TKOG Who preys on living flesh

Win a friggin’ iPod Nano! Or win the gift of reading more of my stuff on the internet by hopping over to Secret Society of List Addicts and checking out my list of euphemisms that sound worse than the shit they’re euphemizing! 

NTKOG #108: The kind of sophisticated foodie who blithely tosses oysters, raw in the friggin’ half-shell, down her nonchalant gullet. 

I am: in complete agreement with the wise Woody Allen in re: oysters: “I like my food dead. Not sick. Not wounded. Dead.” 

I am not: an aquarium, so why would I want marine life LIVING AND DYING INSIDE OF ME?! 

The Scene: A swag-baggy party hosted by the magazine that Picasso shoots for. The upscale little bistro is concert-crowded with people who are all drinking for three, mingling for six, and probably waxed like 10-year-olds. The magazine is youthful and trendy, and the party is co-sponsored by a famous brand of vodka that is strictly bros and sororstitutes. Yeah, you know the one. The whole feel is very Gatsby-lite, complete with passed hors d’oeuvres so tiny that they begin dissolving the moment you look at them. 

I’ve knocked back a godawful drink (if you’re making a drink with vodka and liberal amounts of lemon juice, you either need to add simple syrup or dust the fucking rim with powdered Tums — honestly, guys) and am rounding home on a vodka and ginger ale when the waiter stops by us with a foul-smelling tray. Oysters. 

It's alive! IT'S ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!

My sister took one with obvious relish, then gestured to the last horrifying mass of undead fishflesh. “Take it,” she said. “Not That Kind Of Girl.” Goddamnit. I futzed with the craggy shell, spilling oyster juice all over my hands, before raising the situation to my lips. Truth be told, the nauseating scent of oyster juice was masked with lemon juice and lots of raw garlic; this wouldn’t be so bad. 

But … they’re kind of big, those stripes of flesh within the shell. And so … shiny. Was it twitching a little?! 

As the first drops of oyster juice seeped into my mouth, my sister asked me: “You know what it tastes like.” Yeah, I told her, a vagina, then knocked the mass down down down to the back of my throat. “No!” Sister said. “It tastes like a MacDonald’s cheeseburger!” 

And upon hearing that horrifying comparison, I discovered why raw oysters are served on the half shell. So you’ll have something to catch it when you spit the whole mess back out, oyster, juice and all. Right about then, Picasso undoubtedly began to regret inviting me to his work party. 

Tried it again and — oh, you know it — the oyster made the RE-RETURN to its shell. Finally I made Sister count me down from five, knocked the oyster back and attempted to swallow, but my throat was swollen with (totally rightful) horror. As I stood in the purgatory of almost certain near-future-vom, I did the only thing I could do: snatched Picasso’s half-finished vodka sidecar, knocked back the whole thing and swallowed the oyster like a pill. 

Yeah, um, you can’t take me anywhere. 

The Verdict: Jonathan Swift said it was a brave man who first swallowed an oyster. RESPECTFULLY DISAGREE. It was an absolute moron. See, the whole point of food is that it’s delicious. Meant to be nibbled, sucked, savored. If the food you’re eating is so disgusting that you must swallow it whole?! Dude, just stick to lamb or sweet potatoes or nature’s other candy. 

I hereby declare myself cured of any need to eat: 1) marine life; 2) living shit; 3) live, raw marine life. I can still feel that little fucker dancing in my stomach like a deleted scene from Fantasia. Oyster-lovin’ dudes, spill: what’s your secret? Why do you like them? Is it childhood trauma related?

Tagged as: actually i have a lot of bartender-related rants but i am refraining because they bore people, aphrodesiac, grey goose is vom dot com, i love that oysters are an aphrodesiac -- like dude no one who ever saw me eat an oyster could fall in love with me, not kosher, oysters, seafood, shellfish, sorry picasso -- i owe you a drink