She was cute, efficient, terribly nice and worked for the Fascist State…
I ordered no coleslaw, I expected no coleslaw… she brought me coleslaw.
It is well known that Coleslaw is the International Symbol of the Fascists… where would Hitler have been without the creamy cabbage side dish? George Bush loved coleslaw and I have heard it said that the real reason Dick Cheney shot his friend was a failure to procure.
Coleslaw is a hard drug. It is addictive. It is petulant and by the gods coleslaw plays a dangerous game!
Fact is that innocent people do not accidentally order coleslaw… it just NEVER happens. You never hear even the most senile pepper pot say “Oh dear, I did not mean to order coleslaw.” Never. You will hear “I CAN’T eat THAT!” often enough.
After my protestations the coleslaw is banished from the table amid nervous laughter and side long glances. A voice rises from the din… “That’s Sky. She’s a poet.”
The befuddled male looks across the table and says. “A poet? What do you do?”
“I write poems” I said, confident that the occupation of a poet is in fact poetry.
“No, I mean, what is your REAL job?”
He was cute, perky, with a devilish grin and dimpled chin…
I ordered no coleslaw, I expected no coleslaw… she brought me coleslaw.
It is well known that Coleslaw is the International Symbol of the Fascists… where would Hitler have been without the creamy cabbage side dish? George Bush loved coleslaw and I have heard it said that the real reason Dick Cheney shot his friend was a failure to procure.
Coleslaw is a hard drug. It is addictive. It is petulant and by the gods coleslaw plays a dangerous game!Fact is that innocent people do not accidentally order coleslaw… it just NEVER happens. You never hear even the most senile pepper pot say “Oh dear, I did not mean to order coleslaw.” Never. You will hear “I CAN’T eat THAT!” often enough.
After my protestations the coleslaw is banished from the table amid nervous laughter and side long glances. A voice rises from the din… “That’s Sky. She’s a poet.”
The befuddled male looks across the table and says. “A poet? What do you do?”
“I write poems” I said, confident that the occupation of a poet is in fact poetry.
“No, I mean, what is your REAL job?”
He was cute, perky, with a devilish grin and dimpled chin…
and he was also as dumb as a board.
I love love love the first two lines of this. It reads like one of those old detective films with Bogart. It just grips you right away.
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