The preacher of the breakroom raises his hand and shouts:
The snack machines are full of brightly-colored and delicious death in shiny crinkly packets.
Just push a button.
They fit in your hand, so easy to tear open, puffing out rich scents.
Turn away, turn away. Don’t breathe it in!
They confess their ill intent right there on the ingredients list.
Poison! Poison!
Even the water… flour… sugar… all unclean and tainted by the industrial processing and cooking and packaging and delivery systems.
You are not the consumer. You are the consumed.
The machine wobbles… and falls on the preacher.
Tag: food
Christmas Tree Cookies
Looking down the list of the Cookie Exchange at the office, I read through notes each person gave their gift cookies.
The gingerbread men were delicious.
The frosted snowflakes were wonderful.
But those green pine trees were absolutely disgusting, and they made people sick.
I looked down the list… green pine trees… was Lisa.
She was in her office, and she asked me if she could have her tray back.
“What the heck did you put in those things?” I asked.
“Don’t they smell like trees?” she beamed. “Pine Sol has such a fine aroma.”
Next year, she’ll bring Oreos.
The Fourth Kind Of Elf
Some elves bake cookies.
Other elves make shoes.
And then a rare few build toys in Santa’s workshop.
Somehow, people forget there’s a fourth job for elves: the military.
I mean, did you ever see Legolas baking cookies, making shoes, or building toys?
Hell no. That dude was killing orcs and other foul monsters with his bow and arrows… Twang! Twang! Twang!
I don’t think he can bake, and I’m sure he doesn’t make his own shoes, but if you asked Santa for “A dead orc with an arrow sticking out of it” I bet Legolas can fill that order.
Figgy
Some people get a bit carried away with Christmas.
I’m not talking about the trees and lights and manger scenes in front lawns.
What I worry about is the carolers.
Some stick to the basics, like Silent Night.
They sing the song, shake the charity tipjar, and move along.
But others, well, they’ve fucking lost it.
One roaming chorus took We Wish You A Merry Christmas over the edge, threatening people with demands for figgy pudding.
Who the fuck keeps figgy pudding around anyway?
Is the wassail boiling yet?
Good. Open the door and I’ll toss it in their faces.
Tasting Strawberry
I tear open two packets of instant oatmeal, pour them into my mug, and then wait for the kettle to boil… wait… wait… wait…
A watched pot never boils, right?
I should probably go get dressed. Or sync up my phone. Maybe use my ear and nose hair trimmers. Or…
I hear the quiet rustle of water, so I pick up the kettle and pour.
Stirring with a spoon… scoop out a bit of oatmeal.
Not too thick, not too soupy.
I tear the lid off of a cup of yogurt, dip it in the oatmeal, and…
Tasting… strawberry.
Perfect.
Merv
Unlike the rest of the Royals, The Duke of Mervin’s Gate was a down-to-earth kinda guy.
Some called him Duke, others called him Merv. He was cool with either.
His family wasn’t.
So, he bummed around in the kitchen, watching chefs prepare meals and feasts.
He asked if he could help, and after a few weeks of learning, he had his own toque and knives.
Pretty soon, all the meals were prepared by him. And they were delicious.
And laced with a slow-acting poison.
Oh, the tragedy.
Some called him King, others called him Merv. He was cool with either.
Relativism
I watched the tape of the Filipinos nailing themselves to crosses and winced.
I winced harder at the sight of Muslims whipping themselves bloody on Ashura.
What kind of God makes his followers hurt themselves like that?
I shook my head, closed up the laptop, and headed to my aunt’s house for the family’s Passover feast.
Usually, my mom cooked, but my aunt insisted this year.
I parked the car, and as I stepped on to the porch…
Oh, god! The stench!
Got a spare cross handy? How about a chain?
I’ll suffer anything but having to eat this crap!
Coming Out Day
On National Coming Out Day, the Closet Squad dons fabulous uniforms, just the right balance of denim and leather, no cheap vinyl here, girls, and they march for the closets.
And lock themselves in them.
Knock all you want. Not coming out. And you can’t make them.
It’s not a problem with them. It’s your problem. You just don’t understand, you just don’t know, you just don’t realize how hard it is for them in there, but it would be harder to face the discrimination… the harassment…
Do I smell cheesecake? Oh, can you just slip some under the door?
Red Velvet Cupcake
In the center of the cupcake shop, bathed by a gentle light, sat a glass pedestal.
There, in the light, a cupcake.
A red velvet chocolate cupcake.
The greatest… ever!
I approached it, guessed at its weight, filled a small giftbag with mini-cupcakes about the same weight as the red velvet cupcake, swapped the bag for it.
I waited.
Nothing.
Walking to the door, I expected a low rumble and blow darts and a spiked pit…
Oh, and a gigantic boulder to chase me.
Instead, the store owner hit a switch and locked the door.
“You gonna pay for that?”
Good Eatin
We needed to get into town to pick up supplies, so we got in the boat and headed for the mainland.
It was a calm day, so we fired up the motor, despite manatee safety restrictions in the area.
Sure enough, we heard a loud WHUMP! and we fell to the deck.
I lost my sunglasses in the water. Damn.
Oh well.
I looked to see what we’d hit.
A dead manatee, floating on the surface.
“What wine goes with manatee?” I asked.
The captain grinned and pulled out a bottle. “This.”
We hauled it aboard and dashed back home.