Exeunt continued
In the beginning was the word? In the beginning, Phil toyed (for about a nanosecond) with calling the place Phil's Café. Phil's Café? He chuckled, slapping his face with a wet fish. Phil's Café? You losing it, kiddo? Next thing a chef knows, there would be a propaganda parade, confetti showering down as The Mongers roll towards the Blue Ribbon[1] in a bullet-proof Pontiff-mobile, bodyguards in Boss suits and Ray-Ban wraparounds running alongside waving bundles of diarrhoea-stained counterfeit currency, TV anchor men holding down toupees against the breeze from the fan, The Mongers screaming obscenities from the back seat...Phil baby, we just love your food, but see, your way of killing people just don't make financial sense. Trust us, we been doing this for years. We wanna tweak your recipes, add a little fat and sugar...Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold...The Mongers wave limp-wristed sincerity to crowds of cardboard cut-out voters...kids eat free...Kodak moment...Bring me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses...so we can fuck them over...The Mongers brandishing sweatshop T-shirts...Phil baby, we're talking franchise...expansion...Phil's...the mother of all global mega brands...Phil's...Tokyo,...Phil's Paris...Phil's London...Phil's Beijing...Phil's New York...Phil's Rome........................franchise... merchandising...wake up and smell the corporate logo...
Phil's Café
Götterdämmerung
"Ma. Ma? can I get me one of them T's? That...gotter-whatever place, is that like a city somewhere?"
"Shutthefuckupaneatthefreefuckingfood..."
§
In their daily broadcast, The Mongers' spokesperson said that the economy was stable, urging us to use credit cards to spend more and advising us to panic only when instructed to do so.
§
So on a dawn like a Rorschach test in a panty liner, Phil threw his hangover and a jeraboam of Dom Perignon at the wall and baptised the joint Phil's.
That Phil. Here's all you need to know about the Man. If you're one of The Blessed and come to see that the Blue Ribbon is the only way out of the sickness of civilisation. If balls and brain are intact after the incessant fan attacks. If you are able to see the vice-versa of with every blessing comes a curse.
Phil. Your man can be extremely intimidating. Intimidating. If you're a faker and your mask melts as Phil juggles with a baker's dozen of Sabatier knives. If you're a con-artist and some trite small talk slips off your lipgloss like a puss-filled scab and the riposte is a savage lashing from Phil's razor-edged tongue.
Some say Phil isn't human. That he's an extra terrestrial. Or an android. Because he knows so many things. Knows something that you don't know. Never guilty of human error, your man Phil. Never lets a soufflé sink. Never burns an oven roast. Never splits a sauce. Android? Well. Did you ever meet an extra terrestrial or a 'droid who could cook like that and has a wicked sense of humour? Yo no. Me tampoco.
§
"Hey you. Yeah, you fiddling the TV remote like it was some sex gadget. You got a philia? Everybody got a philia. Some folk got a fistful of philias. So? What's your stinky little secret? Too gutless to own up? C'mon. You can tell me, I'm a doctor. Cat got your tongue? Lemme guess. Necrophilia?[2] Coprophilia?[3] Teratophilia?[4] Hebophilia?[5] Zoophilia?[6] Jeez. You hump camels? No? O.K....gimme a minute. Bingo. I got your number. Schediaphilia.[7] You 'freakin perv. What was your name again?"
"Walt."
§
Everybody got one philia in common. That philia is a need for food. But you just can't keep dumping more and more foodaphiliacs on this blue, green and white merry-go-round. This Eden trashed is just one itsy-bitsy cosmic marble amongst zillions in the cosmic toyshop. Sooner or later comes a point where there isn't enough food to go round, so the merry-go-round will stop going round.
A majority of philias are sex-related. Now you wont die if you don't get your sex-related philia fix. But you will if you don't get your vittle-related foodaphilia fix.
So when the food runs out, junk-hungry foodaphiliacs will adopt other philias, such as shootingtheshitoutaanyonewho'sgotfoodaphilia.
Fact: on Eden trashed, there are two AK47 assault rifles for every one person.
§
In their daily broadcast, The Mongers' spokesperson said that food rationing did not indicate a shortage of food.
§
Unlike The Mongers, The Blessed are not susceptible to the excesses of foodaphilia. They've got their own poison. One of their number found a name for it: "Your man Phil can only be Irish. Phil O'Philia. Ha-ha. Philophelia."
At that precise moment, Phil was cooking colcannon[8], eyes smiling as he added an extra knob of butter.
§
"Mr. Joodarse. Mr. Joodarse? You've ignored footnote #1, haven't you? Well since I don't covet my neighbour's oxen, nor his AK47, and since Phil is etymologically linked to philosopher and philanthropist, I'll take a leaf out of his good book and respond to questions I see are causing painful short-circuits in your one-kilobyte cerebrum. Shoot."
Q. Who are The Blessed?
A. Those who are too savvy to swallow shite spread by the operators of the fan, a.k.a. The Mongers. The Blessed remind us that:
Everything is getting worse
MEAN t i m e
The Mongers deal in all that is shameful
and bask in impunity.
And bask in impunity.
Which is why The Blessed become iconoclasts. Dissidents. Renegades. Heretics. Enlightened. But when they realise there are just too many incontinent Monger assholes to plug and that the source of power driving the fan is indomitable, they truck off to Phil's. To dine and die, in order to exist. In a better place.
Q. I don't take drugs. I'm a silver surfer who was looking for kiddyporn and got to this website by mistake. What is the Blue Ribbon?
A. All shall be revealed.
Q. What happens at Phil's?
A. He cooks for The Blessed. A delicious, elegant banquet. Which kills them. They die, in order to exist. In a better place. When the ancient Egyptians buried their dead, they placed food and wine in their tombs to nourish them on their long journey to the afterlife. Phil does ditto. One for the road. Last meal for the condemned man. The Last Supper. Why last? Because of a shit called Judas. There's always Judas shits in this cartoon we're in. Always. And every Judas shit is a fanophiliac.
§
_____________________________________________________
[1] Note bene to Mongers checking this out: the only map of the Blue Ribbon is inside Phil's digestive tube, tattooed from his mouth to his anus. It's ancient. It's arcane. So phuck off.
Get back to your workstation. Wipe the static off the screen. Change your nicotine patch.
Go to the toilets and check your haemorrhoids. Call your insurance broker.
Renew your subscription to the gym. Walk the dog. Mow the lawn. And don't miss that AA meeting.
[2] Necrophilia: sexual attraction to corpses.
[3] Coprophilia: sexual attraction to faeces.
[4] Teratophilia: sexual attraction to deformed or monstrous people.
[5] Hebophilia: sexual attraction to adolescents.
[6] Zoophilia: sexual attraction to animals.
[7] Schediaphilia: sexual attraction to cartoon characters.
[8] For culinary ignoramuses, colcannon is a traditional Irish recipe
made from roughly mashed potato,cabbage, spring onions, salt, ground black pepper,
butter and crème fraiche. Phil adds a soupçon of finely grated nutmeg.