The generation without taste buds, rods, or cones

There are stints in human history that one looks back upon with utter distaste and incredulity at their fellow man, at his complete indifference and cruelty towards members of his own species. One of these tragic eras is the 1970’s, the age where people were so doped up on Quaaludes they thought “Yay! Shag carpeting and platform shoes! Together at last!”, called pants “slacks” and belted them up to the underboob, and decorated their houses in burnt orange and olive greens. Don’t even get me started on their porn. Shag carpeting indeed.

Nothing says “I’m sticking it to the man” like anti-establishment slacks that advertise your educational status.


One of the most fascinating cultural aspects of the 70’s is their culinary proclivities. Have you ever Googled “70’s recipes” before? I mean, what in the ape-ramming fuck? I’m still convinced that 70’s cuisine is the most elaborate prank ever pulled on humanity, perpetuated by Big Mayonnaise or whatever corporation was responsible for leisure suits (probably du Pont. That family is fucked up).

I get that it was the heyday of ‘ludes and disco and blow and hairy sex with randoms in toilet stalls that was made all the more exciting by the high risk of toppling over in their ridiculous platform heels and losing their grip on their coke baggie, therefore powdering their new friend’s gold lamé slacks-bulge like the world’s most horrible doughnut. That I can relate to.

But their food? THEIR FUCKING FOOD?!? Oh hell no. There is conspiracy here. There was some drunken night in 1968 at the Las Vegas grocer convention where Burt, Eugene, Francisco, and Ronnie got drunk and made an soul-offer to Satan to raise their respective foodstuff industries into a mighty culinary tour de force that would enslave the drugged masses and assure their fortunes. Their plot to boost the sales of mayonnaise, gelatin, olives, and canned meats was cemented by a blood-and-Spam oath on His altar and if anyone backed out or tattled the other three would tell everyone that it was his idea to watch each other masturbate in that sauna so you better keep your fucking mouth shut, Eugene.

One of the most dicked up things about their food is the amount of time expended in an attempt to make it look appetizing. Instead of using those 289 life hours making sure each piece of shit was inserted just so into their fish-shaped Jell-o molds (oh my god what is it with the fish molds?!?) they could have learned calligraphy or built an African village out of Popsicle sticks or translated the Dead Sea Scrolls. But ooooohhhh no, those hours were an investment because some day you might end up as a phone sex operator like poor manless “Seven Flavors For Ten Cents” Betty over on Happy Trails Road. Tramp.


I am so glad I grew up in a decade that didn’t serve any of this shit. Commence taunting…


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