Bend the Beige


Once beyond time, far away in a parallel cloud, there is a world, like a planet, roamed by humans, like us, where eating is considered a shameful business.

People never talk about eating, about what they ate at breakfast, lunch or dinner. Three times a day, they politely excuse themselves, retreating to a secluded room–the k-word, as we’d bluntly call it a kitchen–to satisfy the lust of their tummies. Alone. In a dark room where the only source of light comes from a slot, horizontally cut into the wall opposing the door. At about the height of their waist. Which, on another planet, would be considered four feet above the floor.

Introducing both hands into the slot, pressing your palms against the warm and beige surface, will take your mind away from the quotidian. Away to the unfathomable and fantastic realms of the cuisine.

Cuisine? The C-word. Ohmygosh. Even worse than the k-word. Do not ever, never ever, speak the c-word in public! Even saying ‘cuisine’ (excuse my French) around family members is considered rude, gross, ill-mannered on the planet far away in that parallel cloud.

Let me indulge a bit more. The cuisine has a sense of je ne sais quois, a particular charm, a mysterious appeal. The cuisine is, at all times, for any person pressing her, or his, palms against the beige, irresistible.

The sinner, lost in the long moments of reverie, like to an ethereal trance, is accustomed to gently rub the beige with all eight fingers. For a starter. Then gradually giving way to lust, the palms are allowed to stroke the surface, to push it, ever firmer, even to knock it.

Some shameless females were talking (yes, they’d dared speak this out, to the outrage and disgust of the public) about kneading the beige. Unbelievable, because no one thought that a person, no matter how fit and sturdy, was capable to bend the beige, less to knead it.

Unheard of was the outcome of kneading the beige. The very few fearless females who went there and back again, they say that, beneath the presumably impenetrable surface, their fingers encountered a sticky solid. No surprise here: everybody knows that their food is a glue, acquired from the gentle push of the palms, then licked with passion from every finger until the tongue would turn tired. It is one of the unspoken taboos about the nature of the food, the transgression of eating, the crazy stuff going on behind the closed doors, in the k-word. Ahem.

The valiant damsels confessed, without the least speck of shame, how they’ve eaten what they’ve dubbed ‘the pudding’ — a new figure of speech deemed to describe the beige matter that remains glued to their hands after kneading. Ingesting this so-called ‘pudding’ took their ravenous minds beyond the casual delirium tremens.

The regular citizen of that world, like a planet, from a parallel cloud, is accustomed to get lost in the minutes of eating, to contemplate unspeakable dreams, to hear untold voices, to couple with fabulous beings. Ineffable experiences, shrouded by the mist of the cloud.

What if, commenced the social debate, when you eat the pudding, like those daring damsels, your mind will gain the ability to connect to actual beings, to see real worlds, to hear the music. What if fantasy turns real, in the pudding. What if?

Shunned, the few sinners were left to sin. Spending entire days inside their k-words, they didn’t bother their peers. They missed the wonderful hours of social sex.

Puzzled, their friends, mates and relatives agreed upon the sad situation. How many days till they’d have to decree it as a sickness. All things considered, sick people require help, professional help.

According to tradition, after eight days without social sex, and after eight more days without secluded sex, eight witnesses have to pronounce their closing arguments before a court of law. Consequent to the acceptance of all eight pronunciations, the court would be compelled to call the sinner for a public hearing. Sixty-four days in a row would be needed for each witness to debate with the sinner, eight days one on one, in front of the court and the public. On the sixty-fifth day, if the eight witnesses will cast an unanimous vote, then the sinner would be declared a sick person. In need for treatment.

The entire procedure has been cut short, reduced to cinders, thrown to oblivion, by one of the daring damsels, going by the name of Lucinda. Taking advantage of the geeks that use to be her social sex buddies, she mapped her so-called dreams as common sensorial translations. Then she boldly uploaded them to the cloud. So that everyone on the planet could see and hear, taste and smell, the otherworldly images and sounds, savours and scents, coming from a distant planet, undiscovered, that Lucinda has dubbed ‘Earth’ — saying that this is how the humans over there call it. Earth or Erde, Terre or Terra, Jord or Föld. What a bunch of words to describe one thing.

On that other planet (the Earth), as the people have learned from Lucinda’s cloud records, the habit of eating is priced as a social practice and even raised to the unthinkable level of cultural traditions. Such as the four-some afternoon sex on the streets here. Or the two-some morning sex in the parks. Or the eight-some evening pool trains.

Earthlings have French cuisine (excuse my French again) which seems like a barbarian activity where they chop and cook or bake the flesh of living beings — not humans but other beings that they call animals or birds or crustaceans, and too many other denominations that you may find in the cloud.

Interestingly, they eat plants — an equivalent of our air purifiers here. Actually, those earthlings eat pretty much everything, moving or stationary, on their planet. And they trumpet all these abominations, they abuse their peculiar, though natural, inclinations into something they call the ‘food industry’ which drives them even crazier about eating colorful poisons.

Perhaps this is the reason, concludes Lucinda, for the average lifespan of earthlings below the blossoming one hundred years. Where an Earth-year is equivalent to 1.1 years here on our planet. We mature at two hundred years and we begin aging after five hundred. Not the case on Earth.

In contrast, or shall we use Lucinda’s game of words, there is no social sex on Earth. They treat sex there as we treat eating here. So sad.

This stunning discovery has placed things into a new perspective. Lucinda agreed with the daring damsels that kneading the pudding is not that bad, from time to time, because–look–it connects your mind to far away civilizations, but this should be no reason to skip the blessed and wonderful hours of sex. Social or secluded. It’s up to you!

Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash

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