Velociworld

Deconstructing My Spaghetti Dinner

I really don't want to, you know. Because, as Tuco said, "My belly's full!" And that fact should carry the day.

But I have leftovers. How to deal with them, without scalding my soul?

Initial reaction, from my neighbor, Vilma:

The angel hair pasta is the Feminine We. Obviously. Fragile, delicate, broken irretrievably when slashed by the Metal Fork: (He).

The red sauce is obviously Male, aswimming in unreconstructed Meat. They never have an address, do they? Just raw meat, all over your petite asses without asking By Your Leave.

Because that's what it's about: the red manmeat stuff smothers the delicate white thin stuff, Patriarchal, Inhuman, Brutal.

Sisters, protect My Hump!

Then, of course, it slithers into your little pasta bowels, that red meat, that sauce. Without any permission (Time Magazine said it was okay in that discraceful 1974 We Love Italian! cover story. Luce holdovers. Cretins!)

So that red, red sauce (He!) drips between her angel hair, she helpless, disgraced. And then he twirls his "fork". Which we know is merely a construct for a four pronged penis. Mixes his disgusting meat, slathered with manmeatjuice, all over the delicate pasta (She!).

I vomit. Mandela!

Then sucks the She pasta into his never-satiated Maw, licking his fascist lips as he slurrups the final vestiges of the poor angel hair from what is obviously her exposed, bloodied, vagina.

And don't we own Red, sisters? We bleed it every month. And they are so F***king White Bread! F*** Them!

We shall reinvent the Spaghetti. With our African-American sisters. Pasta is Red. Meat (that disgusting, smirking Meat) is White. Unlike their Souls. Which are Black! And, um, only the authentic sisters can be Black!

Anyway, I passed about three pounds of excrement after that. Felt pretty good, too. Loves me some spaghetti. And sorry, Vilma. We'll get it together one of these days. Promise.