Already a few of you quick-witted average-graded geniuses may have noticed that this is not the only post containing a food related topic. Indeed. However, I like food. And shall continue to do so in this equal society. However, I do not like when manufacturers put onion - the devil's balls, the stripper's arsenal, the elephant's baby-call... - into coleslaw. Yes, I do like onion, but when this shit is laid on me, I refuse. Not today. Although in saying these bold rebellious thoughts of mine on this week's edition, I literally just bought a tub of the creamy goodness. It should probably be called the creamy-not so-goodness, as it had a vast 2% of tha mothafucka in it. Oh, it makes my neck shiver like a cold summer's morn, where the sun is off in the West in LA shaking in the corner with white powder creeping up his face from his nose in a taunting smile. Oh, the mildly average horror.
As I was saying, why do these manufacturers put the devil's balls into such a beauty of a being? It was meant to be otherwise. The soft cloud-like impersonation of the coleslaw simply invited a block of Cork cheese to be basted upon her, calling like the ancient pirates of folklore to their long lost lovers. I miss the days when one did not have to be oppressed into this materialistic culture, born to consume only average foodstuffs. I would much prefer to live out in the Bush, maybe in Australia, although I cannot be certain as I've never been there. I hear over there you can see plantations of wild-grown coleslaw trees, of the breed Brassica Oleracea, which I haven't seen since my days as a young 'un in the fields of home.
Where this preposterous idea to indulge in an old man's... you know what I mean, at the same time is confusing. Some say the ancient pilgrims brought it from the west. Some say Bowie tripped out one night in his friend Dave's gaf, and was speaking backwards Latin until he came down from his peak. Interpretation? Maybe. However I for one have a different idea.
I believe that through evolution, with man standing proudly side-by-side with the coleslaw tree, somewhere along the way of human rights abuse and slavery, or some other stuff, the tree's philosophical rituals became tainted. Thus, an offspring was produced which none had seen before, not even the Mayans. Humankind began to evolve in a different way from then on. The rituals they had became focused on unimportant things. They focused on the sun, the light, the moon. These things were not creamy indulgences. These were mere otherworldly ideas. They tainted man's ideals and drove him from what he knew to be right and just.
Around 2300BC, in stone engraving on Mound Psincler, in the far Far East, this offspring took hold in a crooked little man's garden. He was unwise in the ways of the tree, so took no regard for it, not knowing the beast that was pulsing and writhing quite literally on his doorstep. Again, history is foggy for the next thousand years or so, until we see the Egyptians in Cairo. They were philosophical insofar as they studied the ancient cultures from afar, much noticeably the history of the Brassica Oleracea. But what they had missed was one very small, very crucial detail. One detail that changed the history of consumerism for the next 5000 years. The Brassica that was in their gardens; that was feeding their cattle, their children, was not the Brassica of old. It was the new strain, the horrible tasting Brassica Allium Cepa. It is easy for a modern historian to look back and pontificate about this or that fact, but it remains clear that this people did not understand what they were initiating.
One may weep, or cry, or very much be aroused if the case may be. But it remains to be said from our fathers' fathers, and their fathers, that this is not folklore in the greater meaning of the word. This is fact, and Bowie himself would not debate that. For that night he was tweaked in Dave's house was no accident. For on that night, the stars and the acid dealers had aligned. The Mayans were right about one certain thing; David Bowie had seen existence as one, and what he had seen was the past replicating itself before his very own mashed mind; a mind that was more mashed than a potato on Christmas Day. He had seen the plant from its beginnings, to its end in the future, of which I shall not speak here.
So when, next, I am in the supermarket of my choice, I shall stray from modernity and consumerism, and gallivant to the smaller market store next door, which breeds their own coleslaw trees, on their own plantations. This is the future, my people, for only by investing money into this corporate disgrace from the ancient history are we advocating support for the corruption that is, in fact that was and always shall be until Bowie predicted it shall not be, the Onion flavored Coleslaw.
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