Ladies and Gentleman, please fasten your seatbelts - tonight's meal - BBQ-ed medulla oblongata

I am a blind pilot, passing over some ice-topped mountains in Greenland. I can't see anything of course, but if I could, it would be like a dessert cooked in a household of Irish-English heritage, if such a thing is at all discernible. But there lies the quandary, because the smell at the time would just be stale, metallic, reproduced oxygen - your staple fare at 3000 feet above air. And what good can descriptions by unimaginative over-traveled heavily mustached colleagues paint.

It's not like I'll loosen my thin tie and wipe my broad forehead between adjustments of the sexy, sleek pilot's hat when we cruise over the vast chromeness of the Sahara, dotted with occasional black olives of royal guards. Sounds like Colin Firth in A Serious, no sorry, Single Man, innit? Fidgeting around the autopilot controls and seeing the black sheen of a .38 caliber flashing the finality of death. For that one tenth of a second, the urge to be engulfed in the dull chromeness, ostensibly in an effort to pick out and eat the olives, french-kisses the hell out of me.

As the mustaches demand an urban detour, the blindness whisks away like a particularly persistent cloud cover, leaving me in the realm of the .38 caliber's ugliness, to sculpt the patron's unpleasant wife or the neighbor's leprous maid. I choose Khartoum with its beautifully carved chess pieces for us to tamper with. The mustaches are happy. They can cover themselves in white rags of comforting cotton while their bosses slug it out over games of chess between puffs of mint flavored hookah.

And so to Awadh, which would be modern day... , wait lemme Google, aah Lucknow, my initial hunch was right - the land of kababs and shayari, though right now, it's probably festered with terribly accented call centers and smoggy dark gray traffic. Fuck, I would kill for a kabab right now, which is ironic, because, if you don't kill, you can't produce a kabab. Why do some people spell kabab with an e? It might be a Turkish conspiracy to recapture the world in the name of commoditizing world peace. I have a hunch - personal interaction with modern-day Ottomans I tell you, not the kind you put your feet on, well I suppose you could, but they tend to be bony and fuck with your ankles. If only I had a pig like the Queen of Hearts, but the stink, oh the stink. Haha... irony alert again - pigs taking over Ottoman jobs!

Maybe I'm just hungry. BBQ pork chops would never taste better, I promise. But something tells me the magic is in the BBQ sauce and not the meet. Can you imagine tasteless crap like veggies, that your mama gets you to eat every living hour, with BBQ sauce? This is bigger than world peace, man. This is the Food Network on acid. Just dab the damn thing in BBQ sauce and voila, you have solved world hunger. Why are we dropping food concentrates in African wastelands? Let's shower them with BBQ sauce. Take that UN!

Aren't some African societies cannibalistic? Would they try to eat each other then - dabbed in BBQ sauce? If only Hannibal Lector were more white-trash than such a cultured prick, we would know what BBQ sauce on human meat tasted like. None of that 'I fried his liver with some flava beans and had it with a nice cianti' crap, I'm talkin' about downright BBQ-ed medulla oblongata here. Is 'cannibalistic society' an oxymoron? Is 'oxymoron' an oxymoron?