We sat on the sofa, K-Mac and I, watching a talking cookie on the Smart TV try to persuade us that cookies know how to talk and that they have kids and dogs and mortgages and pickup trucks and hopes and dreams like everyone else and that we should listen to their important commercial message.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a cookie walking a dog or driving a pickup truck, but that wasn’t the weirdest thing. It was the cookie’s bold, yet unspoken message: “Eat me.”
I looked at K-Mac and she looked at me. (We do this every now when one of us believes the other has said something, only to find it was simply the coughing-up of a popcorn husk.) This time she uttered a line destined for a book of quotations about life back when we had everything but the brains God was about to give us, then suddenly thought “Why do I even try?” and left immediately for a galaxy to be named later — although for now, we may call Igalixpoo.
What did K-Mac say? (Good, you’re still paying attention).
K-Mac: “I don’t think they should make commercials with talking food.”
Me: (Coughs up husk).
Not only is that a deeply profound thought, it’s something I was about to say myself, but she cruelly beat me to it. No doubt, we’ll laugh about it when we’re dead.
In the meantime, the quote seems a reasonable, politically apolitical stand against the exploitation of poor, ignorant foodstuffs who don’t know when to shut up and stop looking so edible.
Yes, I know this is the voting season (la saison des vomissements). We’re supposed to hate any food that doesn’t look like we think it should. Or which we think tastes like naugahyde, especially red naugahyde, although most of us have never even tried it, let alone stopped to chat it up at the odd locker room buffet table.
Just because something looks and tastes like naugahyde doesn‘t mean it is naugahyde. It may simply be Brussels Sprouts trapped in red jello which, as they say in rodeo bars, is a horse of a different color. And therein lies the problem, for as they say in the other rodeo bar across the street “They shoot horses, don’t they?”
These days, when someone wears the wrong underwear outside their pants in public (and who is to say what is the right underwear?) or who sings out of the wrong hymnal, or puts the emphasis in pronouncing Igalixpoo on the poo rather than the lix, we salivate in anger and rush to buy two to three automatic weapons each. Yet if someone decides that some poor slob needs a massive beat-down for the simple reason he looks like he needs a massive beat-down, we say how would you like to be president?
Couldn’t we at least vote down suicidal baked goods, so obviously high on fried donut vape, as they dare us to eat them? To use an Icelandic voting metaphor (A samlíking Atkvæðagreiðsla) “It’s one thing to vote with your feet, but quite another to eat with them.”
True, that conjures the old saw “Does eating mussels constitute taking performance enhancing drugs?” But I’m going straight to moral ambivalence — and the kitchen — to get a plate of cookies. The really sick part: I’m also putting in my ear plugs so I don’t hear the chocolate chips screaming.
The moral: never say “eat me” to somebody who had creamed naugahyde on toast for supper. They just might oblige.*
*Not to be confused with Mary J. Blige, except in an emergency. Seriously.
©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.