- Two literary sons an equal to their famous fathers
- NSW cracks down on protests, minors and crimes yet to happen
- Bernard Linden Webb and Peter Cameron: Two men who subverted the church from within
- NSW officers charged with sexually assaulting high school student
- Staying sober makes your drunk friends drunker
With the tiny kitchen trend far from stale (thank you, Katy Perry), I think it’s time we look at what we created – in abject horror. Make the tiny pain stop.
Allow me to start this with a rather towering modifier: being diminutive is not necessarily a bad thing. Here are some examples of small things being good: Anna Kendrick, Thom Yorke, mobile telephones 2005-2010. But for every Bonapartian positive, there’s a rather large (read: small) negative reaction. Something pursued out of ego, and little else more. Ego is a terrible thing. I know this, because I’m wise and hung like a train.
What I’m talking about, of course, is the tiny kitchen trend. If you haven’t heard of it, I envy you, for it is an unfeeling, culinary hydra that takes an hour of your life, and adds to its own. Put simply, it is an Internet trend, hailing from Japan (you wonderful nutcases) that involves cooking foodstuffs but making its tiny equivalent. Now, I’m unsure if you eat it or what the point is, but this takes the discipline entirely too far by cooking it in a tiny oven and…Christ, I can barely type it.
Alas, despite the obvious logical point of there being tiny people starving in Africa, culinary trendsetter Katy Perry is onboard the cray-train with her latest video, Chained to the Rhythm, which I would link, but I fear any further mileage down the River Tiny Kitchtze will merely enable my bond to be taken away, courtesy of some unchecked guttural rage.
You see, it awakens some sort of primordial ickiness within. Everything is so fiddly and precise, it just makes me uneasy. Compounded with my OCD, which does nothing but goose the negative parts of my psyche evermore, an existential crisis envelopes me. While my library is sorted by colour, and cutlery is sorted by purchase date, the hyper organisation of the insane minds who cooked up such a heinous scheme is well beyond me. In fact, it raises my skin into Everestian bumps so utterly, that the creator of this craze has found his, her or its way onto my retroactive kill list (the list of people I’d go back in time to eliminate for the good of mankind).
Please, everybody. Please stop now, I cannot stand the sounds of my own screams in my head.
And for those who want to be a big cook in a small movement, fuck off up the model village, yeah?