You get off the train, and you are hungry. You see a lot of food stalls, but the food choices are unappetizing. French fries? Soggy. Yema? It won’t even fill my stomach. Waffle dogs? Yeah, like I’d stick a phallic piece of food in my mouth. Besides, I ate that already yesterday.
Then you see it. The shawarma stand. Your mind immediately goes back to the days when shawarma was the king of food. Yes, it was every foodstuff’s dream to be a shawarma. Because shawarma rocks. Imagine the disappointment of the asparagus when it was flatly told that it can never ever be shawarma. I heard it killed itself in disappointment. The poor soul.
Yep, shawarma is teh manly. That is what I’ll eat, you tell yourself.
You sheepishly walk to the stall. you hand over your hard-earned moolah. You eagerly wait for the shawarma to be prepared. What is taking it too long? And why does the vendor look like Saddam Hussein? You grow impatient. Finally, the shawarma is handed over to you. Ah, the wonderful smell.
Now, the condiments. You grab the white bottle. Nah, it’s too sissy. Besides, it looks… gross. You see an innocent-looking red colored bottle. Bingo! In your excitement, you splatter too much of the sauce onto the shawarma. You take a bite.
Uh-oh. You made a mistake. The very delicious shawarma that you bought is now laced with the biggest enemy humankind has ever faced: too much hot sauce. You may like hot sauce, but this time you are at your breaking point. You run around in circles, trying hard to get air.
How will you survive the steaming shawarma of death?
Don’t be a sissy! Do what any other guy would do: scream your head off and immediately punch the spleen of the first unfortunate person to cross your path. Heck, punch EVERYBODY’s spleens. Scream a different expletive every time you punch. If you run out of spleens, aim for their brains. When you have finished with your slaughter, kindly ask the vendor for a glass of water. You have to do it nicely. This is a civilized era. Manners are a must.
You gulp down the water. It feels like you can’t take any more.
But you have to eat more shawarma. It’s delicious.
You eagerly grab the innocent-looking red bottle and pour its contents onto the rest of your shawarma, seemingly forgetting the carnage it has caused earlier. You are strong. You are powerful. You don’t care if your breath reeks of onions afterwards. You have survived
You are immortal. You don’t believe in hemorrhoids. You take another bite of the steaming shawarma of death. You savor it. The passers-by prepare for another battle.
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