Yep, this used to exist elsewhere...this writeup was originally in two parts. The first (Part I) I received once as a humorous email forward from a friend; it and its origins were once available noded by P_I above but that w/u seems to have gone de way o' de dodo. This Part II, however, is original material that I added immediately to the end of the email in a frenzied offhand burst of eccentric humor before reforwarding, and reproduce below. This is just sort of unfunny wanking without Part I, which (thank you Intarwub!) can be found online here:

The following link offers a version it claims is the 'unabridged' version:

Jean-Paul Sartre's Cookbook, Part II - by The Custodian

December 6 - Disconsolate, I have realized that the cigarette is in fact so truly bourgeois that it cannot form the basis of a foodstuff medium for the homme moderne. Therefore, I am switching to small crickets and Pixie Sticks. Perhaps they will allow me to express the buzzing sourness of life itself.

December 11 - The crickets appear to have eaten the Pixie Sticks. In a frenzy of creative despair, I stomp upon the crickets and spread the resulting paste onto a H&H bagel. After garnishing it lightly with black tar to represent the inky void, I offer it to Malraux, who pukes. I am once again encouraged.

January 1 - The pitiful festivity of the new year of mankind passes me by. I sit in my kitchen and stare at the empty larder in hopes that the smaller void will spark a creative flash in my brain. Nothing happens, however, and I am forced to smoke my cat.

January 7 - Returning to the subject of food, I realize that in the past few weeks of fasting I have lost a great deal of weight, and in fact weigh a mere 92 pounds. Celebrating, I attempt to smoke thirty-five cigarettes at once.

(cont) I have passed out and been taken to hospital. I do not like hospitals; they expose one to disease, inflict pain, and take away ones' pants. I resolve to leave as soon as possible.

January 8 - Nirvana! In a covered tray, this morning's hospital lunch arrived. Upon removing the cover, the pointlessness of life and the universe itself was revealed, imperfectly but visible, in the slab of Spam that sat atop my plate. Grabbing the precious lunchmeat, I rushed from the hospital.

January 10 - Arrested as I ran from the hospital in frontless robes, with greasy pinkness clutched in my hands, I sit in Bastille. To my relief, they have allowed me to retain the Pink Slab of Meaning. I consider it carefully as I ponder how best to bring the perfection of the symbol from its resting place deep in the processed levres et nez du cochon.

January 11 - At hearing today, I climb atop the witness stand and relate my anguished quest for first the cookbook, then the perfect recipe, to an ancient judge. Malraux appears and testifies that I am in fact quite mad, and that he would prefer that I not be released into society. Fie on him, the poor fool. He shall not know the enlightenment of the Faux-Pig. After all testimony is complete, the judge announces that I must relinquish the Viand-Dieu and return to jail. I wave the Spam threateningly; the gendarmes retreat before its oily flopping wave. I advance! The slab lightly smacks the forehead of one gendarme! I am wrestled to the ground. After a stick is forced into my mouth, the Pinkish Objet d'Vue is stuffed into my gullet. Achingly, I swallow, feeling the essence of emptiness travel down my alimentary tract. Silent tears wash my face as I realize that the void is now within, within me, as in fact it always was - the void and inky black nothingness that is existence, refined and pure within the breast and stomach of each man and his brother.

I puke.

Malraux cheers.


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