The best job in the world has got to be the judge of a food reality competition.

Did the dream of this job start with OgOg saying to DimDim ,Lets go the cave of EmeRil!?

You don't have to chew the meat a million times to swallow, and it's got this cool tasting water in it!

Just the shape of a human's teeth would have have convinced the Puritans, if they had dental knowledge, that the fueling process of the human body was meant to be pleasurable, which blows the hell out a God that requires denial.

Most of our teeth have little bowels in them to savor the flavor while you grind it up. Animal teeth are long and sharp like a knife to slice and swallow.

We are designed to be food critics.

I usually hate reality shows, but the cooking contests feature mad scientist chefs that throw around food atoms in combinations that creates wonderful culinary madness.

I'd like to jap-slap a lot of those poker snotty faced judges, though.

People that like to cook and go where no chef has gone before, are creating food that makes your million taste buds realize that this food is almost as good as sex!

But these critics on shows like Iron Chef munch away at food with an impassive face that I would sell my soul for.

That's why it's great to see the actors or sports figures eat the offerings and have uncontrollable culinary orgasms.

The jaw dropper of these cooking shows is the one which features – get ready – 7 to 13 year olds who made complicated dishes that an Iron Chef would be proud of.

It was interesting seeing foul mouthed Gordon Ramsey astonished and incredulous by these children. You could tell he wanted to tell some of these kids, You little wanker! You'll probably have my job in a few years!

And very few of these kids came from chef parents.

Where did these abilities come from?

Obviously, by utilizing the theory of Occam's Razor these little people have cooked in many lifetimes, in the courts of the likes of Henry the Eighth, and the Courts of Versailles.

Don't believe me?

Watch these sweet young children that should be playing with gender approved toys, command their kitchens like four star generals.

I'm glad that the room has no flies in it while I watch, because they would find an available landing pad in my open mouth.

I would love to hypnotize one of the kids and regress them to one of these lifetimes and ask a question I have always wanted answered.

The chefs in the middle ages were required by kings to create culinary 'curiosities' that better please the royal palette.

One of them was a pie that when sliced, a flock of birds flew out.

Here's my question.

Did the king EAT the pie that had to be full of bird shit from these scared birds?

I stole some of my roommates honey roasted peanuts.

See, the reason I use the word, stole, is that I try to eat healthy. His idea of time off is to eat so much that he can hardly breathe. So, my abduction of these peanuts was sheer hypocrisy.

I rag the shit out him because he is 360 pounds, a roommate that karma stuck me with,

and seeing him drop dead from a heart attack is not on my bucket list!

So now, I not only hate my roommates' guts for eventually dropping dead in front of me, but I loved, loved, loved those damned peanuts! I could have eaten truck loads of them!

And that's why the philosophy that he represents scares the hell out of me!

In our bullet proof attitude that accompanies ripe young flesh, the wonderful drives of youth and discovery are predominate.

Yeah, buddy. The way it should be!

But come on former Dudes and Dudettes. The mortal coil starts looking damn shitty as times rolls by, and in the process leaves the rolls on you.

Another karmic joke. I try to eat to live, and he eats to set a record to see how he can cram in.

First course, a big bar of chocolate and donuts, then velveta cheese and ham and bread and potato chips, then ice cream. Oh, yeah. Half a shaker full of salt at every meal.

I don't want to know any of this.

Now, he has to sit in the living room to eat, because he has fed the cats, against my advise, part of his meal where he eats and they are now mafia kittens, wanting their cut before they leave him alone.

So he has to eat in the living room.

I swear, God of Karma, I try not to judge him.

I'm in the living room using the wonderful genie to speed past the boring commercial, so there is silence until the show is resumed.

Filled with the sound of never ending crunching of potato chips. He was pounding them. A more dedicated cruncher would be hard to find.

I told myself, different strokes for different folks.

I think the show runs at least 10 minutes until the next commercial.

He's still eating in a dedicated manner.

I read that in concentration camps that the inmates hated each other worse than their captors.

I couldn't understand until....THE ROOMATE!

After much self examination, I realized the horrible truth.

Part of me wants to be Jabba the Hutt just like him. Gorging like him. Eating till you explode!

I mean with Monsanto, Chemtrails, for sure economic collapse, big pharma, Isis, etc, etc, what's to live for?

When the first looters show up to take his stuff, he'll just have a heart attack.

Guess everyone should have a plan, right?