Hello, do you believe in romantic love?

Why does it matter what I believe?

I believe that things like “romance” are merely ways of naming the complex interplay between biology and biologically structured psychology. But so what? Humans act as if that’s an unthinkable thing. As if everything that makes you wonderful has to be some sort of transcendental divinely inspired….spiritual… AAAaaaaAAAAAaaaaHHHH sort of…thing. It doesn’t. All it needs to be is real to you and worth your time. 

If you don’t think that, then don’t bother. If you think it is, then do. That simple. Why does your belief have to change anyone else’s or my belief somehow alter your own? What anyone believes doesn’t change the thing. It doesn’t. You can believe love is a purely biological thing, but it still brings humans together and it still creates tight-knit groups and it still brings out the better parts of human nature, the ones that are empathic and compassionate. You can believe that certain art is nonsense, but if someone uses that art to examine themselves, then your belief is nonsense, isn’t it? The art served its purpose irrespective of your belief. 

This is something humans have a difficult time with.


1. ADJ. Of precisely nine inches in length.

2. N. Slang. Denoting someone who claims or might claim to have a nine inch…eh…member, but who is clearly either fibbing in order to impress, or who has not proven his…prowess, by showing it off. Similar in usage to the modern adaptation of calling a particularly odious male a “dick”.


1. “The bit of string was dodrantal.”
2. “What a drunk dodrantal. Someone toss him on his arse before he drops his britches.” or “Don’t listen to that braggart. He’s a dodrantal if ever there was one.”

The secondary usage was one specifically unique to the docks of the late sixteen hundreds. Particularly in the pubs in and around the Cranes, or the bear pits across the Thames in Southwark. 

I should discuss the reason it became used in the secondary way, despite the obvious reference to…eh…length, which inevitably turns human minds to thoughts of measuring their sexual organs (someone please explain this to me because I find it absurd).

So let’s look at the original term, and then why the adaptation, shall we?

Dodrantal comes from the Latin word dodrans, which was a term of measurement denoting what we in English commonly refer to as a hyphenated contraction: two-thirds, three-fifths, etcetera. It was also a coin, which was three quarters of another coinage value. Anyway, the point is that nine inches is three-quarters of a foot. And so, the word dodrantal was born.

However, false etymologies make for excellent puns, and as you know, I’m rather partial to puns. In the Scotch, Irish and Welsh Gaelic, “dod” or “daud” has a meaning varying from “sullen, sulking, angry” to “glob or large lump”. And “rant” as you know, means “to talk loudly and longly on a topic, to expound” but in those days, it actually meant something similar to the word “rave”, except that it denoted a kind of hysterical joy or overly humorous and boisterous demeanor.

So you see… A man who talks about the length of his cock is really a sullen man raving about his lump.

Now you can swear like a 17th century dock worker from Ireland.

Creature’s Cookbook, now in print


At last we come to the most important part of the third iteration of this experiment: the printed book for all to read. If you wish to obtain a print copy, I thank you kindly for the patronage. Do be aware that the book is printed on demand via a small press, so this may cause the tiniest little lag to your receiving a copy. Once you purchase a copy, please do return to review it. Reviews help to raise the ranking of the book, and therefore its visibility to the public. It really does make a difference, and if you’d like to help my experiment, this is an excellent way. I ask only that your review be honest, and that you help share the word that this isn’t merely a book, but an inclusive activity in which anyone can participate. The more reviews mention that, the better chances I have of obtaining viable experimental data.

This is an excellent opportunity for you to finally reel in those friends of yours you’ve been trying to convince to read the Tapas version, but who hem and haw and don’t want to tax their eyeballs or learn about “coins”. Bringing me more readers enlarges the experiment and also makes for more lively discussion on social media.



People in the west do not like to eat with their hands, not even after washing. Specifically wet foods that can get their fingers wet or greasy. They prefer spoons. They are however comfortable with dry ones, atleast the parts they touch, such as burgers or burriotes or the like. Was it always like this even before the industrial era? A person I know was disgusted that I used to eat with my hands back home. It made me feel bad and ashamed even though I know I shouldn’t be feeling like that

No, it wasn’t. In fact, most people didn’t have any kind of utensils. In fact, it was common practice to eat with the tip of a knife, even at a rich table. Later, some spoons became popular. A knife was invented with a prong on the end. We used to eat off of something called a trencher. I’ve talked about it before. A trencher is a platelike bread loaf. The loaf soaked up the juices and then was either eaten or tossed to the poor or dogs. Pies were invented as an edible utensil, the crusts being very hard and thick. People even ate custard with their hands. All cups were communal, as were any utensils. If you used one, you gave it back immediately, when it was rinsed and put back on the cup board (where the word originates). It was customary to rinse or wash hands between dishes, and napkins used to be quite expensive, so you brought your own, or wore an apron for such a purpose. 

Westerners ate everything with their hands. 

Then again, they also died a lot faster. 

Perhaps there’s a middle ground? And since today you know about washing your hands, I don’t see a reason to be annoyed at eating with your fingers.