Pickles.
Not conventionally considered haut cruisine, independent of boat. But they can surprise given the proper context.
There is naught. nor ought there to be any snackfood so exalted, so transcendently divine as that prince of preserves, the pickle.
Lying there, all ensconced in it's little jar of green garlic and vinegar deftly seasoned with herbs and unguents of mystery, it exudes a panache, an insouciance, a shade of innuendo slinking past gumshoe detectives in sticky floored bars, acrid cigarette smoke and heavily lidded glimmers from the mascaraed omnisexual in the corner past the pool table.
Chalking its cue, apostrophe or not, the table lay in an undulating sea of worn velvet and shot up bumpers. Euclid laughed and Riemannian arcs crisscrossed the projective plane en route to a doughnut or even a common Mobius strip. It's hell to line up a shot on those geometries. manifolds that only whisper their angles to close associates, hidden and smoky in the bosom of girls in the third vinyl booth.
Eyeballing a straight shot into the side, the pickle shoots and sees, vague lines caroming across those gaps wider than space or time, indefinite integrals of pristine formulae, packed into baby bottles of appropriate pink or blue, rolling, rolling, rolling with jerks and lurches common to foxhunts and market losses. The ball drops. The pickle folds.
Merde De Glace On the Freak When Ski
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