For those interested in the consumption of fine entrails, we present to you here within a weekly collection of macabre signposts pointing towards zones of high offal-saturation scattered throughout our little slice of peninsular heaven.
They lay there, our guts, steaming with primordial, magmic heat, waiting for the slightest chance to jump out of our elastic casing like a troupe of eager, mucus-covered chorus girls from behind a scarlet curtain, brazenly kicking out their heels in a life-affirming Can Can. This tangled Rube Goldberg device is pumping away 24/7 for the sake of our bodies survival--squeaking, gurgling, farting out poisonous clouds of methane. This corporeal fact aught to bring even your average Dartmouth yacht jockey right down to earth. Instead, he denies the meat puppet absurdity of our bodies, and by the same token pushes offal to the margins, metaphorically tossing them into a stinking abattoir of the subconscious.
I'm speaking mainly of...
TO READ THE FULL ARTICLE CLICK HERE!