Don’t get me wrong, quiche; you’re positively delicious and easy on the eyes. Hell, even as a lad I used to order quiche every time my Nana and Pop-Pop took me to the now defunct Our Daily Bread for dinner. What’s more, I’ve cooked you in my own oven and supped on your delicate flavors. So no, quiche, I have nothing against you as a rather elegant food product.
No, see, here’s the thing: you don’t sound how you look. Sorry, quiche, but can’t you just go by “Kweesh” and be consistent with the rest of your q-word pals? The English language is hard enough as it is to explain to those who speak it as their native tongue. Imagine, then, the effort that’s required to teach you to foreigners?! (Okay, granted, foreigners have a better grasp on our language than most Americans, but you get the point.)
Furthermore, quiche, you’ve already got a stereotypical, less-than-manly reputation as, well, being kind of a bitch. Don’t believe me? Go put on any episode of Three’s Company whenever Jack was relegated to kitchen duty, be it in his Santa Monica apartment or at the restaurant with Felipe. Dollars to donuts Roper, Ferley, or even Mr. Angelino mugged for the camera and hinted at you being “special” due to your propensity for all things kitchen-oriented. The irony, of course, was that you cooked in Angelino’s restaurant, so you’d think the guy might cut you some slack on the whole “you’re not only a straight man living as a gay man to get a break on his rent but equally effeminate for working as a quiche-cooking chef” thing, but no.
Look, quiche, I realize you can’t harbor all of the blame on this one, but considering you’ve been rather popular for over half a century, I think it’s hight time you shouldered some of the load. And by the way, yes, we all think you’re French, which makes you that much more of an annoyance. But as it turns out, you were most popular in the 50’s…in England. I find that hard to believe, since the entire UK has never provided any of us with a delicious meal that wasn’t Indian or Thai, hence not being “English” at all. (That’s right, I’m looking at you, “Jacket Potato.” Please, call yourself what you will, but you’re still an overcooked baked potato, and you can glam that shit up however you like, spud, but you still taste like a mound of shit crapped out of starch asshole.)
Yes, a potato slathered in tuna fish and corn was the first Google Images result for “Jacket Potato.” Exactly.
To be safe, I think maybe I’ve had it with you altogether, quiche. You’ve got ties to the English and French, you may or may not be a homosexual, you’re confusing the shit out of people with your whack-job pronunciation, and you make me look like a bitch for ordering you. I’ve had it. From here on out, nothing but puff-pastry.
Well, that’ll do it for this installment. So until letter “R” marches her (hint-hint) horrible little legs onto your screen, have at it, you vultures!