Indian Food, I will put it plainly: you have wrecked my asshole. Not even my former priest Father Daniel “Tell No One” O’Neal can lay claim to that. So, should I congratulate you? Well, I WILL NOT! I refuse to bestow a congratulatory handshake, because you don’t have hands, and even if you did have hands I wouldn’t shake your hands! SO THERE!
What I would like to do is kick you in the balls, but I can’t, because you have no balls, but if you did, you could CONSIDER THOSE BALLS KICKED, MOTHERFUCKER!
How is it that something that takes but an hour to cook and twenty minutes to eat end up fucking up my shit for forty-eight hours? And by “fucking up my shit” I literally mean my shit is fucked up! Seriously! Oh, dear God, the burning! And the diarrhea, oh, the endless diarrhea! You know, I had wondered my entire life why people from India talk so fast. It’s not because of their culture, it’s simply because they’re trying to wrap up the conversations as soon as possible so they can get to the nearest fucking toilet!
GHANDI WAS NOT DOING ANYTHING NOBLE DURING HIS HUNGER STRIKE! NO, NO! HE JUST COULDN’T STAND THE FOOD ANYMORE!
You are like the Kid Rock of foodstuffs, Indian Food – you turn my stomach, you won’t go away, and you’ve hung around way too fucking long. At least you had the decency to not ruin songs by Warren Zevon and Metallica. BUT THAT’S THE ONLY COMPLIMENT YOU SHALL GET FROM ME!
Here’s the thing: I am writing this on my laptop whilst it balances on my clenched knees as I sit on my toilet, trying my damndest to push any remaining remnant of you out of my system. But it is a battle I fear I cannot win. I feel like Napoleon at Waterloo! Custer at Little Big Horn! And that One Guy who got his Ass Kicked at that One Place that One Time!
Indian Food, if there be a just God in this universe, may He send thee to the Darkest Pits of Hell so that yea may rot for eternity! Or to Detroit. Whichever.
(Un)sincerely,
Mike
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