This is for the fat girls. This is for the little chubbies.
This is for the foolhardy pimples and for the light-brewed red bulls that oriented them.
This is for the morning half-cream, for the spill-made salt-shaker, for the white wine seriously sipped on and for the wildly grown celery, apple carts and corn far too corny to be eaten.
Bake the crust.
This is for the munchies and for the people having heart problems, for the rust piling in arteries filled up with sodium, for the men who have to hold out three dollars simply to chow down their chicken, for the late night pool fests and for the mint-spiked pile-drivers making you cry.
Bake the crust.
This is for the two mere colds that cannot be held responsible for you skipping classes in English for a month, bake the crust, for the voice that is putrid from cigarettes, bake the crust, for the birth of another hangover pancake, for that brimmed, mashed, molded flour, and the sevenfold recycled condom in your shower, for the attempts to make a British cake en masse, and then forgetting all the raisins in your pockets, for cleaning them out of the washing machine and needing help – bake the crust.
This is for those poor men who want trout but know that they've run out, for the ones that love pastrami, the ones that crave candy in hand at the food store, the ones who are told "eat only when heart-broken": do - but only if there’s a coke there too. Eat all the time, demand that they lower prices by 50%, do not let one pan pie go by that doesn't remind you that your heart, it is clogged by the 900 slices of pizza you eat every day, and that there are enough calories in one to give you a stroke, man…
So do not settle for a plate of plain lettuce and for the crust to be perfected in vain.
This is for the cellophane cheddar pile that keeps on bubbling, for the moment of grease and for the leeks that complete the amazing Calzone.
For the vinaigrette that drips off of my salad platter – shit! – and for the garlic curts on my vegetarian girlfriends sagging tits, for 7/11, and after 12 that frozen taco I micro:ed.
This is for the inspiring Four Seasons, and for those famished who will never eat a good pizza, with perfectly spaced minced meat that runs and wobbles on the cheese-bed.
This is for the biggest,
for the breakfasts,
for the grillers, and for those big-mouthed, binge-bent fat-asses breaking their clothe-seams, and for the mindless drinking, that always seems to show up after every single mid-term.
This is for all of you.
Make sure that by the time the dishes turn up you are gone, because when as lazy as me, you learn from your friends, and every time I invite them, every time the meal is cooked right, they leave me in the apartment myself, to clean it through.
So bake the crust, and make it crispy if you do, for working out has never been for me.
All that pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling makes me puke,
so clad this hearth with a dough-ring and bake it out again, and again, and run out of topping and make it up with navel lint and when they complain, you run away again through your secret back door.
Bake the earth burning; make it hot with other foaming delights, hot with other oat-treats like oat-meal with a slight touch of sugared Adderall.
I’ll talk you into it, believe I will bake the fat on your arms like the millions of tears from millions of gourmets, endorsing obesity, running like muffins baked for five minutes, bake out the crust, so that when cardiac arrest knocks on that back door, you lock it tightly shut, running crying but proud into a life-less, blinding cloud that’s created from your heart-attack, fingertips trembling

– and they damn well should be.