Two roughly equal lines of avid taste mavens jostled for position on the veranda overlooking a placid pool, sugar cubists and salt lickers, close enough to fight with fists, hips, knees, knobs, but no knives, no cups, nor sporks, nothing too decisive that would need to be pooh-poohed as hearsay in much of the emerging technical literature. The amalgam of scents was enough to absolutely die for. One expendable forest denudation just about covered the tab. If the warring sides ever do merge, however, into a single vital fighting force, duck before blinking. The power of many dim bulbs sheds its own rare light.
If you swoon over sweet and salty, not either/or, you have never been alone. Amoebae freak the fuck out over sweet and salty. Do you know how many amoebae have been around and for how long? None of them have ever needed to change a light bulb with opposing thumbs. Also, bucks dig sweet and salty, big boars, parrots, slugs, yogis, foremen, pharmacists, hospitality coordinators, drum majors, county supervisors, Vegas showgirls, software salesmen, pork producers.
I’ve been informed by reliable sources in the engineering community that the designs for the coming high-end space stations will incorporate simulated food up the forking wazoo. Several large engineers have come on board lately to consult. You name it and it can and will be stuffed. Don’t believe it? Then eat shit in a bowl when you’re left behind. Can you dig digestible headsets in every sweet and salty flavor? And with pre-activated antacids loaded into the air ducts as apps? The fattest designers in Silicon Valley are allowing no expense to impose. Rumor has it that a continually growing Woz will make a huge comeback. The rest of the engineers are going along because why the fuck not when all that irresistible oil is so tres au courant?
Major funding for the emerging spectacle was all but assured in the normal span of one wild week-end of manly hunting on the parched Texas panhandle in May, when the big fat boys from every phase of oil extraction gathered solemnly to shoot stolen African animals from the sunroof of an air-conditioned Hummer.
“What was that?”
“Beats me but the sucker can run.”
“Like a jack-rabbit on steroids.”
“Got some horns it looks like, too.”
One major crude oil fat boy with an itchy finger that just would not quit said, “Fuck ’em. It’s us against them.”
He stood with assistance on a steel platform to raise both arms above his head, flapping them in an awkward arc like an old-fashioned windshield wiper, before firing the first celebratory automatic weapon. The shot traveled in the direction of a brown blur a few hundred yards away that had to be a terrified wild animal with four strong legs to be able to jump like that.
A major food oil fat boy maintained, as he fingered a plump, tangy sausage, “But, we all gotta eat.”
The tally of contributions before Sunday prayers was humbling. It did all of those in attendance a fat lot of good. That guaranteed more fat at-large would be prepared in perpetuity for the community as a fat whole. The fragrance of so much bacon made more than one large fat man swoon. There was a small smattering of naysayers as there must always be, but the overwhelming consensus was, “Fuck ’em.”
Crude oil, corn oil, soy oil, snake oil, pig oil, peanut oil, lube oil, all good.