Mr Food is Medicine

Pierre trained as a chef but had bigger ambitions. Now he doesn’t like to throw around words like “doctor” or “medical advice” partly because food is so much more than that, but mostly because certain regulatory bodies have threatened to prosecute the activation right out of his almonds if he does.

Nevertheless, he decides to leave the world of normal cookery and pursue a new identity as an unqualified dietician. Half his day is spent smearing the shit coming out of Pete Evans’ mouth on the underpants on social media, the other half is spent at his “wellness space” (wanker’s cafe) in an inner-city Perth suburb.

A mother and her child come in for a cold drip, de-carbonated turmeric latte and a paleo banana bread that would really swing Tarzan’s vine. Pierre promises that after just one bite you will Neander-fall in love, and also (probably) experience a 50% cleanse of saturated leukemiods.

All is well in the cafe until she pops a tiddy and starts feeding her baby human milk. A waitress runs to the back and interrupts Pierre as he is giving himself a soy milk enema, “Pierre we have a situation!”

Pierre confronts the woman, “ma’am, we do not permit breastfeeding in this establishment”. The woman sees reds, “can’t handle the sight of a woman’s breast buddy?” Pierre composes himself, “no, I can’t handle seeing a child slowly die of malnourishment”.

The woman is shocked, but nothing will prepare her for Pierre’s encore as he rips open his chef whites to reveal a prosthetic udder strapped to his chest filled with the finest Albian goat’s bone broth, “this will also cure… um, help the little fellers little staph infection there”. Hard to argue there. The woman is converted.

Satisfied at having made the world just a little bit dumber, he takes a stroll and notices a tourist applying sunscreen. Not on his watch, he slaps the sunscreen out of her hand and looks her in the eyes, “let me ask you a question, did the cave people have sunscreen?”

Before she can work out what the fuck this cunt has been smoking, he pulls out a bottle of thrice galvanized linseed oil, “this will offer 10 times the protection of SPF 50… under muffled breath I think”. Makes sense to her. Sold.

Back at the “wellness space” a woman approaches Pierre crying, “the government is bullying us into vaccinating our kids”. Clearly, her sense of entitlement to welfare outweighs her belief that vaccines destroy lives. Nevertheless, Pierre holds her tight, “I have just the thing”.

He returns with alkalised water and vinegar smoothie with the husk of a freshly milked Zucchini, “vaccine toxins can’t exist in an alkaline environment, this will reverse the harm of vaccines, and you will continue to receive your welfare payments”.

He goes home to enjoy the only real benefit of his claims, the cold hard cash from the fuckwitted masses.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?