2004-01-07 - 5:41 p.m.
I once met an obsessive-compulsive ill man who insisted on sorting his vomit by its contents: the chunky with the chunky, the green with the green, and so forth, until it seemed to have its own xenophobic ecosystem, every former meal an enclave unto itself.
One day, I imagined, the pretzels sent an emissary of goodwill to the beer sanctuary, and he was returned stripped of his salt, bent and contorted into a calligraphied message of "We do not, contrary to popular low-brow gustatory fashion, go well together."
The retaliation was swift, and soon the other former foodstuffs were swept up in the tides of war, factioning almost against their will. In the end, the latent stomach acids ate them all, the digestion completing itself even outside the body.
My moral here, children?
Act all anal and I'll punch you in the groin -- inciting war, or something.
Shut up.
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