#House of Cochon

[sgiandubh]

Señorita Nothingburger

🎶When you see her, say a prayer /And kiss your heart arse goodbye 🎶

Lauren 2.0. Wow: after The Paid Companion, The Wannabe. Unlike the first round of revelations, this time the output has been totally disappointing. Very few things and zero context, which I have to say I was totally expecting, because it didn't exactly fit the agenda being pushed by Marple (amen!). Lightning never strikes the same place twice, right? And then, we had The Follow - a very interesting foolish, yet telling move: but on this, a bit further down the road, mind you.

So, let's ask ourselves along with La Ciccone: '¿Quién es esa niña?' For once, his IG follow has been very explicit:

Leading whoever to this account...

Elix Wellness is offering a very specific range of treatments, of which the one for hangovers really got me interested:

And yeah, even if I have apparently been scooped out by Marple on this one (my bad for sitting on it for a day), shamelessly using my patented methods (that is a lame joke), Lauren 2.0's LinkedIn account is, for once, very clear:

Her contract as a Travel RN was over by August 2023, as pointed out across the street:

And then she decided to go independent and open her own company. So, by far not a hooker - decent education, even, at NYU.

Lo and behold, who had Ibuprofen in his hotel room, in May 2023, when they were spotted on that NY Soho terrace, having lunch (didn't we laugh? you bet we did, it was one of my first posts in this fandom!)? S, of course. Hangovers could use both ibuprofen and a good IV cleansing treatment ( see above - such a common offering in that particular town, soon to be out of fashion - but hey: if she believes it can bring money, not my problem).

But... dating her? Not a chance in hell. You see, just a cursory survey of her IG account between the moment her contract as a Travel Registered Nurse was over and the moment her company started to be active, reveals a very busy Mediterranean summer, hitting all the possible cliches:

Before ending that contract, even, some days in Paris with her real interest, (again) checking all the tourist/romantic tropes you can imagine, from dining at the Au pied de cochon restaurant to having a quick macaron bite in the Luxembourg Gardens...

... then off to Paros, a posh island Greek destination, very much in vogue with the creative crowd, followed by (we are talking mandatory island hopping, here) Mykonos (unapologetically posh and very expensive, LGBTQ+ friendly destination - also beloved by the glam and glitz crowd)

Oh, hello Soho Roc House, part of the Soho Houses network - rings a bell? What a small world, really.

... a couple of days in Rome, followed by some quality family time (Mom and Pop, at a minimum) in Puglia, then Croatia (again, the glam crowd of Hvar island), back to Paris for a girls' trip (Montmartre, the Eiffel Tower and a couple other spots in the Marais and around the Rue de Rivoli - cliche forever):

... then back in Rome for cacio e pepe pasta, Piazza Navona and the Pantheon oculus (artsy girl, told you), followed by Positano and Capri (with Mom and Dad, again). Nothing to write home about, but still trying to sell herself as an up and coming influencer of sorts, perhaps.

Nowhere near S for the entire 2023 Sassenach Summer Tour. How is this equating with dating, that is really beyond me. Seriously. For instance, just before the second sighting, in NYC (June 10, 2023), she was having fun in the Algarve region and Lisbon (of course, Portugal). Probably posted those pics upon her return to NYC:

Dating? More like convenient pretext. He knew people would hang around that hotel (fans, autograph hunters, etc), especially during OL promo peak time. And he knew someone will take that pic, which was then conveniently placed in *urv's lap, for lengthy talks and more innuendo. Just as the first sighting was conveniently placed in Marple's inbox, to see if topic garners interest and sticks around/can be reused for further shits and giggles. Innuendo and nothing more would be my best bet: neither *urv, nor Marple had ANY positive idea about who she was, back at the time.

And now, the third drop was again placed in Marple's inbox, because attention had to be redirected to this particular gossip topic, in rather dire circumstances following Lauren 1.0.

And for your information, she does not follow S and he does not follow her. But he follows her newly opened joint: hangovers are a bitch, I know.

Why? I think it is clear enough why.

Who dunnit? I will let you draw your own conclusions, really. Again, it is rather plain to see. My belief is that this is not TPTB. And for once, I do not think he met her via Raya. Nope.

I took one for the team and listened to that podcast (if you are very foolish or brave or foolishly brave, you can do the same here: https://youtu.be/vBmcnhe2kwg?si=rRu5YCLHS3eZhuFs ). I mean, what is WRONG with those women? That is legit 14 year old bullshit talk about relationships (or the immature impossibility to have a satisfying one). They essentially explain in that podcast they have trouble decoding 'the man' in some relationships and the way they play out. I was laughing so violently my abs (or lack of them) hurt. At some point, I even thought it was some sort of sophisticated second degree, but NO (#cringe).

Also, I think I should be burning my pineapple pajama summer pants. Seriously. If you listen to the whole bullshit, you'll see there is no damn way to substantiate anything based on that. Zero connection.

[rabbitcruiser]

National Poutine Day

In Canada, particularly in Quebec, poutine is a staple food, if not  also an iconic one. It has become a popular food in America as well as  in other countries, and we celebrate it today, on National Poutine Day.  Standard poutine is made up of fresh-cut french fries, squeaky fresh  cheese curds, and brown gravy, but there are many variations of the  dish. Among other possibilities, the name may have come from the word  "pudding," which is spelled pouding in French, or from poutine,  which is slang for "mess" in Quebec. It is pronounced "pou-tin" in the  French-dominated regions of Quebec and New Brunswick, but as "poo-teen"  elsewhere.

According to the most widely known and accepted story, poutine was  first served at L’Idéal (Café Ideal)—a restaurant that later changed its  name to Le Lutin Qui Rit (The Laughing Elf)—in 1957, in the small town  of Warwick, in Arthabaska County, Quebec, a town known for producing  squeaky cheese curds. A usual customer, Eddy Lainsesse, requested curds  on top of his fries. The restaurant owner, Fernand Lachance, supposedly  replied, "Ça va faire une maudite poutine," which roughly translates to  "That's going to make a dreadful mess." A variation of the story says  that Lainsesse asked for the curds and fries to be thrown together in a  paper bag, upon which Lachance looked into the bag and said, "This is  poutine." The dish started being sold in a bag and soon caught on.  Patrons began adding ketchup and vinegar to it. In 1963, Lachance began  serving it on plates. Customers soon noticed that the fries got cold  quickly, so Lachance added gravy to keep them warm.

According to another story, poutine was created by Jean-Paul Roy,  owner of Le Roy Jucep, a drive-in restaurant in Drummondville, Quebec.  He had been serving a dish of gravy and french fries called patate-sauce  since 1958, and in 1964 noticed that some of his diners were adding  cheese curds to it. He soon added a dish that contained all three  ingredients and named it fromage-patate-sauce.

No matter how poutine got its start, it soon could be found being  sold as street food in Canada. By 1969 it was being sold in Quebec City  at the Ashton Snack Bar food truck on Boulevard Wilfred-Hamel, and it  was being sold in Montreal by 1983. By the early 1980s, it had become a  widely popular street food in Ontario and Quebec.

It made its debut in Canadian chain restaurants in 1985, appearing on  the menu at Frits, a now-defunct Quebec-based chain. By the 1990s,  poutine had reached mass popularization in the country, after its  inclusion on the menus of other chains. It first appeared on a Burger  King menu in 1987 in Quebec, and soon spread to other locations of the  chain. The same happened with McDonald's in 1990. Canadian fast-food  chain Harvey's debuted it on menus across the country in 1992.

But poutine wasn't to remain only as street food and fast food. By  the early 2000s, it was appearing in high-end Canadian restaurants. It  was put on the menu at Aud Pied de Cochon in Montreal in 2002, where it  was topped with foie gras. Other high-end Montreal restaurants followed  suit. Garde Manger began serving an Iron Chef America-winning lobster poutine, and Pub Quartier Latin put poutine made with steak, truffles, and red wine demi-glace on their menu.

Some Canadian restaurants have made poutine their main focus. La  Banquise in Montreal began serving it in the 1980s. They started with  the standard version and an Italian version with bolognese sauce instead  of gravy. They have since expanded to serving 30 types. Smoke's  Poutinerie was started in Toronto in 2008, the first poutine-only  restaurant in that city. Other poutine-only restaurants that followed in  Canada are Poutini's House of Poutine, La Poutinerie, and Poutineville.

Poutine made its first foray into the United States in New Jersey and  New York, where a variation of the recipe called "Disco Fries" became  popular. This version substituted mozzarella or cheddar cheese for the  curds. Poutine has since become relatively common in the States, and  took hold in other countries as well, such as the United Kingdom and  Russia.

As mentioned, there are various types of poutine besides the usual  french fries, cheese curds, and gravy combination. Different types of  potatoes, cheese, and sauces can be used. Italian poutine may use  spaghetti sauce instead of gravy; veggie poutine is made with mushroom  sauce and vegetables; Irish poutine is made with lardons. La galvaude is from Gaspésie and is made with chicken and green peas. A variation in Montreal uses smoked meat.

Festivals devoted to poutine are held across Canada throughout the  year. Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto are some cities that hold them. On  National Poutine Day, events are held and specials are available at  restaurants in countries like Canada and the United States. For example,  My Meatball Place in Toronto has given away free samples of meatball  and vegan poutine, and The Hops Spot in Syracuse has offered half-price  poutine. With so many types of poutine—and so many restaurants that  serve it in some parts of the world—there is no reason to remain hungry  on National Poutine Day.

How to Observe National Poutine Day (Canada)

Here are some ideas on how to celebrate the day:

Make your own poutine. You could make the original version or another variation of the dish. You could even make Disco Fries, the Americanized version of the dish.

Check if there is a place near you that serves poutine.

Enjoy poutine at a Canadian restaurant that specializes in the dish, such as La Banquise, Smoke's Poutinerie, Poutini's House of Poutine, La Poutinerie, or Poutineville. Smoke's Poutinerie also has some locations in the United States.

Have poutine at a restaurant in Warwick, Quebec, the town where the dish is said to have originated, or have it at Le Roy Jucep in Drummondville, Quebec, the other location where it is said to have gotten its start.

Eat some poutine at Harvey's or at another fast food restaurant in Canada.

Enjoy poutine at a high-end Canadian restaurant such as Aud Pied de Cochon, Garde Manger, or Pub Quartier Latin.

See if there are any specials on poutine today at restaurants such as My Meatball Place in Toronto or The Hops Spot in Syracuse.

Plan a trip to an upcoming poutine fest, such as Montreal's Le Grand Poutinefest, Ottawa Poutine Fest, or Toronto Poutine Fest.

Source

[monimarat]

The Duplessis house in Bourg-la-Reine. From Claretie’s Camille Desmoulins: Ouvrage Illustré

A young Lucile negotiates a visit:

« Monsieur Duplessis, dans son cabinet, au coin du feu » : « Ma sœur et moi, nous savons que tu dois aller à la campagne un des jours de cette semaine. Te souviens-tu, qu'il y a plus de quinze jours que tu nous avais promis de nous y mener ? Tu m'as dit, qu'il t'en souvienne, que si j'apprenais Zaire [de Voltaire], tu me donnerais tout ce que je voudrais.

J'en sais déjà presque la moitié, papa, et je meurs d'envie de voir les petits cochons. Ma sœur se joint à moi pour te demander la même grâce et pour te présenter le respectueux attachement avec lequel nous sommes, mon cher papa, tes très humbles servantes. Lucile et Adèle? »

From Un Rêve de République

[lacesconfidences]

Le Plaisir à la source…

Cette chaude soirée d'été me rappelle un jeu humide inventé par ma chère sœur. Nous habitions une maison modeste de 4 pièces dont deux chambres avec les toilettes à l'extérieur. Nous avions ma sœur et moi conservé le seau hygiénique dans notre chambre, ce qui nous évitait de sortir la nuit, à conditions que nous nous chargions de sa vidange et nettoyage. Nous étions sagement couchés, chacun dans son lit, vêtus d'une culotte, occupés à lire en cette chaude nuit d'été. Ma sœur s'est levée et elle s'est dirigée vers le seau. Elle a baissé sa culotte et j'ai pu profiter de la douce musique du chuintement de sa pisse entre ses lèvres et du doux clapotis dans le seau. Je la regardais par dessus mon livre et je sentais ma bite se gonfler. A ce moment, elle m'a regardé et m'a dit :"Mon petit cochon, ça te fait de l'effet de me voir pisser ! J'ai une idée. Viens voir de plus près, je n'ai pas tout vidé !" Je me suis approché et elle m'a dit : "Mets toi à genoux devant moi, comme lorsque tu te branles dans le seau et viens soulager cette queue toute dure !" A genoux, mon visage à hauteur de sa petite chatte alors qu'elle se tenait debout les jambes écartées au dessus du seau, j'ai profité de cette vue en gros plan et des effluves odorantes qui remontaient du seau. J'ai baissé ma culotte et j'ai commencé à me branler frénétiquement. A ce moment là, elle a avancé un peu et a lâché un jet chaud et parfumé sur ma main et ma bite. J'ai déchargé presqu'immédiatement dans le seau. Ne voulant pas être en reste et n'ayant pas eu de plaisir, ma sœur m'a dit : "Maintenant, j'aimerai bien que tu me nettoie !" Au même moment elle a plaqué mon visage sur sa petite chatte. C'étais la première fois que je goutais un sexe de fille. C'étais salé, chaud et sur sa toison perlaient de petites gouttes d'urine délicieuses. C'était merveilleux et je crois que je lui ai donné du plaisir. Elle s'est ensuite écartée et ma bite était de nouveau dure, cognant sur le seau. Alors je me suis soulagé une seconde fois.

****************************************************

Pleasure at the source…

This warm summer evening reminds me of a wet game invented by my dear sister. We lived in a modest house with 4 rooms, two of which had the toilet outside. My sister and I had kept the hygienic bucket in our room, which saved us from going out at night, provided that we took care of emptying and cleaning it. We were lying down quietly, each in our own bed, wearing panties, busy reading on this warm summer night. My sister got up and went to the bucket. She pulled down her panties and I was able to enjoy the sweet music of the hissing of her piss between her lips and the soft lapping in the bucket. I looked at her over my book and I felt my cock swelling. At that moment, she looked at me and said: "My little pig, does it make you feel good to see me piss! I have an idea. Come and take a closer look, I haven't emptied all my piss !" I approached and she said to me: "Get on your knees in front of me, like when you jerk off in the bucket and come and jerk this hard cock!" On my knees, my face at the level of her little pussy while she stood with her legs spread above the bucket, I enjoyed this close-up view and the fragrant scents that came up from the bucket. I pulled down my panties and started jerking off frantically. At that moment, she moved forward a little and released a hot and perfumed squirt of piss on my hand and my cock. I unloaded almost immediately in the bucket. Not wanting to be outdone and not having had any pleasure, my sister said to me: "Now, I would like you to clean me!" At the same time she pressed my face against her little pussy. It was the first time I had tasted a girl's sex. It was salty, hot and on her fleece there were small drops of delicious urine. It was wonderful and I think I gave her pleasure. She then moved away and my cock was hard again, banging on the bucket. So I jerked myself a second time.

[guessimate]

I rolled a really interesting ROS for the Croix family: What a way to make a living! Apparently Boniface Croix is a “side piece” of the richest sim in town... and as he’s a Noble, I figured it would have to be the Romance aspiration Queen. That’s not really what the ROS tells you to do, but I decided to just move the Queen in with him because I don’t want to play the Castle yet and the Queen could age a bit to better fit the ages of her teen offspring.

This ROS implies that the other sim covers Boniface’s needs, but since it’s the Queen that’s moving I feel like her needs should be met first of all. Also, Boniface is a Fortune sim and he’ll keep working, while also serving his Queen. Boniface is already the last sim in this house, safe for his 2 toddlers. His mom is “insane” in the nunnery, so nobody should care about the Queen visiting the Croix residence. Also, this house is right across the street from the Castle, so it probably makes sense that it’s a Queen’s lover’s apartment.

The Queen will never marry Boniface (she fears it). She already has 3 children who were made in CAS. I am assuming she probably is past her child bearing days, but we will see. If they had kids, they would only be considered “bastards”. They’d not be a part of the Royal Family. I didn’t even expect the Queen to have relationships, I only wanted her children to get married... Anyway, this will be the first interaction the Royal Family have with anyone, besides their Royal Steward. Maybe this connection can ensure one of Boniface’s children will get to marry into the Royal Family? But I wouldn’t do that, if Boniface had kids with her...

~*~

I didn’t make the Queen do anything to help the toddlers with their skills, but she was in the house with them, just loitering around when Boniface was at his daily job. Unfortunately, Boniface didn’t manage to teach his toddlers everything.

The toddlers started this round in terrible moods because some family member’s grave had been moved to the Graveyard the previous round. They managed to get out of aspiration failure fairly quickly, because they had wants to gain some skill points. Boniface managed to teach them both how to use the potty. His son learnt to talk and his daughter learnt to walk, but each only learnt 2/3 skills and they didn’t learn the nursery rhyme, sadly. They got some “negative” traits because of that. The kids are quite handy though, as they both got 7 Mechanical skill points from playing at the activity table. Tinkering is Blanche’s One True Hobby and her brother didn’t want to be any worse than his sister at getting skills.

Eudes is Brave, Excitable, and of Star Quality. He also got the extra Clumsy trait for not learning to walk. His hobby is Music&Dance.

Blanche is a Lucky Hydrophobe, and a Perfectionist. She also got an extra Shy trait for not learning to talk.

Blanche wanted a toy for her birthday, so I got the kids a toy oven, since their dad’s One True Hobby is Cuisine, and Blanche already has an activity table for getting Mechanical from. Eudes wanted a game. As they already had a chess table at home, I got them a mahjong table looking like cochon qui rit, which I know is not medieval, but it seems to be wooden, and it has cute pigs and I just couldn’t resist it...

The kids only went to school once this round, on Friday, as they aged up on Thursday evening. They had a bunch of snow fun-related wants after they had come back home. They also both wanted to learn to do homework properly, so their father helped them with that. I don’t think the kids feel neglected and they probably don’t realize this fancy looking lady is not their mother.

~*~

At the weekend Boniface was promoted, from Intern to Resident. He brought home 672$ + 1344$. He has terrible working hours now and I don’t think a medieval doctor would be working until after midnight.

They started with 16,898$ and they earned ~4410$. They dug up just a rock.

5000$ − rent.

441$ − tax.

=5450$ − to the Royal Family. The Royal Family have earned 158,200$ in this town so far.

441$ − tithe to the Church (rounded up to 450$). The Church has earned 25,500$ to date.

They ended up with 15,163$.

~*~

I was trying to find the Queen’s One True Hobby, but it turned out to be… nothing. I later realized none of her family members had the Predestined Hobby assigned somehow. I am just guessing that’s because I merged their household with the Royal Steward’s to move them into the Castle. I was surprised to find it. I might randomize their interests and perhaps hobbies (basing it slightly on what the Prima Guide suggests – it should be based on Personality points).

Cayetana’s grave was moved to the Church grounds after she had scared her husband and the Queen.

[abovethemists]

I will be in New Orleans next week for 3 days staying in the riverside/riverfront district. Any suggestions for local restaurants? I’m looking not so much for tourist spots but good food that locals know.

In that area, Peche or Cochon are good. Cochon also has a lunch spot next door called Butcher that’s really good. Dickie Brennan’s is my favorite steak house. Port of Call for burgers. If you want to stray a little further uptown, Saba for middle eastern food, Rum House has good tacos, Jacques-Imo’s for cool atmosphere. Obviously the famous restaurants are famous for a reason. Brunch at Commander’s Palace is great. Antoine’s and Galatoire’s are great. Skip Mother’s, it’s not worth the line (Domilise’s poboys are the best). Skip Acme. You can get better oysters almost anywhere else. Oh and I love Napoleon House. Grab a Pimm’s cup. If you want to grab a drink somewhere I love Carousel Bar in the Hotel Monteleone or Lafitte’s Blacksmith shop at the less crowded end of Bourbon. Oh and one of the best meals I ever had was at N7 but it’s out in the Bywater. Pizza Delicious or Pizza Dominica for pizza. You probably won’t have a bad meal in New Orleans! Have fun!

[nolafoodporn]

I'm featuring highlights from last week's judging for the @nowfe culinary awards all week long to entice you to buy tickets for ANY of the fabulous events in store June 5-8!

Let's start with this crispy Cajun/Asian mashup @tchefunctes in Madisonville -- a house-made boudin, cochon de lait, and tender collard green egg roll served with a peach chutney/ mustard sauce prepared by the talented Chef Michael Gottlieb. 😍

#nowfe2024 #nowfeculinaryawards #tchefunctesrestaurant #madisonville #northshore #acrosslakepontchartrain #nolafestivals #nowfe

[springhotelbequiasblog]

The 10 best resorts in Saint Vincent & Grenadines

Tourists may get a chance to lay on a secluded beach, listening to the waves crashing on the sand. St. Vincent is pure bliss! All-inclusive resorts in Saint Vincent and the Grenadines deliver exceptional experiences.

St. Vincent is one of the Caribbean's least-visited islands. It has a unique beauty that makes it worthwhile. On this small volcanic landmass, there are a few all-inclusive resorts. These include the rugged areas for tourist explorations. It has posh rooms and luxurious facilities.

Explore the 10 Leading Resorts in Saint Vincent and the Grenadines

Learn the 10 best resorts in St Vincent and the Grenadines and their amenities.

SPRING HOTEL BEQUIA

Considered more of a private, luxury resort than simply a boutique hotel, Spring Hotel Bequia has a wide range of on site activities ranging from a 40 foot designer pool to a full size pool table. With accommodations for a single couple or a retreat group of 20 to 40, Spring Hotel has the venue, availability and customized services that you or your group require. Just minutes from the main town on Bequia, Spring Hotel is a peaceful haven while still remaining accessible to modern conveniences on the island.

Green Fig Resort and Spa

This beautiful 25-room resort is on a slope above the colourful town of Soufriere. It is in Saint Lucia, and boasts world-class views of the Pitons. The beach is within a 5-minute walk away.

Being on the hill amid the trees and wildlife combines a daring natural touch.

Enjoy vibrant and flavourful Caribbean food made from fresh local ingredients. Saltfish, the on-site restaurant, offers fresh fish caught from the sea. It has a superb service and stunning views. It provides an unforgettable dining experience.

Ti Kaye Resort And Spa

 It is perfect for guests who wish to explore Saint Lucia. Guests here may stay in small gingerbread houses.

This quaint Caribbean resort, in Anse Cochon, one of Saint Lucia's top snorkelling bays.

Fond Doux Eco Resort

Fond Doux Eco Resort, is a historic 19th-century cocoa farm. It is on Soufriere Saint Lucia, offers a calm and tranquil getaway. Guests may enjoy the real history and culture here. It gets framed by 135 acres of magnificent rainforest environment. It also has cocoa fields, and tropical gardens. Furthermore, it is minutes away from the island's main attractions.

The Islanders Inn

If tourists are seeking a hotel by the side of the water, with quiet and relaxation, it is the best choice. With only sound being waves lapping the shoreline, guests are sure to get what they are searching for.

The Islander's Inn provides guests with ensuite rooms with private balconies. Delicious home-cooked dishes and drinks are available here. Boat cruises to idyllic beaches, coral reefs, and the stunning Tobago Cays. Staff is kind and helpful.

The Paradise Beach Hotel

The Paradise Beach Hotel is on Villa Beach, one of the island's most famous tourist locations. The hotel has 17 air-conditioned rooms with amazing views. It also has a lovely garden.

The Grenadines House

Grenadine House, is in suburban Kingstown Park. It offers elegant comfort to tourists in its 18 guest rooms. It got constructed in 1765. Grenadine House has been completely rebuilt to give their guests modern comfort. Explore The Sapodilla Room, The West Indies Bar & Lounge, The Terrace here.

Blue Lagoon Hotel and Marina

This resort has Loft Restaurant and Bar, Lagoon Marketplace, Café Soleil and Serenity Diving. It also has a swimming pool, conference space, and lots of other’s facilities. Other activities include regattas, sailing races, music festivals and banquets. It also includes barbecues, Happy Hour, and much more! Guests may also take a day excursion to the gorgeous Grenadines.

The Palm Island Resort And Spa

This resort and spa is one of the finest and most exclusive in the Caribbean. It offers exceptional lodging, dining, activities, and experiences. This place has incredible gorgeous atmosphere. It is a private island hideaway giving tourists top-tier luxury. With five smooth white sand beaches, a warm turquoise sea, and a lush green interior, the island is indeed special.

Petit St Vincent Resort

This resort is a 115-acre tropical paradise with its unique rhythm. It is where guests may disconnect from the outside world and reconnect with each another. The one- and two-bedroom villas here promise their guests barefoot luxury. Some are high on a hill or cliff, while others are on one of the Grenadines' most secluded beaches.

Canouan Estate Resort And Villas

Canouan Estate Resort & Villas, is on 1200 unspoiled tropical acres. It is a short flight from Barbados and other adjacent islands. Yet a world apart from the rush and bustle of everyday life.

The resort villas and suites have a classic Caribbean flair. It blends the breath-taking natural surroundings with it.

Thus, guests may experience a magical travel feel at the 10 best resorts in St Vincent and the Grenadines.

[acasadodragao1x07online]

House of the Dragon (A Casa do Dragão) 1x07 Temporada 1 Episódio 7 assistir Séries TV completo Português grátis

Assistir Séries TV - https://a-casa-do-dragao-1x07.blogspot.com/

O episódio de ontem de House of the Dragon nos apresentou um status quo totalmente novo: muitos novos membros da família Targaryen fizeram sua estreia, atores seniores assumiram o papel de personagens-chave como Rhaenyra Targaryen e Alycent Hightower, e uma série de novos dragões subiram aos céus. Tem sido muito… mas parece que é só o começo.

A HBO lançou o trailer do episódio da próxima semana, e parece uma loucura. Toda essa tensão que ferveu sob a superfície durante o episódio 6 chegará ao seu ponto de ruptura e, como a princesa Rhaenys avisou anteriormente, as facas sairão.

ent, quant à elle, a elle-même donné le roi Viserys de plus en plus maladif et mutilé – le bras entier du mec a disparu! – un total de trois enfants à ce jour : le fils aîné Aegon (Ty Tennant), qui, à la manière typique des adolescents, aime faire des farces et se branler ; sa fille Helaena (Evie Allen), qui semble plus intéressée par l'étude des mille-pattes que par les affaires judiciaires; et son petit frère Aemond (Leo Ashton), un type facilement intimidé qui est frustré par son incapacité à se lier avec un dragon.

Les enfants semblent tous s'entendre assez bien lorsqu'ils sont laissés à eux-mêmes, bien qu'Aegon, Luke et Jace s'en prennent à Aemond en lui fournissant un cochon arborant de fausses ailes de dragon pour une monture potentielle. Mais les rumeurs sur la véritable filiation des fils de Rhaenyra sont partout. Laenor connaît l'affaire, bien sûr. La reine Alicent aussi, qui ne se taira pas à ce sujet. Tout comme Ser Criston, qui est devenu le meilleur ami d'Alicent et l'ennemi le plus acharné de son ex-flamme Rhaenyra, et la Main du Roi, Lord Lyonel Strong, alias le père désapprobateur de Breakbones. Même le jeune Jace découvre la vérité à la fin de l'épisode. Seul Viserys refuse de voir ce qui est juste devant lui, bien que ce soit plus un déni qu'une véritable ignorance.

Ce sont donc les adultes qui finissent par creuser un fossé entre la prochaine génération de Targs. Alicent interrompt Aegon alors qu'il est occupé à se masturber par la fenêtre (putain, maman, tu n'as jamais entendu parler de frapper !?) pour l'avertir que Rhaenyra le fera probablement tuer si jamais elle monte sur le trône de fer. Cole est cruel envers Jace et Luke dans la cour d'entraînement; il encourage également Aegon et Aemond à agir de la même manière, amenant Breakbones à battre la morve toujours amoureuse de l'arrogant Kingsguard.

Cela coûte à Harwin son poste de Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks et pousse son père Lyonel à essayer de démissionner de son poste de Hand de peur qu'il ne puisse plus donner de conseils impartiaux. Bien que Viserys refuse d'accepter sa démission, Strong convainc le roi de lui permettre d'escorter son fils jusqu'à leur domicile, Harrenhal, et loin de l'atmosphère de plus en plus tendue à la cour. (Rhaenyra a la même idée de base et emmène les enfants, ainsi que Laenor et son nouveau petit ami Ser Qarl Correy, dans le bastion Targaryen de Dragonstone.) Alicent, quant à elle, veut remplacer Strong par son père Otto, l'ancienne main de Viserys. Serait-il impartial ? "Il serait partial envers moi", grogne Alicent, révélant ainsi ses véritables motivations.

Et ne vous inquiétez pas, la série n'a pas oublié Prince Daemon. Il vit maintenant au-dessus de la mer étroite dans la ville libre de Pentos avec sa femme Laena Velaryon (Nanna Blondell) et leurs filles jumelles Rhaena (Eva Ossei-Gerning) et Baela (Shani Smethurst). Le prince aime chevaucher son dragon rouge sang Caraxes aux côtés de la monture vraiment massive de Laena, Vhagar, la seule créature encore en vie depuis l'époque de la conquête d'Aegon.

Le problème, c'est que c'est à peu près tout ce qu'il aime. Il semble aimer et respecter sa femme, donc il y a ça, mais il néglige sa fille sans dragon Rhaena et passe tout son temps à se morfondre dans la propriété de son riche bienfaiteur Pentoshi - lire livre après livre, ne pas dormir beaucoup, boire du vin de merde, et se comportant généralement comme une personne complètement différente du voyou que nous connaissions. Bien qu'il envisage brièvement de repartir en guerre contre la Triarchie dans les Stepstones, une série de modifications intelligentes allant directement du prince mélancolique à sa nièce Rhaenyra, dont il est éloigné depuis longtemps, sont probablement une indication de ce qu'il veut vraiment.

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[ltwilliammowett]

Naval Hospitals

The conditions on the ships were disastrous. Shortages, diseases and battles give an idea of the condition in which most of the men returned to port. Admiral George Anson's fleet looked very bad after 1744 and only a quarter of the crew ever returned to England. And even these were not particularly healthy, so as the seafaring nations grew larger, it became more and more necessary to care for the sick ashore.

The Spanish were the first to open a naval hospital called Hospital Real de las Galeras in Cadiz in 1587, followed by one in Cartagena in 1621 and another in Cadiz in 1669. Among the Dutch, it was the VOC, the Dutch East India Company, that founded a home for sick and old sailors in 1666 and introduced an early form of disability insurance.

Hospital Maritime Rochefort (x)

From 1683, however, it was the French who took the lead in health care. They built a hospital in Rochefort and in 1722, thanks to Jean Cochon Dupuy, a school for surgeons was added. However, as the hospital was located in the town, it became a problem for the population due to the infectious diseases that were brought in, and so a new one was built in 1781. Pierre Toufaire designed an H-shaped building facing two pavilions. Patients with the same diseases were housed in the pavilions to prevent them from spreading. There were 30-35 beds in the wards, making 800 beds in the entire hospital. Running water came from a fire pump and there was even a sewage system to prevent infection among the population. The attached school for surgeons provided good medical care and was used together with the hospital until 1983. Other hospitals were built in Touln in 1670 and in Brest and Cherbourg in 1684. As in Rochefort, a school for surgeons was also built in Brest, the Ecole maritimes de chirurgie.

Plan of the Maritime Hospital in Rochefort late 18th century (x)

Other nations also followed suit in the 18th century with their own hospitals. Tsar Peter I had two built in St. Petersburg and Kronstadt in 1715, and a third in Astrakhan in 1725. At the end of the 18th century, Denmark built a large one in Copenhagen that even took care of the civilian population and had room for 1000 patients.

An 18th-century engraving of 'His Majesty's New Royal Hospital Building, near Plymouth, Stonehouse (x)

Surprisingly, the British were late in building hospitals. Although it was always pointed out how necessary such facilities were, nothing was done except for emergency shelters with little or no medical care. As a result, patients were numbing themselves with alcohol in order to at least bear the pain. The incident with Admiral Anson's fleet gave the final impetus and from then on hospitals were built in Portsmouth, Plymouth and Chatham. Later, another one followed in Haslar and Stonehouse. These hospitals were also quietly built in the pavilion, albeit in an early form. There was a U-shaped central building with four pavilions in the middle. Here, too, the aim was to prevent the spread of infectious diseases. In addition, as much air and light as possible was to be let in. Each hospital wing had space for about 20 beds and also had its own sewage system. However, the water itself still had to be taken from a well.

The early conditions in the Haslar Hospital 1805 (x)

Unfortunately, it was common for the early hospitals to be run like a warship. The captain was in command and a lieutenant had to accompany the doctors to ensure that the men were treated. The general conditions were as desatrous as before in the emergency shelters. The laundry was dirty, vegetables were in short supply, toilets stank, there were no baths, and the staff could not read and therefore did not administer the medication properly. This only started changed when more surgeons were employed from 1785 and the general conditions changed.

Queen Victoria visiting the Haslar in 1883 (x)

And yet the hospitals at Rochefort, Haslar and Portsmouth were, because of their construction, the models for other hospitals around the world and also for civilian hospitals.

[rabbitcruiser]

National Poutine Day

In Canada, particularly in Quebec, poutine is a staple food, if not  also an iconic one. It has become a popular food in America as well as  in other countries, and we celebrate it today, on National Poutine Day.  Standard poutine is made up of fresh-cut french fries, squeaky fresh  cheese curds, and brown gravy, but there are many variations of the  dish. Among other possibilities, the name may have come from the word  "pudding," which is spelled pouding in French, or from poutine,  which is slang for "mess" in Quebec. It is pronounced "pou-tin" in the  French-dominated regions of Quebec and New Brunswick, but as "poo-teen"  elsewhere.

According to the most widely known and accepted story, poutine was  first served at L’Idéal (Café Ideal)—a restaurant that later changed its  name to Le Lutin Qui Rit (The Laughing Elf)—in 1957, in the small town  of Warwick, in Arthabaska County, Quebec, a town known for producing  squeaky cheese curds. A usual customer, Eddy Lainsesse, requested curds  on top of his fries. The restaurant owner, Fernand Lachance, supposedly  replied, "Ça va faire une maudite poutine," which roughly translates to  "That's going to make a dreadful mess." A variation of the story says  that Lainsesse asked for the curds and fries to be thrown together in a  paper bag, upon which Lachance looked into the bag and said, "This is  poutine." The dish started being sold in a bag and soon caught on.  Patrons began adding ketchup and vinegar to it. In 1963, Lachance began  serving it on plates. Customers soon noticed that the fries got cold  quickly, so Lachance added gravy to keep them warm.

According to another story, poutine was created by Jean-Paul Roy,  owner of Le Roy Jucep, a drive-in restaurant in Drummondville, Quebec.  He had been serving a dish of gravy and french fries called patate-sauce  since 1958, and in 1964 noticed that some of his diners were adding  cheese curds to it. He soon added a dish that contained all three  ingredients and named it fromage-patate-sauce.

No matter how poutine got its start, it soon could be found being  sold as street food in Canada. By 1969 it was being sold in Quebec City  at the Ashton Snack Bar food truck on Boulevard Wilfred-Hamel, and it  was being sold in Montreal by 1983. By the early 1980s, it had become a  widely popular street food in Ontario and Quebec.

It made its debut in Canadian chain restaurants in 1985, appearing on  the menu at Frits, a now-defunct Quebec-based chain. By the 1990s,  poutine had reached mass popularization in the country, after its  inclusion on the menus of other chains. It first appeared on a Burger  King menu in 1987 in Quebec, and soon spread to other locations of the  chain. The same happened with McDonald's in 1990. Canadian fast-food  chain Harvey's debuted it on menus across the country in 1992.

But poutine wasn't to remain only as street food and fast food. By  the early 2000s, it was appearing in high-end Canadian restaurants. It  was put on the menu at Aud Pied de Cochon in Montreal in 2002, where it  was topped with foie gras. Other high-end Montreal restaurants followed  suit. Garde Manger began serving an Iron Chef America-winning lobster poutine, and Pub Quartier Latin put poutine made with steak, truffles, and red wine demi-glace on their menu.

Some Canadian restaurants have made poutine their main focus. La  Banquise in Montreal began serving it in the 1980s. They started with  the standard version and an Italian version with bolognese sauce instead  of gravy. They have since expanded to serving 30 types. Smoke's  Poutinerie was started in Toronto in 2008, the first poutine-only  restaurant in that city. Other poutine-only restaurants that followed in  Canada are Poutini's House of Poutine, La Poutinerie, and Poutineville.

Poutine made its first foray into the United States in New Jersey and  New York, where a variation of the recipe called "Disco Fries" became  popular. This version substituted mozzarella or cheddar cheese for the  curds. Poutine has since become relatively common in the States, and  took hold in other countries as well, such as the United Kingdom and  Russia.

As mentioned, there are various types of poutine besides the usual  french fries, cheese curds, and gravy combination. Different types of  potatoes, cheese, and sauces can be used. Italian poutine may use  spaghetti sauce instead of gravy; veggie poutine is made with mushroom  sauce and vegetables; Irish poutine is made with lardons. La galvaude is from Gaspésie and is made with chicken and green peas. A variation in Montreal uses smoked meat.

Festivals devoted to poutine are held across Canada throughout the  year. Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto are some cities that hold them. On  National Poutine Day, events are held and specials are available at  restaurants in countries like Canada and the United States. For example,  My Meatball Place in Toronto has given away free samples of meatball  and vegan poutine, and The Hops Spot in Syracuse has offered half-price  poutine. With so many types of poutine—and so many restaurants that  serve it in some parts of the world—there is no reason to remain hungry  on National Poutine Day.

How to Observe National Poutine Day (Canada)

Here are some ideas on how to celebrate the day:

Make your own poutine. You could make the original version or another variation of the dish. You could even make Disco Fries, the Americanized version of the dish.

Check if there is a place near you that serves poutine.

Enjoy poutine at a Canadian restaurant that specializes in the dish, such as La Banquise, Smoke's Poutinerie, Poutini's House of Poutine, La Poutinerie, or Poutineville. Smoke's Poutinerie also has some locations in the United States.

Have poutine at a restaurant in Warwick, Quebec, the town where the dish is said to have originated, or have it at Le Roy Jucep in Drummondville, Quebec, the other location where it is said to have gotten its start.

Eat some poutine at Harvey's or at another fast food restaurant in Canada.

Enjoy poutine at a high-end Canadian restaurant such as Aud Pied de Cochon, Garde Manger, or Pub Quartier Latin.

See if there are any specials on poutine today at restaurants such as My Meatball Place in Toronto or The Hops Spot in Syracuse.

Plan a trip to an upcoming poutine fest, such as Montreal's Le Grand Poutinefest, Ottawa Poutine Fest, or Toronto Poutine Fest.

Source

[abovethemists]

Thanks for the wonderful food suggestions for New Orleans. I had the most amazing muffaleta at the Cochon Butcher, and Napolean House was delicious. Unfortunately the hotel staff kept pimping out Mother's so we went there, and left disappointed with the meal we received. I really do not get the hype for it. The po boy was average, especially for the line we waited in.

I’m glad you enjoyed! Sorry about Mother’s. Totally not worth the line.

[portergage]

Favorite French sayings

French is not only chaotic grammar and rules, it’s also super fun sayings being said daily in conversations. Here’s some of those:

On a pas élevé les cochons ensemble: (We haven’t raised pigs together) When someone you barely know is acting way too comfortable with you, like calling you by nicknames or sharing/asking too much information.

C'est pas Versailles ici: (We’re not in Versailles here) If you leave the lights on while not being in the room, the other persons in the house might say this to make you understand you gotta turn it off.

Mon cul sur la commode: (My ass on the dresser) You say this when someone is bullshiting you, and you’re not having any of it.

Pas le temps de niaiser: (No time to act like a dumbass) When you gotta act quick in a situation. Mostly used in a humorous way, when you take a chaotic shortake.

Avoir le cul bordé de nouilles: (To have one’s ass bordered by noodles) To be extra lucky.

Faut pas pousser mémé dans les orties: (Don’t push grandma in the stinging nettle) When someone is making a situation way too troublesome, or asks for way more than they should have.

Ton père est pas vitrier: (Your father is no window maker) You get told this when you’re blocking the view.

Chier une pendule: (Shitting a pendulum clock) Making a fuss about something unimportant.

Avoir un poil dans la main: (To have a hair in one’s palm) Being a lazy ass.

Être aimable comme une porte de prison: (To be as friendly as a prison door) Being a douchebag.

Il y a anguille sous roche: (There is an eel under the rock) When something is being sketchy, or if parts of the truth are missing. There is another way to say this, il y a baleine sous gravillon (there is a whale under the gravel)

[pompadourpink]

Fluent Forever’s 625 words

Animals: chien, m (dog); chat, m (cat); poisson, m (fish); oiseau, m (bird); vache, f (cow); cochon, m (pig); souris, f (mouse); cheval, m (horse); aile, f (wing); animal, m (animal);

Transportation: train, m (train); avion, m (plane); voiture, f (car); camion, m (truck); vélo, m (bicycle); bus, m (bus); bateau, m (boat); navire, m (ship); pneu, m (tire); essence, f (gasoline); moteur, m (engine); billet, m (ticket); transports, m (transportation);

Location: ville, f (city/town); maison, f (house); appartement, m (flat); rue, f (street); route, f (road); aéroport, m (airport); gare, f (train station); pont, m (bridge); hôtel, m (hotel); restaurant, m (restaurant); ferme, f (farm); école, f (school); tribunal, m (court); bureau, m (office); salle, f (room); université, f (university); club, m (club); bar, m (bar); parc, m (park); camp, m (camp); magasin, m (store); cinéma, m (theater); bibliothèque, f (library); hôpital, m (hospital); église, f (church); marché, m (market); pays, m (country); bâtiment, m (building); sol, m (ground); espace, m (space); banque, f (bank); localisation, f (location);

Clothing: chapeau, m (hat); robe, f (dress); costume, m (suit); jupe, f (skirt); chemise, f (shirt); t-shirt, m (t-shirt); jean/pantalon, m (trousers); chaussures, f (shoes); poche, f (pocket); manteau, m (coat); tache, f (stain); vêtements, m (clothing);

Colours: rouge (red); vert-e (green), bleu-e (blue), clair-e (light); foncé-e (dark); jaune (yellow); marron (brown); rose (pink); orange (orange); noir-e (black); blanc-he (white); gris-e (grey); couleur, f (colour);

People: fils, m (son); fille, f (daughter); mère, f (mother); père, m (father); parent (parent); bébé (baby); homme, m (man); femme, f (woman); frère, m (brother); soeur, f (sister); famille, f (family); grand-père, m (grandfather); grand-mère, f (grandmother); mari, m (husband); femme/épouse, f (wife); roi, m (king); reine, f (queen); président-e (president); voisin-e (neighbour); garçon, m (boy); fille, f (girl); enfant (child); adulte (adult); humain-e (human); ami-e (friend); victime (victim); joueur/euse (player); fan/supporter (fan); foule, f (crowd); personne, f (person);

Job: professeur/enseignant-e (teacher); étudiant-e (student); avocat-e (lawyer), docteur (doctor); patient-e (patient); serveur/euse (waiter); secrétaire (secretary); prêtre, m (priest); police, f (police); armée, f (army); soldat-e (soldier); artiste (artist); auteur/trice (author); manager (manager); journaliste (reporter); acteur/trice (actor); métier/emploi, m (job);

Society: religion, f (religion); paradis, m (heaven); enfer, m (hell); mort, f (death); médecine, f (medicine); argent, m (money): dollar, m (dollar); billet, m (bill); mariage, m (marriage/wedding); équipe, f (team); race, f (race); sexe, m (sex); genre, m (gender); meurtre, m (murder); prison, f (prison); technologie, f (technology); énergie, f (energy); guerre, f (war); paix, f (peace); attaque, f (attack); élection, f (election); magazine, m (magazine); journaux, m pl (newspaper); poison, m (poison); pistolet, m/arme à feu, f (gun); sport, m (sports); course, f (sports race); exercice, m (exercise); balle, f/ballon, m (ball); jeu, m (game); prix, m (price); contrat, m (contract); médicament, m/drogue, f (drug); signe, m (sign); science, f (science); Dieu, m (God);

Art: groupe, m (band); chanson, f (song); instrument, m (instrument); musique, f (music); film, m (movie); art, m (art);

Beverages: café, m (coffee); thé, m (tea); vin, m (wine); bière, f (beer); jus, m (juice); eau, f (water); lait, m (milk); boisson, f (beverage);

Food: oeuf, m (egg); fromage, m (cheese); pain, m (bread); soupe, f (soup); gâteau, m (cake); poulet, m (chicken); porc, m (pork); boeuf, m (beef); pomme, f (apple); banane, f (banana); orange, f (orange); citron, m (lemon); maïs, m (corn); riz, m (rice); huile, f (oil); graine, f (seed); couteau, m (knife); cuillère, f (spoon); fourchette, f (fork); tasse, f (cup); petit-déjeuner, m (breakfast); déjeuner, m (lunch); dîner, m (dinner); sucre, m (sugar); sel, m (salt); bouteille, f (bottle); nourriture, f (food).

[bitchysongcomputer]

Squeegee by BearTrainer

 From BeefyFrat Library, before it disappears.

There I was, minding my own business, which, as it happens, means listening to the raft of morning reservation calls and changes on the Au Pied de Cochon voicemail system—"I know I said six, but my mother-in-law's catsitter's nephew's goddaughter and her fiancé will be joining us, so I'm hoping you can find a place for us, oh please, pretty please" and "We're going to be there tonight and I'm wondering if the pastry chef could make the pecan tart with macadamia nuts instead, since my husband loves macadamias and it's his birthday and all"—when, over the rim of my first cappuccino, what should I see but a Tuesday morning vision of male beauty, at least by my standards. Tousled, sleepy-faced, and very blond, he lumbered out of the pickup he just parked in the white loading zone in front of the restaurant and carried what looked like a large dishpan toward our front door, snug white tee displaying a good solid set of shoulders, biceps and forearms, dusted with fur and sporting a workman's tanline. Maybe 25, older, younger? I wondered. He was too bulky to be much younger, and he was wearing a resentful, pouty mug on his face—clearly not a morning person—and moved with a heavy, masculine deliberation that had clearly left his light, care-free impetuous youth now far behind. As he put the pan down in front of our bank of floor-to-roof picture windows and turned around to get the rest of his equipment, I carefully put my own coffee down, lest I spill all over myself, for there it was, in plain sight: all the gymwork of the upper body on him setting atop a bunch of sweet pudge, poured into a cheap pair of brown, pin-striped dress pants from Walmart, big asscheeks wriggling under the shiny fabric and what couldn't be less than a 34 waistline tugging on a pair of lovehandles. What kind of workout routine was this that built him so nice and hard upstairs and left the rest of him deliciously neglected and soft below? From my perch, thoroughly unabashed, I simply continued to stare, motionless, eyes riveted upon him, as he trundled back from his truck carrying a gallon jug of Windex and, mystery revealed, a thick, wide squeegee mounted on a six-foot broomstick. He was the window-washer. Ah….. And so, I watched as the final part of my morning treat was delivered to me. Dipping his long pole in the pan, he began, oh so carefully, to wipe, wipe, wipe from top to bottom, the action of which, naturally, made his shirt ride up oh so sweetly, oh so unself-consciously, oh so inevitably, until a luscious white bulge of beginner Buddhabelly pooched out over his pants, visible through the blur of the wet window like some kind of high-toned encourager-porn dream sequence in that DVD I wish someone someday would take the time to make. Renny's voice startled me out of my reverie, stage-whispering "Gagliardi's nephew," in my ear after creeping up behind me without warning. I literally gasped. "Give me a fucking heart attack, will you? Shit!" And then catching my breath, I spun about to face our resident kitchen wag and my partner in crime at what all of us in-house called---with deep affection, of course--Piggyfeet. Eyebrows raised, I burbled, "No way. We're not going to be having our windows cleaned by this bo-hunk every day, are we?" "Oh yes. Got the whole story last week from Darlene, of all people, who wormed the story out of Frank Gagliardi who felt he needed to give us a heads-up. Paragon of morality that he be." I noticed that Renny himself, for his being all casual and whatever, was, nevertheless like me, breathing a little heavier himself and had a glassy, unmoving eye fixed upon the window as well. "He told her that he was sending Byron to us, just in case we wondered. And, well, isn't he up your own personal one-way alley." Renny paused for effect. "Fresh out of County, on parole for the next two years, needed a job." Down came the squeegee and crystal clear, the heft and breadth of Byron was again before us. What a delight? And to think, I thought I was going to have just another humdrum Tuesday catering to the bourgeoisie. "County, eh? Hence…the physique." "Oh yeah." Renny made his trademark know-it-all moue and nodded. "Yeah. One has to presume it's a lovely train wreck of recovery from wicked crystal habit, jail weight-lifting and greasy, starchy 3-squares in aluminum tins. Twelve months in the lock-up will do that to a guy." He licked his lips. "I'm actually a little impressed he's in the shape he's in, aren't you? Usually they really let go. He's just, well, healthy-looking. At least for now, I'd say." "You are such an expert on jail trade, can't believe I forgot," I couldn't help saying sarcastically. In the end, though, Renny was right. Byron was no light-weight, that was for darn sure, his broad, sullen face plump and almost jowly, large pecs with thick nipples rounding out firmly enough to cast a shadow. There was, all the same, a youthful vigor about him even with the poundage and I could see in how he moved a kind of fire to get things back on track for himself. Knowing his backstory, I could see all of he had gone through, reflected, stroke by stroke, as he cleaned our windows: used to the good life of carefree partying, with the drugs keeping him nice, tight and lean, plenty of friends and money and sex, and then, busted, confined for a year to what ended up being an adult male feeding pen, abundant food dished up on schedule, grinding inactivity, the uselessness of lolling about the dorm and yard. Desperate to keep his looks and his sanity after about piling on about 25 pound of chub, he starts to hit the weightroom, jogs a little now and then, and tries, best as he can, coming off amphetamines, to stay away from hyper-sugary institutional desserts, doing his time and hoping against hope he won't end up looking like the rest of soft, blowsy self-pitying cons in their jumpsuits, doughy, white and prematurely middle-aged. Now, he's back on the outside, dependent on his uncle's charity for a lowly minimum-wage gig as squeegee, an arrest record, meth habit and 30 extra pounds following him around, an unshakeable ballast of misspent youth. No wonder he looked sullen, or was this his particular version of grim determination? Shit, you could tell the guy was one of God's great eaters, flashing his sweet rolls of firm newfat, a broad bubble of an ass shifting restlessly, stretching the back seam this way and that, as he worked up more than a little bit of a sweat doing his job in front of the two of us. After sharing a few hypnotized moments of admiring lust with me, with a click of the heels Renny laughed lightly and turned. "Got to get back to stuffing my andouille sausages, baby. So sorry I can't stand here and blab and drool all day as you make your plans." "Plans?" I said, with mock naïveté. He snorted loudly. "I may not know jail trade, but I know you. How many poor hapless waistlines have you sabotaged, while here so far?" "You need to remember that Danny came here heavy. I always get blamed but…." "There is heavy and then there is HEAVY." Renny waved his hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, don't say it. 'I didn't put a gun to his head to eat himself up over 300 on Frances' napoleons and tiramisù.' Ring me in the back if you want Squeegee to have a good solid country breakfast, ok?" "Poor guy is scowling he's so hungry," I murmured. "Anyone can see that." Renny was going to leave, but we stood for a few more moments, boring holes into the plate glass with our gaze. "Anyone could see that. He needs a meal." "Something substantial. He's got a long day of hard work." "But plenty of protein too." "He can always work on definition later." "Much later." "How about a nice generous pile of French toast with a goat cheese scramble on the side, and fresh orange/grapefruit." Renny walked to the kitchen. "You have ten minutes." "Love a challenge." Squeegee. My new project. In the first stages, there are usually a couple of prime considerations. Managing their self-consciousness is always an issue, as is the general wariness of straight guys in the Bay Area who know the score and can't really be tricked the way that some carefree, mindless fuck fiction would have it. So, like a soufflé, rich but light, it requires a light touch. That day I had to improvise, so pulling one of the fresh baguettes out of their Semifreddi bags by the front busboy station, I slathered it up with honey butter and chopped off a theatrically large piece and then, paying him no attention whatsoever, I passed by as he did his work and dashed out to my car in the lot across the street, in order, of course, to do nothing in particular. I made sure to take my sweet time coming back, though, sauntering, nibbling a little on the end of the fragrant tartine as I paused at the door and gave him a little encouraging smile. "Great work. Thanks. Especially on sunny days like this, the windows make all the difference." He politely smiled back and mumbled, "Thanks." "Frank probably didn't tell you but if you want some coffee or lemonade or something, let me know," and then, making as if not waiting, I swung open the door, ready to stop if there was even a moment's hesitation on his part. And there was—he raised his eyebrows adorably. "Oh, coffee," he sighed. And I stopped. "Very good coffee, too. Special blend exclusively for the restaurant from Kona growers." He smiled more broadly. "That would be great." I very deliberately took a large bite out of my baguette prop and chewed long and hard before answering with all the officiousness of professional waitstaff, one foot in the door. "Cream? Sugar?" "Yeah, both. If it's not too much trouble." Hmm. He seemed polite enough. Nothing like the discipline of "yessir, nossir" on the inside for a year to make a fine bit of overfed beefcake nice and docile. "Well, you just come on in, when you finish up that panel." Even without the a/c, the restaurant was cool and dark this early in the morning, and I pretended to be all wrapped up complicated table arrangement charts, when the soon-to-be-conquered Byron tentatively opened the door and peeked inside. "Hey, there," I said, and pointed my thumb over to the bar, where I met him and poured out a cup of the fresh brew we all kept on hand for us, setting it out for him as if he were our first honored customer of the day, my own large and quite unfinished, heavily buttered baguette right there on the counter. "I'm Grant, by the way." The way he was looking at the polished zinc bar counter, the china cup and saucer, the gleaming steel sugar bowl and creamer, the stylish demitasse spoon made me think that it had been a long time since he had had a cup of coffee in anything but a styrofoam 7-11 cup. "Byron," he answered, between sips, after adding more sugar, more cream. "You know my uncle?" "Yeah, for years now. Has done great work with the maintenance for us. I myself didn't intend to end up as assistant manager here, just wanted the maître d' job, but dealing with the contractors now and then comes with the territory." He continued checking the place out, the damask linens, the crystal glassware, the ultra-modern lighting system sleekly running about the ceiling and cunningly focused on the artwork and flower arrangements, a laboriously effortless chiaroscuro effect creating that "dining environment" for which Au Pied was, justifiably, known and lauded. "Quite a place," he said as he settled in on the barstool to drink his coffee, resting his thick forearms on the counter on either side, out of prison habit, to protect his food. I munched further down on my baguette, mostly so as to have an excuse to wave it around and tempt him with the fragrance of honey. "It can be a big pain in the ass, you know working with the public, especially rich people." I pretended to organize the garnishes at the bar, figuring he wouldn't know that that was probably the last thing someone in my position would ever get involved with in a high-toned establishment such as this one. And right on cue, the bar phone rang. God bless Renny. "No," I said, looking around. "I have no idea….he did?.....well, he's not here now…..me?.....no…." I caught Byron's curious glances for a second or two, absorbed in my phone conversation, and then, said, "No…..not really….but…." holding his eyes this time and putting my hand over the receiver. "Have you had breakfast? Renny from the kitchen said that the manager asked for breakfast but seems to have disappeared." "Breakfast?" Byron's eyes lit up involuntarily but his expressionless, guarded face didn't change. "Nothing fancy, really. I've already eaten," I gestured at my excuse of a tartine on the counter, "And those guys back there are too busy to take the time." He looked over toward the windows, he only had a couple left to do, and then at his watch. It was a good sign, this long hesitation, the way that the very concept of breakfast was stopping him in his tracks. Did he mean to rub his stomach with his big paw, or was that his sexy, child-like way he had learned to communicate to his feeders that he was hungry? A sheepish, grateful smile appeared. "I got time." I hung up quickly and with all the naturalness in the world, hustled off to the kitchen, saying on the way, "For all the food we serve here and throw out, I just hate to see any of it go to waste." As I knew he would, Renny supplied a high mountain of French toast on a large plate, adorned with fresh fruit, with a tasty scramble big enough for three, with hefty slices of buttered toast—bread to go with your bread, sir?—and a pot of warmed nutmeg syrup, the smell of which was fairly intoxicating. Byron drew back a little at the generosity of what he was being served, crisply folded napkin offered as if it were only to be expected, and seeing his reaction, I tried to mitigate the impact, by explaining, "As you can see, our manager is used to being pampered." I would have loved to stand right there and watch every sweet, carbo-rich morsel disappear into that pouty, kissable mouth, watch the sugar take effect and glaze his eyes over with food bliss, watch him dig in quick and then slow down until he had a hard time sitting forward and yet, continue to plow through till the plate was clean. But it was neither polite nor strategic to make my Squeegee too aware of the web being woven around him. So I tapped the bar, said, "Take your time. Might be the only break you get today, huh?" and moved back to my desk behind his back, where, unbeknownst to him, I had nevertheless had a clear view of him in the big wall mirror. I didn't miss a moment of any of it--the way he dipped a spoon in the syrup to taste it first and actually licked his lips with his pink tongue, how he folded the slices in half, cut through, taking large mouthfuls, enjoying how filling it was, how sweet, how comforting to eat in a cool, quiet place, not rushed, food prepared with style, and lots of it, all for him. He buttered his toast from the tub I had left on the counter, spooned the eggs on it to make little scramble sandwiches for himself which he devoured like French-toast chasers. He mopped the syrup and butter off the plate, using his big fingers to nudge the food on to the fork, and half-way through, I could see him realize that there was no need to rush. That was when the full potential of him became clear to me, for he suddenly relaxed, a big sack of a musclechub lost in the good food spread out, all the tension gone. The mirror gave me the frontal view of his greedy mouth and porky face, but the back-side view, from my desk, was all the confirmation I needed for my plans: soft belly roll folded over into a spare tire of flab ringing him, his plump tits sagging nice and round now that he wasn't sitting up straight and holding himself high, scooting back a little to make room for more eats which made the breadth of his ass, hips and thighs all the more obvious, waistband low in the back as his overfed bubblecheeks pulled it down, crotch tight in the front between a pair of spreading hams, all the seams taut as 250 pounds settled into 200 pounds of pants. And he still ate, in a world of his own gourmet table, unstinting, civilized breakfasts, followed by long lunches and siestas, festive suppers, late night dinners of many courses, where he could be and would be encouraged to indulge in all the good things of life, fill up, relish, soak up the sweetness, engage in the overnourishment he had come to crave. He let his eyes flutter shut now and then, letting the soft animal of his big, burgeoning body love what it loved. He'd sigh occasionally, and the best part was how, at the end of it all, when every scrap of toast and eggs had found its place on him and the plate was squeaky-clean, he cast a surreptitious glance about and took my half-eaten baguette that I had left there to finish off on his own. What a fatty food-sneaker! That was the moment when I knew I had him good. I gave him a few moments to digest and then joined him back at the bar with the dregs of my own coffee. Up close it was erotic to see him flushed with a sugar high, those solid shoulders and arms propping him just enough so all the firm, well-fed fleshiness of plump pecs and bobble-belly could hang loose. He was breathing heavy, more because he scarfed it all down so quick than because it was all that much for him, and I could see that tell-tale glitter of incipient food frenzy in his eyes, probably what he looked like on the way to score tina and do a run, but now turned full-force on to what I hoped would be his new, legal addiction—overeating himself into obesity. Clearly, if I were to bring out another breakfast, he'd eat it. He didn't have it in him to stop himself. I smiled sweetly as I took his plate. "Guess you haven't eaten for a while." "Not like that, no. Did Frank tell you…?" I nodded, the soul of understanding and compassion. "Yeah. Whatever. No one's perfect." Then, intentionally changing the subject, "How about that nutmeg syrup, huh?" Beneath long eyelashes lashes, he rolled his baby blues back in his head and smiled a chubby smile. "Wicked good." "I've seen some customers literally drink it out of the pourer." "Yeah?" He winced at the thought and then, picked up the container, peering into it. "Pretty sweet." Which was when he caught me by surprise, stopping me dead with a look of sheer, penetrating, utterly unexpected directness, switching in an instant into a full-grown, fierce-looking ex-con. The air was electric with tension as he leaned forward toward me. "There better be more where that came from. I'm going to want more." The baby-blues had turned grey and steely in a flash, and he took one of his thick sausage fingers, wiped it around the inside of the syrup glass, and sucked on it hard. "I like that stuff, a lot." I was completely taken aback. Good thing dealing with aggressive customers for many years now at least let me preserve the outward trappings of good manners. "Don't worry, Byron. There's plenty. I'll make sure of that." But to tell the truth, watching him pack up and leave that day, walking slower with a belly jut and the flush of some attention, I couldn't help but feel a slight shiver of fear. Don't get between him and his fix—I guess that was the moral of the first part of Squeegee's story. Not that I had any intention of depriving Byron of his breakfast. Of all the insipidities I could spend my pathetic tip money on, paying Renny $15 under the table every other day to accustom this scrumptious ex-junkie window-washing parolee plumper to a good solid daily feed at the PiggyFeet trough until some serious results began to show---let's just say I have spent a lot more on a lot less fun. As it turns out, we were only scheduled to have our windows shined up every other day, which frankly was OK by me. It'd be a little much, I thought, to be lavishing breakfast on him daily anyway. He might catch on, and then how would I get my evil kicks then, huh? Plus, alternate days gave me time to put my head together with Renny to plan a nice, satisfying menu for Squeegee, something that would appeal, compel, seduce Tubby into making damn sure he never called in sick. He was there bright and early all right on Thursday, and Mother Nature herself, who from what I can tell has long been a big fan of all things excessive, appeared to have smiled on the inauguration of my new project: unseasonably warm weather for a Bay Area July meant it was in the high 70s, even at 9 a.m. And that meant a wonderful treat for me which I espied over the edge of my podium. Byron was in cargos and bright orange tank top, all of which probably did fit in the baggy way they were supposed to when he bought them a year ago but which now grabbed the overblown chunkiness of him in all the right spots—bowing out nice and round in the middle, belly flab and deep navel bouncing with every ponderous step, hunky-chunky thighs and bubblecheeks hefting and wrestling about under the tight khaki, all his smooth pink skin flushed with the heat. He waved at me inside and smiled shyly, setting up his stuff on the sidewalk, and wanting him used to being treated with respect and graciousness, I waved back and glided forth effortlessly, carrying a large, almost bowl-size cup of coffee, set aside for lattes which some especially gauche customers insist on slurping down after a fine repast. But, this morning, just for B-man, I tucked in about a half dozen of those super-sweet amaretti we use to garnish the ice cream sundaes. Baby likes sugar. Baby gets sugar. Baby gets nice and fat. "Man, thanks!" he said, loving the coffee but peering at the odd biscuits. "Never had these." He crunched away and opened his eyes wide at the pure aromatic impact of them. "They're Italian. We use them for desserts here." He gobbled them down, confirming my well-trained instincts at discerning the weakest spots in diet resolutions such as the hapless victims of my ministrations might be so bold as to entertain. Squeegee, however, seemed to be walking very willingly to the House of Ruinous Delights. I could smell the almond paste on his breath when he said, "Yeah, it's almost like I need to keep my blood sugar up these days. I mean, you go from doing jackshit in jail to, all of sudden, having to work a regular schedule." "And active physical work, too." "I've been trying to skip breakfast, you know, I don't want to get too big now that I don't have time for the weights, but…." He paused and I could practically hear the gears turning. "But…?" "Don't take this wrong, I'm not asking for charity, but the other day that breakfast was, like, the best thing I had ever eaten. I've never been to a place like this, you know, to have dinner, lunch, whatever." "It's pretty over-priced actually, but I can at least say that the food is great. I'm not sure I could afford to eat here either. And," I laid a fraternal hand on his shoulder, "No need to apologize. Feeding people is what we do here. That breakfast might have been the best you ever ate but fact is, Renny my bud in the kitchen whipped it up in, say, three minutes, takes no time at all to cook up some eggs, griddle some French toast, make it look pretty on the plate, when you are used to doing it fast and quick in a restaurant kitchen." Was Byron's mouth-watering? Probably the after-effects of the sugar bombs. "You hear about breakfast being so important and all, and Tuesday was really a lot easier for me after that." "Well, that's good to hear. So plan on having breakfast—on us. We're more than happy to help guys like you get back on your feet, and it's not a problem on our end. In fact, Renny was thinking you might want to be our taste tester today." He laughed, flashing big dimples and softening chin. "The guinea pig." The flirtatious cheek of him! Darn good thing I wasn't my own snug cargos that day. "Get your work done and come in, when you are ready to help us out." Was it my imagination or did our big old Squeegee work at record-pace that day, making that bank of windows glitter like nobody's business in ten minutes? Would the day ever come when he might actually wear that "Will Work For Food" I still have in the drawer, bought a few year back during a hot and heavy dalliance with a previous feedee who, alas, never really went the distance? Hope springs eternal. In any case, he was inside lickety-split, it seemed, all moist and panting from bending over and from, I imagined, the eagerness to "help us out." Sexy as it was to have seen him wiggling his width about awkwardly on the barstool the other day, if he was going to be irresistibly brought down by my secret encourager machinations, better to give the growing guy all the room he needed to spread out and relax and enjoy himself. So, I waved him over to the banquette along the wall, where, not coincidentally, a pair of corner mirrors gave me a three-dimensional view of his girth, and, voilà, out came Renny's creation which I placed in front of him with an overdone flourish, as if he were a genuine customer. "Pancakes?" he said, gleefully, looking up at me. "I love pancakes." "Ahh, but these are special…." He dove in and then discovered that these were no ordinary pancakes, but were in fact filled with rich cream cheese that had been whipped with the nutmeg maple syrup, such that, as he cut into them, the filling oozed out obscenely and released a very intense fragrance of sugar and spice and everything nice. The effect of it on him was as planned: here was a dude slung up somewhere between a San Pablo trailer park and the dog races, a guy who had undoubtedly come of age eating nothing but cheap, packaged, microwave dinners and snacks from jars, bottles and boxes, whose most far-out idea of the "high life" was to party with his tweaker buds and do shooters at Hooters. And now, thanks to the magnanimity of none other than the critically acclaimed Berkeley restaurant Au Pied de Cochon inspired by world-renowned California cuisinière Alyssa Wadders, our boy from the sticks was being acquainted with the way that food could be so much, much more to him, a path to the good life where things were clean, tasteful, civilized, and friendly; a harmless way of exercising his sensuality in the form of that big greedy appetite for pleasure which had gotten him into trouble in the first place, but which here at the table, centered on the food, on the eating of food, on the joy that food gave him, could now be indulged without any serious problems. Never had post-incarceration rehabilitation been so elegant, so gustatorily enticing, nor—I quivered with the thought--so potentially lethal to that waistline or the numbers on his bathroom scale. He took one bite of the stuffed pancake, a big bite dripping with milkfat, nutmeg and surreptitious encouragement, and he groaned deeply with satisfaction. Saying nothing, he took his time, spooning in another and another, eyes half-shut from a sugar climax, whimpering like a weaning shoat as he took a long, lingering time to clean his plate, mouthful after mouthful after revelatory mouthful. "Oh god…I've never tasted anything like this." I smiled down at him, watching him let go, shirt creasing carelessly around the folds of his fleshy torso, belly soft and slack, ready to make room for more, fat ass cushioned with a comfort that made it easy to stay there. "So they're good," I said, matter-of-factly. He chuckled and looked up. "Way good. Like having a pancake, cream-filled donut and cheese danish all at the same time. It's blowing my circuits." And your belt buckle, I thought. "So it's not too bad being a guinea pig, huh?" Every last part of me wanted to slide right in there next to him, at that moment, gently grab that flab of his, fresh, new and jiggly, call him "squeegee," "guinea piggy," "piggyfeet's newest piggy-feeder," reinforce what I knew I would be successful at turning him into over time. But I didn't. I did instead what needed to be done for now: I went back into the kitchen and brought out another six of these stuffed pancakes, their starchy, intoxicating perfume hitting Byron full in the face and he moaned helplessly, eyes bright with foodlust and even a little bit of fear. "You told me you liked that nutmeg syrup...so…" He winced and let his eyes alternate between the irresistible temptation on front of him, the high pile of food that he soon would be wearing on his hips and soft, low-slung Buddha-belly, and my own expression of implacable, unruffled, determined bonhomie. And as he spoke his piece to me, "Don't get me wrong, they are really great, but maybe I could finish a couple more of them, you could help, I dunno, someone in the kitchen…." it was impossible not to notice how his hand reached for the big spoon automatically, how he scooped up yet another enormous mouthful, how without thinking, like a natural porker, he began to feed, unable to stop himself because he wasn't even aware he was doing it, and once he started tucking it in, Round Two of stuffed pancakes, there were no more words, just gentle grunts, the smacking of buttery lips, and occasionally the sound of the cushions shifting, as he leaned back to catch his breath but only for a second until the draw of the table made him lean forward again, bench creaking, jockeying those overfed thighs and fattening ass into position so he could continue to pamper himself, sucking down the pleasure, the guiltless pleasure of what I was going to make sure was his incurable new compulsion. I swear by the end his sweat smelled like cream cheese and nutmeg. Where was it coming from? The plate was empty, a gooey mess of smeared feeding, and I thought long and hard about whether or not to do this next thing, but he was practically passed out with the overwhelming, nearly endless gorging that he had just given into, body flaccid and bulging, food-stupid expression on him, the way they get toward the end of a good, solid, satisfying binge, and I figured it couldn't be anything more outrageous than what he had in all likelihood seen and done in jail. So I went for it: I ran my index finger along the plate, wiping up a big mound of the sweetened filling still left and put it up to his lips. "We clean our plates around here at Piggyfeet." Given how south it all could have gone, that singular pause, as he looked at me from below, lasted an eternity. I didn't know him well enough yet to be able to tell whether it was relief, sullen resentment, or just plain, mindless, male lust that animated his glance at me in that moment, but whatever it was, I didn't get slugged. On the contrary, my instincts proved correct and instead, he closed his eyes, parted his big lips, and, with that soft and yielding tongue of his, suckled the cream off my finger, every last little bit. From that moment onward, an unspoken understanding had been reached between us, or perhaps better to say the unspoken understanding, for in my experience with the obese-to-be, it is always the same understanding and there is really no need to talk about it. In fact, better not to talk about it. Better, far better, far more exciting in some ways, to keep it unstated, below the radar of anyone who might guess, and simply let the inexorable process take its course. And take its course it did with Squeegee, who soon began to "stop by to say hi" even on the mornings when he wasn't scheduled to be working, especially when he realized that the culinary generosity of PiggyFeet would be supplemented on those days by my own personal assurance of a "nice big solid breakfast to start the day." Sometimes that was in the form of a flat of fresh pastries from La Farine, at others a sizable sack of cinnamon-sugar doughnuts right out of the fryer from Cruller Corner, warm, comforting, oily, and then there were those morning when I picked up a couple of piping hot breakfast burritos from La Picante down the street, served up with the pretense that I was going to have a bit of nosh myself, the reality being, of course, that all the sausage, potatoes, cheese and tortilla mostly made their way into Byron's capacious gullet, especially once I got him all jacked up on coffee and sugar. Once a stimulant junkie, always a stimulant junkie. Even with this special touch of my own added to hasten the undermining of whatever remnant of faltering will power he still had, it didn't escape anyone's notice that Byron always seemed to enjoyed the good home-cooking of our own kitchen best, and as long as I kept Renny's palm greased with the green, luscious morning meals kept coming out from out kitchen with a regularity that was blimping our Squeegee into a full-fledged, well-rounded gourmand. Cream-cheese stuffed pancakes were followed by an "experiment" of savory French toast stuffed with bacon, ham and pancetta that Byron was the first to taste and gobbled up with gluttonous approval. And more experiments followed, rich fattening morning meals the recipes for which our kitchen never got a chance to try out, since we only opened for lunch: crêpes thick with cream, folded over a wide variety of filling created from the previous nights leftovers---roast beef hash with sage gravy, chicken pomodoro adorned with slabs of melted provolone, seafood gumbo over rice. The guinea piggy had a real carbo jones, and I swear after a couple of weeks I caught him literally drooling as he made his way to our doorstep, big chops licking in anticipation. But even old standards need to be livened with variety and I was determined to expand Byron's greed into new areas. So, glossy omelettes grew by the day from three- to four- and eventually to six eggs, the size of dinnerplates, accompanied by towers of buttered bread, rich cream biscuits, and pots of jam, with occasional mixed grill thrown in, different house-made sausages—chicken, turkey, lamb—lined up like soldiers on a battlefield andmowed down with relish before he waddled off for the rest of his work day. A measure of how primed he was, how eminently plump-able, was obvious in how quickly his new, luxurious breakfast habits resulted in what I had wanted to see from the first day: in three weeks, Byron went from pleasantly chunky to distinctly, inarguably lard-assed, cheeks puffy, chin thick, soft and lushly larded, once broad shoulders now even broader and sloping over man-breasts that shook lasciviously, abundantly, under voluminous XXL T-shirts that made his transition from beefy boy to lard-ass slob clear and present. As his body sought to find new places to store the blubber that his greatly increased intake was creating as stores for a famine that I would make sure he would never experience, rolls of fat grew under his arms, popped out nice and jiggly around his waist, and widened out the top of his thighs so that his pants cut into deep, thickly creased chub all around. Most amazing, though, was his belly that pushed out over his shorts, forcing the waistband to sling low like a sweet hammock over an unexpectedly symmetrical sphere, navel smack in the center of his shirt, bouncing gently, seductively at the slightest movement. I thought he would widen and droop, he just looked like the type to me, a sloppy-fat gainer-tub, but I was wrong. The extra forty pounds that first month came on him nice and firm, and by the end, he had blossomed into more of a rolypoly, a Michelin man, overstuffed, upholstered with sexy manfat that would show itself off now and then as his shirt rode up during a feeding or as his cotton shorts flashed the back of his shaking ass cheeks on his way off to work. Gratifying as it was to achieve this kind of success, I couldn't help wondering whether or not more might be possible, given the ease with which Byron had given himself over to the morning feeding routine and the sensual fattening he was capable of achieving in such a short time. Just as his own appetite was grew hand-in-hand with his excess poundage, each day making that delightfully vicious cycle of lowered metabolism and increase consumption more and more his way of life, conditioning him to a life of obesity, my own desire to push the limits with him were similarly increasing. The more he showed up obediently expecting to be stuffed, the less able to restrain his piggishness in front of me (to the point of even grunting and snorting toward the end of an exceptionally delicious meal), the more lard he piled on, the more it made me think that what had begun a diversion, as an exploration, might well be taken to another level. Why shouldn't I get something permanently, deeply, personally satisfying out of all my hard work, too? As he sat there, day after day, spreading out, fatter and fatter, more and more hoggish, burying himself in the excess, was it really so unrealistic to think that he was giving it up so easy because deep down he wanted me to go to the next step? I'd occasionally catch him looking at me, eyes bright above food-swollen cheeks, looking at me with an expression that I began to realize was actually a request he didn't know, didn't have the words, to make. Easy to find out. So on a day when I knew the dinner rush would be light, the Sunday of July 4th weekend, when everyone was either out of town or barbecuing in their own backyards, I let him dab his lips with the napkin after finishing a sumptuous load of creamed chipped beef served on two sour-cream laden baked potatoes, shift his nearly 300-pound bulk around enough to give the vast balloon of his paunch the room to digest in peace with a soft belch, and then asked him what his plans were for the evening. He sniggered a little. "Plans. I got no plans. Never have no plans." He put a plump hand on his belly and rested it, wheezing a little, looking back at me with an unformed question dancing about in his bovine gaze. "Got no friends now that I'm not using or dealing. And sure ain't got no girlfriend at this fucking size." He laughed in a self-deprecating way and picked up the remnants of potato skins with a fork. "I got my eats, and that's just about it." "Well, then, why don't you stop by here tonight? It's doing to be d-e-a-d. And we're all just going to be kicking back, you know." A little smile crept over his face, double chins flushing with a scoot of the hips. "Bet you have a dynamite dessert menu." What was I thinking? This fatty had been around the block. "Menu? We have a platter the size of Missouri," I said, giving back as good as I was getting. And sure enough, even after plowing through breakfast enough for six, he sat there, drooling just at the thought, . "Good as the rest of the food?" My turn to snigger, which I did, wickedly. "Three different pies, chocolate decadence torte, two different cheesecakes, caramel pudding, cookie plate….It's always such a shame that we put it all out on a display tray for the evening and then at the end, just throw out all the samples." He had tried a couple of times to rouse himself from his laziness and shift his tonnage into gear head off to work, but there was nothing like a low center of fatboy gravity to make that difficult. So I reached out my hand and gave him a lift, pulling him forward with a good strong hand and letting him stand real close as he got his balance, the crest of his 48" gut grazing my arm. "I'm so here tonight," he said softly. Was it my imagination or did I hear in his voice a note of relief and see in his body a kind of yielding, yielding to all of his appetites, even the ones that he had kept secret up to now, secret even to himself? "Tell you what…" I matched his sotto voce. "Don’t rush. Clean-up won't be done till midnight and then we'll have all the time in the world." Midnight it was, indeed, when he came by, which made me happy, because there are few things I like better in a fatboy than the ability to take direction. But Squeegee had gone one better, he had slipped on a nice, extra-wide pair of cotton sweat shorts and a bright colored Hawaiian shirt that sported itsy-bitsy ice cream cones of various flavors. Smelling freshly showered, he slipped into the door way as I unlocked it, and right inside, heplayfully pointed out the design of his shirt, saying, "I thought I'd dress for dessert." The pattern of the fabric wasn't what I was checking out, though, in that the shirt was open with lots and lots of Byron was shaking free and easy in the dim lights of the restaurant. "Cute," I said, and assuming the officious air of restaurant host I affected on a nightly basis here, I simply walked toward the rear of the house where a small alcove of a dining space flickered with candles, hidden with view. As promised, our dessert tray of the evening beckoned. "They are just left overs, I know…." It's always amazing to see the effect of the food on them, and it's all in their eyes, an intensity, a focus, a sheer, naked greediness takes over, the tunnel vision of a man destined to have his life run by his unrestrained love of eating. He wasted no time and slid his bulk into the big padded chair, gawking for a bit at the array before him, spoiled for choice. "I've died and gone to heaven, haven't I?" I stood over the table, as I would for any honored guest, and tapped his hand as he reached for his first selection. "I believe you would like to hear what we have here, wouldn't you? So, going clockwise—coconut crème caramel pie with a macadamia nut crust and meringue topping, drizzled with honey; pecan rum pie served with fresh zabaglione; chocolate-bottom mud pie in a pool of caramel sauce." He began to lean forward, smelling the air, and with that, I decided to do as I had intended, gently cupping the large soft mantit that hung forward and tenderly rolling the swollen nipple in my fingers, as I continued, voice calm and business-like. "Then we have the house specialty, triple chocolate decadence torte, bitter sweet chocolate mousse.." I plucked a little and he moaned "…layered with semi-sweet ganache…" I plucked a little harder still and he moaned a little louder, "topped with Valrhona shavings and of course mocha whipped cream," and with that, I bounced the handful of fat playfully until he giggled and reached for his breasts with his own chubby hands to stop my teasing. "If you don't like chocolate, we have fresh Santa Rosa plum-topped cheesecake and Meyer Lemon cheesecake. Both very fattening…" I unobtrusively sat down and let my hand deftly slide across his broad circumference, overheated blubbery lovehandles, loose underbelly, the slightly damp tittyfold and meandering down to the sweet, sensitive fatty bulging around his navel. His eyelids fluttered half-shut and when his mouth opened in a wordless gasp, I finished off. "Naturally we have crème brûlée, served with anisette-flavored Mexican wedding cookies, and if you so desire, we can always prepare a hot fudge sundae for you, vanilla, chocolate and coffee ice cream on hand." As the impact of it all sunk in and I found myself slowly moving into his bulk, pressing up against his flanks, letting my lips play against his jowls, he was breathing so heavily from desire that his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. "You understand, don't you?" I grasped the large spoon beside the platter, started with what I knew he would like best, the chocolate decadence, and lifted a sumptuous mouthful of it up to his face with one hand as my other hand reached beneath the table and began to pleasure him as no one had ever pleasured this fatboy before, and in two bites, my newest conquest enjoyed a climax that stunned even me, a powerful, bucking cum that shook the table and which, I swear to God, lasted an exquisitely long time, long enough for me to feed him the entire slab of lusciousness off the plate, his eyes closed, whimpering with wave after wave of pleasure.. "Yeah, Squeegee, I understand. I understand so many things." Bite of the coconut pie, gasp for breath. "That you are going to have a wonderful time from here on." Bite of the pecan, gasp for breath. "That you are going to feed to your heart's content and never really care how big you get, ever again." Large spoonful of crème brûlée, gasp for breath. "That you'll wonder now and then if this is a good thing, maybe when you are 350, maybe again when you are 450, or 500, but in the end…." Oversized piece of mud-pie, whipped cream drooling down his chin, helpless groan. "You'll remember tonight and you'll know what you already know about yourself." His lids opened slightly and he nodded passively. "Yeah, I know, I've always known. I don't have much choice. I am what I am." And with that, he picked up the fork himself and began, on his own, to do what he knew he needed to do, feed contentedly on the remains of the decadence in front of us. "And Squeegee," I said with a little squeeze of his belly, "We have all the time in the world. All the time in the world."

[theoppositeofadults]

j’aime trop lire les comptes rendus du Parlement, et surtout de la House of Lords, parce que les arguments sont toujours...... surprenants

par exemple, sur une loi sur des médicaments, un Lord était pour une mesure parce que ça faisait deux ans qu’il travaillait sur la traduction d’un livre français sur l’agriculture et qu’il était inquiet du manque de protection pour les cochons et veaux qui devaient prendre des antibiotiques