Please Don’t Eat My Father

by Dawn Wilson

I’d appreciate it if you didn’t eat my father, because he would taste grody and you might vomit, and there are so many, many, many more edible guys without bristly beards to eat that it would just be a waste. You would already be full and along would come a tender morsel and... oh dear.

See, I don’t know you for sure personally, Mr. Giant, but the one thing I can tell from way far down is the state of your finicky gastrointestinal system and its penchant for the raunchies. You’re just on the verge of gastric meltdown! So think of this please do, as you’re not without the tick tock clickety clack gray matter inside your head (which I must remind you is edible as well). Consider gastric paradise.

Now, now, now: the whiny little brat’s all boo-hoo don’t eat my pappy.

I can see where you’re coming from. To me, one fish in the stream is just the same as any other fish in any other stream so long as the stream’s not poisoned and the fish isn’t belly up before I catch it, and I’m not just being all eww gross, mind you, no indeed there is a reason for my turned-up nose and flaring nostrils and frowny yet rubbery lips.

Disease! Death by food!

Which is something you’ve never yet considered because you’re just munch, munch, munch all the live-long day, no cares they’re all a bit gristly.

Not so, my friend!

See, my dad is an astrophysicist. What that should mean to your palette is that he’s bland, distasteful, and given to shoving toothpicks into the tickly part of your throat and most probably cutting the inside of your liver so your humors all leak out and poison your body.

If that is what you want, I know fifty ways to accomplish it with much more fun for everyone. And I’ve drawn you up a pleasant little invitation to mail out.

Surprise Kill Me and Eat My Brains Party
When: Today at dinner
Signed: That there Giant with the Horrid Toupee

But I know, I know, I know. You’re not so into the Death To Me! state of mind. You just picked up this bearded fellow on a whim with a little growl of your tum-tum-tum.

So instead let me propose this juicy little piglet. Her name is Arthese and, oh man, she’s got to be succulent. Just look at the way she jiggles and undulates in that gingham frock. Not a lot in the breast, but the rest of her is fully rounded. She’s a schoolgirl. That means she’s young and won’t need to be tenderized, and she’s dumb so she won’t attack your innards, and she’s juicy so she’ll be a pleasant nibble. Plus, she’s just looking for a proper romantic tryst.

Do not go Errrrr???? with such a blank look. Romance works upon the female mind in more than one or two psychotic fragile ways and can be fulfilled by a myriad of possibilities!

To some, this might mean Arthese is the stalker type looking for a guy to jump on hubba hubba and lay her lips to his: signed, sealed and stolen.

A kiss from Arthese on one of our males in pre-reproductive age would be the kiss of social death.

But the lovely thing is, with her romantic soul, a sweet sweet death will do her well. Something to remember her by.

I’m doing this for your own good, Mr. Giant. Which is mutually beneficial to my peoples as well. Stay on good terms with us, and we won’t be so likely to rise up against you, balancing on each other’s shoulders with a thousand pointy lances trying to cut out your heart. If you can’t trust your food to tell you what is good and bad to eat, then that old gray matter of yours is going to get eaten post-haste. What’s her name, who has you pegged? Yolanda? Yeah, I like Yolanda. For a giant woman and a cannibal, she’s a good chick with her eye on a pleasant dinner.

And Yolanda likes my father, did I mention? They watch the stars together, and she’s very protective of his cranium.

So put down my father and take that girl before she goes inside her mother’s hut!

Yeah, that girl.

Oh, hello, Arthese...

Good-bye, Arthese.