An Oyster Leads A Dreadful But Exciting

... Most Bereaved Souls Crave Nourishment More Tangible Than Prayers: They Want A Steak. What Is More, They Need A Steak. Preferably They Need It Rare, Grilled, Heavily Salted, For That Way It Is Most Easily Digested, And Most Quickly Turned Into The Glandular Whip Their Tired Adrenals Cry For.

Almost Any Normal Oyster Never Knows From One Year To The Next Whether He Is He Or She, And May Start At Any Moment, After The First Year, To Lay Eggs Where Before He Spent His Sexual Energies In Being Exceptionally Masculine.

One Martini Is Just Right. Two Martinis Are Too Many. Three Martinis Are Never Enough.

All Men Are Hungry. They Always Have Been. They Must Eat, And When They Deny Themselves The Pleasures Of Carrying Out That Need, They Are Cutting Off Part Of Their Possible Fullness, Their Natural Realization Of Life, Whether They Are Rich Or Poor.

It Is Puzzling To Me That Otherwise Sensitive People Develop A Real Docility About The Obvious Necessity Of Eating, At Least Once A Day, In Order To Stay Alive. Often They Lose Their Primal Enjoyment Of Flavors And Odors And Textures To The Point Of Complete Unawareness. And If Ever They Question This Progressive Numbing-off, They Shrug Helplessly In The Face Of Mediocrity Everywhere. Bit By Bit, Hour By Hour, They Say, We Are Being Forced To Accept The Not-so-good As The Best, Since There Is Little That Is Even Good To Compare It With.