They say that we haven’t added a new meal in years. That breakfast, lunch and dinner are the tired rituals of a crumbling empire. That brunch, nothing more than a lazy portmanteau, doesn’t count. That snacking is a strange, rudderless exercise. That they embody the parts of life that get cut out of movies like pieces of a broad pork chop with way too much fat.
They say that replying all to an agency-wide email is an act of subtle corporate defiance. That it signifies a welcomed breakdown in ancient hierarchical customs. That truly replying all would be sending a message to every person on earth. That when it only includes a few hundred people it hardly counts as “all.”
They say that privacy is imaginary, like your invisible friend on the couch right now, picking his teeth after a late night of corn cob bliss. That telescopes are only helpful for the neighborhood peeper after a deep clean. That most people would be surprised at how easily lenses get scratched during the course of standard wear and tear. That telescopes aren’t accustomed to cleaning, lacking a briefcase full of cucumbers and hot towels. That to make a legitimate home observatory you need to observe first and clean later.
They say that if witches are real witch hunting is a legitimate method of defending civilization. That the stakes are the stakes. That broomsticks are just as aerodynamic as a traveling seagull digging for garbage along the shoreline. That witches only turn green after a lifetime committed to environmental activism. That they don’t all wear black. That some of them prefer the inviting spectrum of the full rainbow.
They say you should never turn your back to the sea. That even if you’re up on the latest NOAA charts and tides, you’ll be sorry. That the beach is the only place fit for reading Homer. That nowhere else on earth beside the rocking surf and ocean sizzle can a person understand the epic story’s true gravity.
They say things like “rehash your best browns before your worst ideas.” That potatoes have a way of changing a person. That the moment you’ve had sweet or purple, you can’t go right back to the stultifying world of Yukon Gold. That the vegetables are sentient, too, with eyes and skin. That you’d be wise not to offend them. That mashing them is a clearcut violation of the Geneva Convention.
They say that there's a broken jar of giardiniera (jardiniera) somewhere in your home. That you'll never get it out of the shag carpeting you inexplicably installed in every room. That you were instructed to go with hardwood, but an odd fear of splinters changed your mind at the last second. That you're not laughing now. That you didn't listen. That you never listen. That your Dyson will do a good enough job, but one day you'll be waltzing barefoot to the kitchen when a piece of pickled glass will slice through your bare heel. That going forward you should adopt a stadium-like policy banning glass bottles in your home. That such a ban saves lives. That you should ask John Rocker if he agrees.
They say a lot of things. It’s kind of hard to keep track.
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