I love meat. I’m an unrepentant carnivore. I know I’ve extolled the virtues of pork time and again, but what I really want to eat every single day is a bloody steak. And often I do. Which means I’ll probably die one day in the not so distant future of a heart attack. But I’ll die happy, sated, and oblivious to any notion of deprivasian, so fuck if I care, unless the vodka martini I’ve ordered with that death steak is only half-consumed by the time I keel over.
Burger King, I shit you not, has come out with a cologne called “Flame,” described as the “scent of seduction, with a hint of flame-broiled meat.” I know I should like this, I really should. But the thing is, I don’t like it when people smell like meat (a little salty meat-sweat, like the way you smell after you’ve been stuffing your face at the ballpark, is okay). It reminds me of our own fleshy-ness, and my mind drifts to cannibalism and mortality, two unappetizing thoughts. Just last night, Diana and I were trying to figure out where we were going to have Korean BBQ, and it was a toss-up between two of our favorite haunts. Ultimately, we picked the place where we wouldn’t emerge smelling like charred human meat.
Furthermore, cologne is designed, apart from its purpose to mask B.O., to get people to fuck you. But I don’t want to literally fuck a piece of meat, although I won’t judge you if you do (okay, I will a little). I want that kind of meat to smell like cheap soap and laundry detergent, in that order, and then have my bloody steak after, when I’m done with it.
Beef up here, at the official Burger King “Flame” website.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.