND UNCLE, who brought it over from LATVIA in the hull of a FELLUCA.
I’ve got a surprise for my date: After drinks, we’re going to try to get into THE NAKED CHEF’s new tasting menu–only spot. There are just 7 seats, and each one is made from a reclaimed DENTIST CHAIR.
After waiting for 8 hours, we are in. It’s crazy: I’m sitting next to RICKY MARTIN, and the seats are so close that CLARENCE THOMAS is basically sitting on my dates lap. Even though the stereo is blasting BEETHOVEN at ear-splitting volume, the food is exquisite.
We walk out, full and happy. My date invites me over, but I have to decline: I can’t be away from my fermenting KETCHUP for more than FIVE hours.