I Turned Down a BJ on My First Day of School

Before any panic sets in, no one is getting cancelled. Other than possibly me after this blog goes out (sorry in advance, Charlie). But the encounter shouldn’t trouble you any less — in my humble opinion.

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The prospect of a BJ would, understandably, appeal to some people. Especially those of you with a dirty mind. Filthy bunch. But not when it’s the name of a food item, one that I became too embarrassed to order on Tuesday.

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This assault on the senses unfolded at a burger spot nearby, which offers not one, not two, but three sexually themed burgers on their menu: the Cheesy Hog, the Crispy Bird, and the BJ … (some title for a spicy video. Just saying).

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All because some trendy burger chef was desperate for me to ask their waiter for a “BJ.” Well done, mate. You’re 40.

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I’ve had enough of the fetishisation of the food industry. What should have been a beautiful bonding moment between three new friends, negating the angst of the first day at the SCA, only quickened my already elevated heart rate. Brilliant.

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My issue is that, if you’re like me, sex causes more than enough anxiety as it is. I don’t need it hijacking the safest of spaces and a moment of unadulterated comfort: mealtime. Especially on a day as nerve-racking as this. I found myself analysing whether or not Charlie Horner had “BJ lips,” when I really wanted to think of nothing but enjoying my meal and the inevitable but necessary game of small talk ahead of us. Oh, and Charlie, whilst we're here — I understand if you don’t want to commute with me anymore.

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So, to the Nigellas, “yolk porn” artists, and crude menu writers: please stop. If I’m going to be rushed to hospital with heart failure, it should be from the fat content of your food, not from a panic attack induced by your cheap sexualisation of it.

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P.S. For the ones who think I’m a prude: if I were going to name their burger after sex, I’d call it the 69. Message me directly for the punchline, because after all that, I’m still too prudish to write it down.

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P.P.S. For those gossipers, here’s a little cryptic clue for the culprit’s name — where limbs meet in the article.

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