Insectisauce
An obsequious guru seeks some sauce in kitchen stadium. ALLEZ CUISINE!!!
As I write this I have butterflies in my stomach…
It is time to regale a simple tale born hatched of humble beginnings. A tale years in the making. It’s a tale that will turn your stomach. And it is one that must never, ever be told. So keep reading. You’ll be glad you did.
Two drosophila walk into a bar. The bartender asks, “What’ll you have?” One points at the other and says, “Ask him. He’s supposed to be the genus.”
–Tom B. Taker
For once I will set aside petty narcissism and histrionics. The tale is too damn important. It must not be tarnished by cheap tricks or overt grabs at drama. So the telling will be without hyperbole. It will be simply told. I want this post to stand the test of time so future generations thousands of years from now will truly appreciate the moment and say things like, “That shit is fucked up. Can this even be real?”
Come. Let us retire to the Puparium and I will tell the tale anon.
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Señor Tapatío #poetry
Señor Tapatío rode into the town
Suit coat golden as the hills
And sombrero mostly brown
His crimson tie waved gayly in the wind
That’s basically everything
There ever was to know about him
“Isn’t it ironic,” he yelled, “that chilies are hot?” He roared with laughter. “Get it? Chilly? Hot?”
Then as quickly as he arrived he spurred his steed and disappeared into the sunset.
Conflict of Interest disclaimer: No pecuniary or sauce-based compensation was provided in consideration of this post. Not even a lousy 5-ounce bottle. -Ed.
Blow My Head Off
Sitting in the restaurant looking over the menu. I stroke my chin meaningfully as I make a choice, possibly for the first time in my life.
“I’ll have the deep fried liver chitlins with the chicken hearts.”
“Excellent choice, sir. And would sauce would you like? Tangy or spicy?”
“Spicy!” Wow. I’m not usually this decisive.
“How spicy? One, two or three?”
Oh shit.
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Shouts from the Abyss 
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