Anyone who utters Triple D in any fashion will at least imagine a rapier quip about how it’s “food porn.” Yeah, a lot of Food Network shows are basically food porn, but it’s only now — in this very moment as I sit, eating cheerios dry from a cup and leftover rice with red and yellow things while watching Guy Fieri shove a whole smoked chicken down his throat — that it is clear to me that this is just porn. Not food porn. Porn. Just porn. I am sitting in my boxer briefs and mesh tank top (y’know, your standard evening wear) and the only light source in the room is a screen where an objectively ugly man with a tan fucks eats food that I want to fuck eat. I sit and I eat food that I fantasize is the food I see on the screen* — the hot piece of meat I see on the screen. This is porn. Porn is the simulacrum of Man’s most natural of desires, be it carnal pleasures or hunger for greasy-spoon/American-fusion cuisines.
*I assume the food itself fantasizes being put to better nutritional use than be my 3:00 am insomia-snack (2nd of a total 4 I consume before my body is disgusted enough with itself that I can sleep)
