by John Alvarado
My fellow herbalists and ponderers, we are gathered in brotherhood on this evening to make use of my new bong, to chill and discuss the big issues of our day. The bong has been lit, and so many among us, now high, wish to dine, and to dine in a manner that satiates our carnal yearning for spicy condiments, but we are met with a great tragedy that shall haunt our palates for hours to come.
The Papa John’s delivery man forgot the Cholula hot sauce.
Direct not your ire toward Brother Nathaniel, for he was merely charged as messenger. Did he not recite on the phone our precise order from a crumpled slip of paper, six pizzas to be divided among ten men, plus refreshments and ample quantities of hot sauce? And did Brother Nathaniel not heed our calls to remind his interlocutor of the importance of the sacred Cholula?
We all bore witness to the arrival of the delivery man, and who among you would deny that I myself inquired as to the whereabouts of the hot sauce? In a parlance suited to his station and age, I spake thusly: “Where’s the hot sauce, dude?”
Might one of you entertain us with the lad’s response?
Thank you, Brother Japhet, for that is indeed what he said: “It’s in the bag with the napkins and Barqs root beer, bra,” to which I said, “hella cool.”
Order, order. I implore you to let me finish my discourse, for what I am about to tell you is of great importance. I sympathize with your calls for action, but we must tread warily.
As a result of this calamity, our brotherhood has broken into quarreling factions, one insisting we call the overseer of Papa John’s and demand a redress of our grievances. Still others among you wish you take up arms, storm Papa John’s and lay claim to what is rightfully ours, the free condiments we are guaranteed by a long-standing and noble social contract.
Yea, though the seeds of our discontent are many, I say unto thee: we must not let those seeds grow or be brought to harvest. Twice did we labor to obtain the hot sauce, and twice were we denied. Let’s now accept our fate, that our tongues remain without that piquant red ambrosia.
Please, brothers, remain quiet while I finish my thoughts.
Who among you would deny this turn of events is not a consequence of the will of Man, but rather an inexorable design of the stars and planets themselves? And who among you bears such hubris as to stand against the universe itself, when the universe itself clearly wants us to eat the pizza as it is?
I now pass the talking stick to Brother Tobias, who wishes to offer a rebuttal. In the meantime, brothers, I have a reserve bottle of Tabasco in the cupboard. If one is so inclined to rise from this haze, he may fetch it — if the stars permit it, of course.