Where Are The Pretzels?
Conspiracy theorists bother me. Mostly because they are terrible at conversation and the art of the segue. They are champing at the bit to tell you what they “know” so your small talk is hi-jacked like a DC 10 in the seventies. It goes something like this —
You: Hey, how are you?
Them: I’d be better if the truth about the plot to sterilize the population through the water supply —
You: Nice talking to you. (You exit)
Conspiracy theorists are the karaoke enthusiasts of the intellectual set. And that is a bit harsh to the karaoke world, of which I have recently relapsed into . If you are an unrequited storyteller, or a talker and not a writer, or if you have hoarding tendencies you might be attracted to embellishing stories that have occurred in our world, it’s like fan fiction. It’s easier than being original. Karaoke people are unrequited performers and they need an outlet.
Which brings me to the pretzels. I shop late at night to avoid crowds and I noticed that at all night pharmacies and 7/11’s that it’s hard to find pretzels. Now, a pretzel is not a carrot stick, but it is better than most of the chip, cheese curl, and funyons that populate the shelves. Why is the healthier option harder to find and in some cases unavailable?
You probably shouldn’t carbo-load before bed, but a pretzel gives you that salty crunch that helps you unwind. But, THE MAN doesn’t want me to be able to eat — See? See how easy it is to get worked up? Maybe the manager forgot to order the pretzels. Maybe they’re sold out. Maybe we all should get a life.
