Farmer Bob

My sociopathic spectrum diagnosis came as an enormous relief, because I’ve never understood the “empathy” concept you people are always yammering about. Everything with you is “I feel sorry for this person,” and “Feed the starving that person.” Whereas the only time I wince at, say, a disembowelment is if my own intenstines are involved. Now I have a doctor’s note excusing me from social rules and norms. As the French say, vive la indifference to the rights and feelings of others!

Since I am psychologically incapable of emotional identification with other people, I have no compunctions about self-indulgent discussion of the things I hate. Therefore, without reference to you or your feelings, I hate the old lady-ish tendency to ascribe Seven Deadly Sins-derived modifiers to desserts. Between you and the person who came up with “Sinfully Sweet Cherries Jubilee,” I guess I hate you a little bit less. Just reading that shit on a menu is enough to make me – well, enough to make me irritable and aggressive to the point of reckless disregard for the safety of myself and others.

However, I do think restaurants could inspire my appetite for sugary crap with some modifications. Specifically, by applying truly opprobrious language to their dessert recipes. “Degenerate Apple Brown Betty,” “Chocolate Bastards” and “Morally Depraved Lemon Bars” just sound like they’d have excellent flavor and “mouth-feel.”

On the other hand, one of the pathologies of my disorder is frequency of unlawful behavior. And in terms of minimizing the seriousness of my actions, the rhetoric of pastry chefs has proved increasingly useful in court. If Deliciously Decadent Mail Fraud is a crime, you can pronounce me guilty! My hearings on Wickedly Wonderful Aggravated Assault and Simply Sinful Statutory Rape are still pending.