'Twas a soiree of decadence and sin! On a fair summer's eve, the Lady Keepitcoming deigned to favor me with the pleasure of her company. Nature lead us to discover that on this balmy evening, only the finest of pub pleasures would assuage our lubricious appetites, and thus, we consummated our desire to dine upon Sir Kensington's, the capricious catsup of kings!
Dear readers, I'm sure I shan't raise any eyebrows in stating the obvious fact that the vast majority of commercial ketchups are rather banal affairs, in possession of the all the charms, in the timeless words of David Guetta, of "your neighborhood whore." Fortunately for those of us whose gourmandism demands a more subtle,
recherché approach to ketchup, Sir Kensington has come forward to disabuse us of our former complacency in regards to this most familiar of condiments. By the light and wisdom of Sir Kensington, a notorious fop in the most sociable of circles, truly has the purity of the primal origins of ketchup finally been seen! Yea verily, this ketchup is baller.
With a thick, ripe rotundness on the lips and a heat sufficient to pique our lusty appetites, Sir Kensington tipped the velvet on our tongues and tantalized our tastebuds. This ketchup possessed all the natural simplicity of a luscious twenty-two year old brunette stripper with lightly pendulous double D's and minimal dancing abilities, yet it had the robust spice and sultry tomato flavor reminiscent of the kind of woman who can make you scream like a bitch without really trying.
In the light of this laudatory review, it pains me to relate to you, my esteemed readers, that Sir Kensington's viral marketing campaign is, in truth, kind of douchey. Our normally redoubtable guide into this fascinating world suggested on his website that we have a
"scooping ketchup party", and it is with great regret that I inform you of my distaste for our esteemed colleague's choice of words.
This minor matter of aesthetics aside, however, we did listen to music deserving of the Kensingtonian philosophy, namely, Air, and other light ambient techno dance selections, and we ate his ketchup with good, hearty french fries. I wouldn't hesitate to serve Sir Kensington's ketchup again, in despite of the fact that I die a little inside whenever I'm called upon to speak the words, "scooping ketchup."
Written and translated into Victorian English by Keepitcoming Love
Dear readers, I'm sure I shan't raise any eyebrows in stating the obvious fact that the vast majority of commercial ketchups are rather banal affairs, in possession of the all the charms, in the timeless words of David Guetta, of "your neighborhood whore." Fortunately for those of us whose gourmandism demands a more subtle, recherché approach to ketchup, Sir Kensington has come forward to disabuse us of our former complacency in regards to this most familiar of condiments. By the light and wisdom of Sir Kensington, a notorious fop in the most sociable of circles, truly has the purity of the primal origins of ketchup finally been seen! Yea verily, this ketchup is baller. 
With a thick, ripe rotundness on the lips and a heat sufficient to pique our lusty appetites, Sir Kensington tipped the velvet on our tongues and tantalized our tastebuds. This ketchup possessed all the natural simplicity of a luscious twenty-two year old brunette stripper with lightly pendulous double D's and minimal dancing abilities, yet it had the robust spice and sultry tomato flavor reminiscent of the kind of woman who can make you scream like a bitch without really trying.
In the light of this laudatory review, it pains me to relate to you, my esteemed readers, that Sir Kensington's viral marketing campaign is, in truth, kind of douchey. Our normally redoubtable guide into this fascinating world suggested on his website that we have a "scooping ketchup party", and it is with great regret that I inform you of my distaste for our esteemed colleague's choice of words.
This minor matter of aesthetics aside, however, we did listen to music deserving of the Kensingtonian philosophy, namely, Air, and other light ambient techno dance selections, and we ate his ketchup with good, hearty french fries. I wouldn't hesitate to serve Sir Kensington's ketchup again, in despite of the fact that I die a little inside whenever I'm called upon to speak the words, "scooping ketchup."
Written and translated into Victorian English by Keepitcoming Love
No comments:
Post a Comment