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June 11, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 11

Random line, random book:

"I wonder what cannibal cuisine is like?" I say. "Is there a cannibal cookbook?"

(The first book I actually picked up was a Russian dictionary, so consider yourselves lucky.)

Go for it.

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Comments

"Say, Bill, this is delicious," Jim said, carving himself another slice of roast.

"Yes, it is," Jim's wife, Marlene, agreed. "A couple of months ago you were complaining you couldn't even boil water without..." Jim nudged her, and her voice trailed off.

"Oh, it's all right," Bill said cheerfully. "I've gotten over it, and, well, I had to learn to cook, now that she's gone."

Jim shook his head and asked, "Have you heard anything from Joan since she left?"

Bill smiled, thought a moment, and replied, " No, but I'm sure she's somewhere close by." Then he took another bite.

Posted by: hnumpah at June 11, 2005 6:23 AM · Permalink

“I wonder what cannibal cuisine is like?” I say. “Is there a cannibal cookbook?” I swing my machete through another clump of branches. This was your God-damned idea, I thought.

“That's REAL funny, pal. Remember, we're here to observe their ways. Ours is not to judge,” he said.

“Just to point and mock.” Asshole.

I suddenly realized things were pointing at me. I looked around slowly; we were surrounded by tribesmen, each clutching a crude spear pointed at us.

One who appeared to be the leader lowered his spear and grunted, which sounded to me like, “We eat good tonight.”

Posted by: j.d. at June 11, 2005 8:19 AM · Permalink

“Dada wants his favorite meal tonight,” the porter said.

Groaning, the chef pulled the mutton out of the oven and unceremoniously dumped it in the garbage. “Did Dada say who his dinner guest was going to be?”

“Some general named Tobote. He’s being driven in now.”

The chef nodded and pulled the dog-eared cookbook off the shelf. He dared not risk a mistake. Dada was not the forgiving sort.

Minced onions, peppers and a clove of garlic were lightly sautéing when Tobote arrived.

“I should never have moved to Uganda,” the chef thought as he sliced into the general’s thigh.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 11, 2005 11:00 AM · Permalink

They found Red’s horse in a gully by the stagecoach road but no sign of Red. The trail boss was fit to be tied. “That’s two men gone already,” he told the crew. “We can’t afford to lose anymore hands so if any of y’all are planning on pulling out, do it now!”

Nobody left.

After bedding the cattle, the crew settled in for coffee, beans and some of Cook’s salty pork stew.

“This is mighty fine grub for salty pork,” Hopkins said. “What’s your secret?”

“Just an old recipe I got from my granddaddy,” Cook smiled. My granddaddy Donner.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 11, 2005 11:28 AM · Permalink

The overhead fan droned lazily over the taut little scene playing in the village constable's hut.

Three slightly disheveled ladies representing the London headquarters of "I, Missionary", having arrived on the supply boat the day before, stood apprehensively as the grass-skirted constable, in soft Biak, questioned a breathless runner just in from the bush.

The youth fell silent as the old man turned wearily to the ladies, extending his arms as if to embrace them, as if to embrace the whole world of human sorrow.

"Your lost missionary," he said sadly, in English, "...has disagreed with something that ate him."

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at June 11, 2005 1:02 PM · Permalink

The technology to force-grow acephalic clones with minimal cyborg brains was developed for medical purposes: replacement organs and tissues. But that was only the third-largest market for them.

The second-largest market was for mindless, compliant sex dolls. But the largest market wound up being for meat. Long Pig, inc. was the first company to cash in, followed quickly by Soylent Rainbow and Tastes-Like-Chicken.

"The Cannibal Cookbook" held the #1 slot on the New York Times nonfiction bestsellers list from November of 2053 through March of 2055. Then textured fungus protein was the big thing, and cannibal cusine books were remaindered.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 11, 2005 4:34 PM · Permalink

Well, a fine reward this was. He spent months holding parties to raise money and votes, and all he got out of it was an ambassadorship to some African country nobody had ever heard of. Surely he deserved a post in a civilized country in Europe. The punk's own father had been ambassador to England after all, and heaven knows he had no qualifications.

How was he to know his innocent comment would be taken so badly?

"I wonder what cannibal cuisine is like? I say, is there a cannibal cookbook?" he'd asked.

The next day Angola went communist.

Posted by: Gahrie at June 11, 2005 5:46 PM · Permalink

Monsieur Hannibal? For Dinner tonight? Andre was horrified. He would lose his five stars rating. He wasn't prepared for this clients outrageous cuisine demands. The oven wasn't big enough! Somehow he must muddle through. After a flurry of telephone calls, the new larger ovens arrived just in time for the cooking to begin.
"Not again!", muttered Mr. Lector as the waiter arrived with the dinner.He'd had enough elephant steak and swiss cheese sandwiches. All he'd wanted was some sauteed brains and a nice chianti! Why had his mother named him Hannibal? No wonder his psychiatrist said he had issues.

Posted by: JM at June 11, 2005 8:13 PM · Permalink