Fucking Foodies

Living in San Francisco you are constantly surrounded by talk of food trends and the latest restaurants; people drooling like idiots over the last place they ate, what their favorite dishes are… blah blah blah… go juggle pumpkins!

These holier-than-thou culinary crusaders refer to themselves as “foodies” which according to Webster’s thesaurus is a synonym for pretentious blow hard. Hearing these hob-nobs talk at length about food is like watching the WNBA preseason, I’d rather be slapped in the face with a dead fish. It leads me to believe the most exciting thing these “foodies” have done with their lives is pull lint from the dryer screen. The only time I talk in detail about food is when that one rogue nacho stabs the roof of my mouth and my girlfriend comes in asking me why I just yelled “motherfucker” out loud. I digress.

“Oh, the white bean skin sformato and chopped chive gluten-free asiago focaccia rolls are to die for! We should go fuck ourselves for dessert!”

What I really want to address is portion sizes in these trendsetting dinner douche-barns. Just the other day a couple of friends and I checked out a new spot we heard was “amazing!”. To spare you the salty details we each dropped $100 on some sautéed shrimp antennae bullshit and left ready to eat a second dinner. Now I’m no expert, but all I know is I felt like I just had one of those street magicians take my watch without me noticing: I sit down, the bill arrives and I’m still hungry – “amazing!”

“You should try this place called Copperfield’s on 24th street – they punch you in the neck, tear one sleeve off of your shirt and make your money disappear, it’s amazing!

In summary, there is no summary. Just keep your bacon wrapped steamed raisin husks and your dill stuffed corn kernel creations outta my grill – this man’s gotta eat!

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