Glutton laced punk

Maybe my little posse of professional Englishpersons are being quite
rude by surreptitiously staring at the obese family, trundling round
disneyworld with icecreams and wide smiles. Feed, feed, grow, harbour
energy all humanoid lipids, in soapy tissue.

The warm waft of meaty aroma calls us all though; slime creatures of
flesh we are; our tastebuds as raw and repellent as the filth-coated
antennae of a kitchen cockroach. They stare hungringly at the menu in
the chinese, arrowroot, grease, sesame prawn toasts, Irish coffee
topped with thick cream. Sense indulgance and the loosening of a
belt.

Then on Friday after the pubs are closed, these bubble-hazed young
drinkers wind their way on lagered legs to brick lane and allow the
taste explosion of Indian spices to excite their tongues into fits of
curried passion. On a table next to us are six suited city workers.
Bankers, brokers, jokers, all lads stuffing their faces - an exotic
frenzy like culinary masturbation, a pure self indulgance.

At the dinner party, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Dresses and
shoes like this render me a flounder. Conversationalist in me come out
I pray! Though feigning sophistication, we were still animals; always
hungy for needs and drives and the hostesses platters of chicken based
delight did not disappoint.

Good Friday doesn't mean anything because we know what happened on
Easter Sunday. It dawned on me one holy week so I told my friend the
Christian charismatic about our lack of sacrifice in the shadow of
Christ. The disciples were in darkness, they didn't know how the story
was going to end, must have been agony and grief. Where can our agony
and grief be now? I found out when I tried to fast on a catholic day of
fasting and abstinance. The desire to sink my teeth into a sandwich
overwhelming me with pain more than the image of the man with nails
through his ankles.

Forgive me lord.