Culinary Misunderstanding

by Damien Calis

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It is not every day you are told by a flatmate to bring him a lemon from the supermarket for the purpose of sticking it up a small chicken's arse. This is cause for concern. For example, if the chicken is young, is it mature enough to have fruit stuck up its backside? How much consent has been given for this particular act of anal intrusion? And most of all; if there is a case of sexually molesting the animal, am I liable to be prosecuted as an accomplice for providing the implement?

I decide the most worrying part about the current crisis is the use of my computer. When I am away my flatmate frequently uses it. As far as I am aware this is to contact women in Australia, keep an eye on conflicts in countries I can't even pronounce, let alone point out on a map and buy books, which the man is addicted to. Now I am getting increasingly worried he may in fact have been using it to join an underground ring of sado-masochistic livestock abusers.

What if he has been recording images of himself in big yellow gloves stuffing wholesome greens in hapless animals and circulating these around the world? You don't know; there may be sites that offer such activities for a small fee. Before you know it a group of Americans will have been arrested on the charge of setting up such a site. Bound to be someone into this shit, and it's bound to be in Missouri.

They will trace these images back through cyberspace, and what will they end up with? My computer! They will do all their forensic experiments and find a screaming chicken with half a leek sticking out of its rear end. And how do I explain that? Tell them it was my flatmate? Something tells me they've heard that one before.

I wonder where he keeps the chickens. They must be under his bed, their legs duct-taped together, gagged and injected with a shot of rohypnol. He must have taken this up recently. Probably the same time he decided to shave his head but keep the beard. If anything, at least he looks more like a serial killer than I do.

It wouldn't be the first pets we have in the house, though definitely the first non-lethal ones. We already have a pet tarantula around somewhere. Last I saw it was watching telly while chewing on what was once an insect and telling me to fuck off. It is still pissed off I think. Its name was supposed to be Boris, you see. Unfortunately it's a girl and we thought it might sound silly for a girl tarantula to be called Boris. So she's called Spider now.

In the supermarket I always draw stares. Some from pretty girls who have previously witnessed me in the buff as they walked passed my window at the wrong time, but most from bemused shoppers who apparently find it hilarious to see me trying to remember what particular vegetables look like. Last time I was looking for asparagus I had ask what colour they were again.

Having found the lemon, which is small, yellow and roundish, I proceed to the proper food department and come home laden with pizza, beer, peanuts and the object of my flatmate's desire. He is eagerly awaiting me, wearing a kitchen apron and a pair of yellow gloves, smiling broadly. I toss him the vegetable and tell him there is not a chance in hell he is ever allowed to use my computer again.

Then I rush out to the pub and order a refreshing lager. Hold the lemon.

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As a child Damien Calis was abducted by a stray haggis and raised in the Highlands along with a litter of haggis pups. Due to a lack of mirrors in this region he never realized the difference in size, shape and hygiene routines. He was discovered by sheepherders at the age of twelve and taken to the capital Edinburgh, where the learned elders at the university continue to educate and examine him. Negotiations over his amazing story are ongoing with the Disney Corporation.