Happy Meal

Now, I'm hungry. I'm usually either hungry, sleepy or horny. I'm often at least two of them at any one time (then the other one straight after if I get what I want, and I normally do, know what I'm sayin' fellas? Yeah you do! High Five! Anyone?). But right now, I'm hungry.

I'm also in a bit of a bad mood, for reasons best left between me and all the dickheads who've put me in a bad mood. Which are everywhere, incidentally, and likely to manifest when you least expect it and shove a shit sandwich down your throat before you can say 'What's your problem, numb-nuts?'. But I digress.

I thought to myself inside my brain (which is colossal, by the way), 'How can I fix my irritation and my hunger in one fell swoop?' And then it struck me. I had it, by George, I had it! And I thought it only fair to share it with you. I give you (drum roll)... Dan's Recipe for the Happiest Meal in the World... Ever!

Ingredients:

100g Happy-Face Luncheon Meat

1 Bag Birdseye Potato Smiles

1 Tin Alphabetti-Spaghetti

Season with Hundreds'n'Thousands to taste.

Recipe

Take the Happy-Face luncheon meat and rub it all over your naked body until thoroughly tender. Once you're feeling tender enough, put it on a plate and dissolve into hysterics. 5 minutes should be just about long enough.

Then, open your bag of Potato Smiles and laugh raucously at their lobotomised grins and dead, empty eyes. Turn your oven up to 220 degrees, and resist the temptation to stick your head in it. If it is electric, you will merely end up with a very hot head. Instead, place the potato smiles on a baking tray and gleefully fling them into the oven using a backhand frisbee throw.

While these are cooking, I like to go and put some clothes on upside down and pretend I have hands for feet and a head poking out of my flies. Of course, this is completely optional.

After about 15 minutes, open up the tin of Alphabetti-Spaghetti. Remove all the letters that are not either H, A, P, another P, or Y. These are the only letters you will be needing. Pour the correct letters into a saucepan and place it on a heated hob. Use a wooden spoon and proceed to stir it up. Little darling. Stir it up. Ohhh oh.

By this time, your smiles should have gone all golden and ruddy-cheeked in the oven, and your luncheon-meat should be on a plate, grinning happily at you. At this point, try and resist the temptation to pop a couple of valium and lie in the bath with the taps running, and instead decant the smiles from tray to plate with a supple flick of your wrists (which you haven't slit yet).

Splat that Alphaspetti-Baguetti onto the side of the plate, and hurl on a handful of hundreds'n'thousands, which will remind you of a time when you were a child and you went to a park to get an icecream with your mummy and daddy and it was sunny and you felt loved by your family and were hopefully going to get a puppy for Christmas if you were a very good boy but that didn't happen because daddy slept with a lady at work and mummy started drinking all the things in the big wooden cabinet and then you got taken away and given another mummy and daddy who were quite nice but definitely not the same as the old ones and you grew up bitter and unable to trust*.

Now eat it, being sure to wash it down with a nice vase of hard liquor whilst staring goggle-eyed at a television that is stealing every precious moment you have on this earth, as you drink yourself into a stupor and eventually shit yourself because you're too drunk to get up.

And all for less than a fiver!

Feel happy and have a great weekend everybody!

Buried in Pomposity is written by Dan, to whom * this never happened. He feels perfectly cheerful, although prone to extreme bouts of dramatic hyperbole, which he insists upon pronouncing 'Hyper-bowl'.