sandwich

You know what’s the worst? Shallots. One time, in a fleeting moment, a miniscule slip-up, I called a shallot an onion. You know what that got me? A condescending shit storm from on high. A response dripping in the top most elitist upper-echelon disdain. A cast-off wave of the hand like I was nothing more than disheveled ball of human waste. “Oh no, you’re mistaken young man! I’m not an onion, I’m a shallot!” Of fucking course you’re a shallow shallot. I can see your goddamned monocle from here.

Ever been to a shallot’s house? Trick question. They live on estates surrounded grand grotesque gardens, private parks purchased on the back of account interest, stretching out forever and forever, blanketing the entire horizon in green. Shallots throw out casual sentences like “Meet me in the third floor western conservatory for tea and biscuits this afternoon. Black tie only.” Or, “I can’t make tennis this evening, Phil. Margaret and I are getting foot sole reconstructive plastic surgery. We accidently wore sandals on a public sidewalk.” Or, “The maid forgot to restock the toilet paper. It’s fine though, I told her we could just use property deeds for urban neighborhoods. Well unless you trust the unfiltered water in the bidet…” Fuck shallots, man.

It wouldn’t be so bad if they were at least altruistic or rocking philanthropist pursuits on the side or even just comingling with the general public from time to time. But they don’t. They just hoard, keeping all their little secret flavorings of the high life away inside themselves. You ever see a shallot spend time in a chain restaurant? Fuck no! They send stinky white onions in their stead, cheaper knock-off stand-ins to hold their place. They can’t handle normalcy. And that’s not to say I love chain food. I don’t. It’s just to say, well why can’t a shallot ever share in a sandwich with Joe Blow? What’s so wrong with that?

There’s nothing wrong with it. They’re just too good for us. They’d rather hole away up in their castles of mass corruption, lording above us all. They’d rather judge and mock at our feeble lives, laughing as we struggle. They’d rather be flippant, condescending assholes with no concept of the real world or how real people get by. So fuck ‘em! We don’t need to spend time worrying about what shallots are up to. We’ve got red onions and white onions and green onions and chives. It might not good enough for them. But it’s good enough for us.

We, as humanity, have made some mistakes in the past. They’ve resulted in catastrophes nearing biblical proportions, like the meltdown of Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. Today in already troubled Ukraine, like a four legged, cunning phoenix out of the radioactive ashes, has risen a creature. This critter has been comfortably living where all humans deemed it too dangerous to survive, and mooching off of hard-working human sympathy from folks like you and me – that’s strike two and three right there, Foxy! “Showing no signs of fear…delighted at (free hand outs)… it took them ALL! ALL!! ALL!!!” according to the tea-and-crumpets lady.

Now folks, I’ve been accused of beastophobia on this very blog – among other public and dinner settings. I’d like to address that RIGHT NOW! I’ve been friendly to, and petted many-a-dogs in my life. That’s a fact! Who’s leg they hump is none of my business. But, when you start living in nuclear-wastelands, plotting Anubis-knows-what with the rest of your furry kind – I’VE GOT CONCERNS! Then, when you show training that rivals our best human sandwich artists, you’re a full on threat to international security! What does the fox say? We may never know, but we know what he does – and that’s stockpiling for an animal uprising.