The dojo of the master putter of the foot in the mouth

There is an art to making an arse of oneself. I have practiced the ephemeral wushu of the social nitwit, studied the polished crudeness of the transcendent imbecile, and perfected a flawless mimicry of the natural idiot. I constantly challenge myself by dusting the most tranquil social landscapes with my lovingly crafted organic awkwardness. Just a spoonful of sugar may help the medicine go down, but it totally ruins caviar.

I paint my world with an angel's lock brush dipped in smooth golden weirdness.

I make my awkwardness myself in my distillery from the rarest, purest, and sweetest of character flaws. The craft is delicate and arduous, requiring patience and an apetite for one's own foot.

First, I gently warm twenty gallons of misunderstanding in a cherrywood cask. I then crush four pounds of self-esteem and drop that into the cask and stir gently and regularly over a fortnight with a four-hundred year old oak ladle inscribed with the words 'Cave quid dicis, quando, et cui. Quod non cotidie.'

Then, delicately, I add juice of stutter root, a fine distilled licqeur of ignoring better judgement, and granulated introversion.

By this time, the preparation has become thick but clumpy. I scoop out any precipitating self-awareness and inhibition with a gold sieve and feed it to my cat, Minerva.

Then, I bottle the sweet nectar and sprinkle liberally in the center of groups of three to four people seconds before redirecting my foot's Qi through my mouth with the grace and purpose of a master capoeirista. O berimbau na roda de Capoeira!

'What's that you say? Really? You know who else I heard is going? Elizabeth!'

'But I'm Elizabeth.'

'Oh. Then I don't believe we've met. I'm an arse.'

And you may address me as maestro chef sensei Haatem-san.