I'm Going to Culinary School

Strap in, you dipshits

N yeah, like me Nan used to say,

Frank, ya can’t just stay unmoving all ya life like Jason Priestley’s hair. Life is a river, and if ya stay still like a rock, ya gonna get worn away.

She was a wise old beaver, me Nan. N honestly, I had some good insight last Thursday after drinkin’ three triple West Coast IPAs n smokin’ a joint that I got off some tramp outside Seven Eleven. I laid in the hot sun for fourteen minutes practising the reverse Wim Hof method, and the Guru Shanshek appeared to me in the form of a Quiche Lorraine.

“Ya know, Frank,” said the Quiche. “Writing is a dynamic practice. Great writing is based on experience. It is experience that stimulates great writing and experience that provides the material for great writing.”

I took another big toke on the joint and blew it out into the hot sky.

“Indeed, Guru,” I said. “But why are you appearing in the form of the holy Quiche Lorraine?”

The Quiche nodded.

“I’ll get to that, Frank,” he said. “It will make sense by the time this vision has ended. But let me say this: you have complained incessantly about your writer’s block to your unfortunate readers, yet you fail to do what is necessary to break it. You have spent several years sitting around feeding your fat arse and writing and have therefore spent all of your writing karma. As it says in the third book of Love,

Writing as an activity is not sufficient fuel for the practice of writing. You need to do something else, you cunt (Book of Love 11.69.11)

Hence, you should get away from your writing desk and do something physical, stressful, creative, and social without computer screens.”

Supreme bliss began to fill my body from the base of my gonads, and my whole being felt like it was filling with one of those ice cold blue Slurpees. In hindsight it all felt a little psychedelic for regular weed, but that's the ticket you buy when you accept joints from tramps.

I could barely speak, but I managed to force out the words,

“What should I do, Guru? Tell me, please!”

And as the holy Quiche Lorraine began dissolving into light, I heard its gentle words:

“You need to cook, Frank. Go to culinary school, you cunt. I repeat, go to culinary sch…”

I sat up in the blazing sun. I knew what I had to do. Could this finally be the answer to my ongoing writer’s block? I mean, the Guru was right. When I first started writing in 1951 as a fresh-faced young journalist, I could pour out 1500 words on the Prison Industrial Complex easier than a young man with dyssentery shitting out a whopper with cheese.

Once deep into writing, I stopped working and just sat at my chafing station, writing books and allowing my blog to get increasingly weird and full of swear words. And I mostly stopped seeing people. And at some point, I ran out of shit to write about because you can't just fucking write about sitting at your desk writing. It doesn’t work. And fucking drinking and smoking weed does not help.

So I got off my arse and enrolled in culinary school

And now I have at least one thing to write about.

As it turns out, I am the oldest fucker out of seventeen students. I’m also one of four white people, which I hadn’t even noticed until the teacher told us to form groups, and I somehow ended up with the three other white guys. I noticed that the Vietnamese guys formed a group and the African guys formed a group. It was like American high school. And yet the girls somehow managed to form their own multicultural mixed race groups.

I quickly regretted the decision to form my own skinhead group when I realised two of the other three white guys were mentally unbalanced. I had a secret word to William, the head of the Chinese group, a definite ADHD guy with a mullet and drainpipe jeans who looked like he could cook, to see if I could join his Chinese group. He looked at me with total confusion like I’d asked to wank off his dad, and I returned to my group of retarded white nationalists.

I am a competitive motherfucker, so I intend to win the class if that's a thing.

I bought a chef’s uniform in which I look like an absolute pig fucker. I bought some cheap chef’s knives, and I went to my first class where I learnt how fucking poisonous eggs are (on the outside), how a young girl ended up in a wheelchair from eating the dirty bird. N I learned how sticking your cock in a Beef Wellington can lead to jail time and how one should wash one’s hands after handling raw food and money and wanking off in your car on your lunchbreak.

I got to heat up a tiny fucking meat pie in one of those industrial ovens ya see on Hell’s Kitchen. And it was crispy af and delicious except how the meat and gravy spewed out onto my chin, fucking burning the piss out of me in front of the multicultural girl’s group. And they didn’t even laugh, they just gave me a filthy look like we were on fucking MEAN GIRLS and I’m fucking Lindsay Lohan.

And I kept yelling YES CHEF cos I’ve seen it on the TV, and I think the young ones think I’m a real cunt for doing that, but the chef seemed to like it, so fuck all those young fucks.

I’m here to win.

And when the teacher chef asked me what my food dream was, I told them that my dream was to have a hot dog stand on the beach where I could secretly sell cocaine under the counter and retire at the age of 56.

Nobody laughed. Just more of the same Regina George fucking looks.

Never mind. They don’t fucking get me yet, but they will. And if they don’t, I’ll cook them in that fucking giant oven and feed them to the demon CHanjabill.

Fuck them.

Truth is, I don’t have a food dream. I have a writing dream, but I ain't telling them that. I’m undercover. It’s gonzo journalism, you fucks. So, I read Kitchen Confidential by Bourdain, n this book called SAUCES by this French bastard so I’m not totally ignorant.

N now I set forth into this culinary hell, dressed like a twat and ready to cut off my fingers and burn my cock in the pursuit of literary excellence.

Pray for me, you fucks.

Now fuck off.

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