None of the bitter aged and none of that arrogant handful of the contemptuous youth have tasted the love lunch, for instance, or know anything at all about the sexual properties of my golden wheels of ripe cheese.
That John Hawkes sure knows how to pack a lunch, doesn't he? Meanwhile, after a lunch of dubious cafeteria curry, my stomach sounds like it's housing a family of pigeons. I would call it a dovecote, but that word is far too comely for the ominous din below.