Cornelius's new pub absolutely disgusts me.
We have a new pub—which, by the way, is short for "public house"—in town. Unfortunately, I am not invited to this "public" place. The fact that they don't even have the guts to say it to my face has me spitting mad. What's worse is that the pub, the "Dude and Catastrophe," is run by two "friends" of mine: Cornelius and Ray.
It comes down to this: there is not a single item at this public house which I can consume or enjoy, either physically, artistically, or intellectually. I am quite simply not welcome, as nothing is offered for me. It's as though the whole place was designed to keep me, and specifically me, out.
Proof #1: the jukebox. The jukebox only contains stupid English "pop" music from recent decades. Who can have an intelligent conversation while Mick Jagger is in the room? Who can take themselves seriously with the stupid Beatles yabbering away about trite boy-girl situations in the background? Sure, as a concession to reason they have a little U2 featuring Bono, but none of the ones that I like. They only have the older macho stuff.
Proof #2: the food. There is not a single eco-friendly dish in the place. Pies? Fries? Burgers? Wings? Their menu is essentially a mass grave of barnyard animals. Would it kill them to place little complimentary bowls of chickpeas or edamame on the bar? They don't even serve organically-produced beer — not that I'd drink it.
Proof #3: the restroom door gendercators are simultaneously vague and horribly sexist: "COXSWAINS," for men, I think, and "MUFFETS," I think, for women.
You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to open up a competing establishment, right across the street. You heard me, and you know I'm serious. My uncle has a vacant shopfront not thirty yards away, and he'd let me do whatever I want with the place. I'm going to open an all-vegan, emissions-free pleasure utopia. Oh—this just came to me! I'm going to call it—get ready for this—"SOYTOPIA: A SOCIOPOLITICAL AND ECOLOGICAL CLARITY BAR"! How GENIUS! We'll serve all my personal bestitute favorites: "air-fried" Vegus chips, Dotty Dan's Double-Xanthan Chewy Chowder, Okra River's oversized "whole pickled okra not-dogs," and Legion of the Leaf brown rice and raisin dolmas. On the radio? There's a free college jazz station that comes in downtown — perfect. Bathroom doors? MEN and WOMEN will probably work, call me crazy. Although, in an effort to be sensitive, I might have accommodating modern spellings, such as, "WOMYN," "MYN" (the Y indicating the male's Y chromosome), and "MXCN" (a nod of the head to the M2F Cross-gendered community whose second chromosome more closely resembles an X than a Y). Hm. I may need to have a third bathroom for transsexuals. I need to get on the phone. I'm sorry, I have to go. That's how serious I am about this.
It comes down to this: there is not a single item at this public house which I can consume or enjoy, either physically, artistically, or intellectually. I am quite simply not welcome, as nothing is offered for me. It's as though the whole place was designed to keep me, and specifically me, out.
Proof #1: the jukebox. The jukebox only contains stupid English "pop" music from recent decades. Who can have an intelligent conversation while Mick Jagger is in the room? Who can take themselves seriously with the stupid Beatles yabbering away about trite boy-girl situations in the background? Sure, as a concession to reason they have a little U2 featuring Bono, but none of the ones that I like. They only have the older macho stuff.
Proof #2: the food. There is not a single eco-friendly dish in the place. Pies? Fries? Burgers? Wings? Their menu is essentially a mass grave of barnyard animals. Would it kill them to place little complimentary bowls of chickpeas or edamame on the bar? They don't even serve organically-produced beer — not that I'd drink it.
Proof #3: the restroom door gendercators are simultaneously vague and horribly sexist: "COXSWAINS," for men, I think, and "MUFFETS," I think, for women.
You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to open up a competing establishment, right across the street. You heard me, and you know I'm serious. My uncle has a vacant shopfront not thirty yards away, and he'd let me do whatever I want with the place. I'm going to open an all-vegan, emissions-free pleasure utopia. Oh—this just came to me! I'm going to call it—get ready for this—"SOYTOPIA: A SOCIOPOLITICAL AND ECOLOGICAL CLARITY BAR"! How GENIUS! We'll serve all my personal bestitute favorites: "air-fried" Vegus chips, Dotty Dan's Double-Xanthan Chewy Chowder, Okra River's oversized "whole pickled okra not-dogs," and Legion of the Leaf brown rice and raisin dolmas. On the radio? There's a free college jazz station that comes in downtown — perfect. Bathroom doors? MEN and WOMEN will probably work, call me crazy. Although, in an effort to be sensitive, I might have accommodating modern spellings, such as, "WOMYN," "MYN" (the Y indicating the male's Y chromosome), and "MXCN" (a nod of the head to the M2F Cross-gendered community whose second chromosome more closely resembles an X than a Y). Hm. I may need to have a third bathroom for transsexuals. I need to get on the phone. I'm sorry, I have to go. That's how serious I am about this.
