Below the Subjective Arsenal of Ardent Quality

The first time I experienced cumin I was roughly 20-years-old, half inebriated, soaking in the horrible deluge of my brother’s charmed Miller Lite. I never had a tongue for the stuff, but when I was younger I could forgive myself of such disagreements.

So there we were, playing games the way people play them, and my brother fancied an oven baked treat, and perhaps the greatest oven-made treat created by drunken men: the frozen pizza. Every man has his pizza folly that he frequents, and my brother was no exception. Yet, he was able to strike a chord in me, which ran deep into the bowels of my stomach-loins.

He took out a delectable Totinos Mexican pizza and applied the brown spice of Indian sages, the powerfully aromatic seed that was used to wet the snatches of many young Arabic whore-muses centuries ago. That first taste unloaded a plethora of fond newfound blisses; must’ve had me about six or seven slices of pIZza, Jenny.

When I returned to my own land, hundreds of minutes away, on the crisp, glass laden streets of Mo’town (My town, Yo town, Mo’Town!) I knew I had to obtain a prepackaged fix of the spice.

When my mother went grocerying, I politely inquired, “Um, mom, can you, uh, get me some cumin? Please?” She said, “Sure Tommy,” and even though I was quite disappointed that my mother couldn’t remember my name, still after two decades, I waited and jacked off about four times, anxiously anticipating my little bottle of cumin.

As I reached my own kitchen, there it was, in my bag alongside my jammies and pictures of Linda Ronstadt. And then I opened the jar, took a big whiff, and hurriedly moaned out, “HOLY FUCK! This shit smells like concentrated Mexican taints.”

And I’ve added cumin to everything since.