You walk into the room sporting a burgundy five-buttoned vest over a crisp white shirt. You balance your serving tray in one hand and approach the nearest group of dazzling jet-setters. Offering it to them, you say, "Would you care for some pussy?"
"Oh, you must try the cunt, dear, it's delightful!" exclaims a fat and bejewelled one to her balding husband.
"Darling, I couldn't possibly. I had three pieces of it earlier and I'm positively stuffed."
The greasy man to his right says, "They look just scrumptious." You wait patiently while he hesitates over the fresh, quivering vulvae, his bulbous fingers poised in the air. You get your hopes up. Finally: "You know, I really shouldn't. These days I'm watching my weight."
Onto the next bunch you go, holding up the offering each time. It is not a very popular dish. Every once in a while, someone will say, "All right, I'll give it a try, if you insist," and half-heartedly select a juicy morsel. But most of the time they do not. It is a disheartening task, and the routine, the repetition, the predictability becomes tedious.
You begin to wonder if you are catering to the wrong crowd or if the dish itself is merely unappealing. Could you do something differently next time? Add a little salt or some lemon zest? Rosemary, perhaps?
