It’s that time of year again, Brideofchucky Eve, a very special time of year. It’s that time of year when all the good little boys and girls ride jet skis into the hell waters of Fukushima, Japan, and every grandma across America hangs a bucket of slaw over the basement door. Why not celebrate this year by eating cat ass? Not just any ol’ cat ass. Twice Fried Cat Ass! It is the culinary flavor-splosion™ you’ve never been looking for! It’s got the acute, purposeful bite of a ladleful of carbonic acid combined with the sweet, smokey subtlety of a cat’s asshole. Once you feed this delicacy to your (almost certainly) uncooperative family, you will be rewarded with an eventual judicial exoneration based on an easily-provable insanity plea!



  • a light, feathery dusting of hibiscus pollen
  • 4 sweaty cat anuses
  • a collection of rotors
  • 1/4 cup of the sound a pipe organ makes when it’s being Grindr-fucked by two Indian elephants
  • 1/3 cup Led Zeppelin II on 8-track
  • 2 tbsp Roberto Benigni’s duodenal mucus
  • something flame retardant that’s green
  • something flame retardant that’s SPECIFICALLY NOT green (you will find out why as you cook)
  • 1/2 tsp D batteries
  • 8 lbs quinoa flour (4 lbs sifted, 4 lbs dick-beaten)
  • I don’t know, something?
  • that other thing



  1. Preheat oven to Flowers of Agamemnon or whatever that book is called
  2. Rotate shoulder blades counter-clockwise until they snap off like Mr. Potato head parts. Notice the instant, searing pain that is so bad you go temporarily blind – all the while wondering how can something be “clockwise” if clocks are digital. Realize you’re soft, and if society collapsed, you’d be dead inside of 30 minutes. (Don’t forget to cauterize those arm holes shut! How are you going to hold a blow torch? Whoops! Shoulda thought of that!)
  3. In a separate bowl, combine Led Zeppelin II 8-track and own face. Stir vigorously until your sinuses are packed with shards of plastic, bleeding, and every time you breathe in people can hear Ramble On. (If you did it right, it should sound like this: “Guys… I think I–” [in the darkest depths of Mordor] “should maybe get to–” [But Gollum, and the evil one crept up and] “a hospital.” [Ramble on!])
  4. In a separate bowl, place D batteries, quinoa flour, that other thing, and sweaty dog anuses. Look at the bowl of ingredients, and say, “No. NO. NOOOOOOOO. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!”
  5. Call out to the heavens until the preternatural soul of Elon Musk’s child, ZZZzaaaaapp! (or whatever) bubbles forth, spilling onto the counter, and boiling onto the floor in a thick puddle of weird baby.
  6. Postheat oven.


Sprinkle with the delusional feeling that life on Earth has a purpose to taste. Serves 18 screaming Uzbeki men (26 Uzbeki men who are speaking at a reasonable volume). Do not attempt to make.


By Aaron Sarlo, © 2020 / Publication date: November 3, 2020