Once upon a time, there was a little scaly creature named Mr. Peanut. He’s the one who named himself, not because he loves peanuts, but because he thinks that the gonads he eats taste like them. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bird or a flower, he just devours them, because food knows no gender.
One would wonder why his diet, of all things, extends to such yuckery. To be truthful, even I, a friend of Mr. Peanut, does not know. All I know is that he was born out of the traumatic screams of the nightmares of children whose genitals were violated, children who were threatened to be castrated, children who were envious of penises, children who were lied to about the birds and the bees.
Should you see him somewhere, give me a call. An e-mail, perhaps. I used to cage him but he preferred to be free, and I let him be. But it has been so many years and I want to check if he’s still alive. If he still eats.