The town down the hill recently extruded a restaurant featuring crepes. I knew before the place even opened that I would never go in there. Because I saw through the twenty-foot-tall glass walls that they had placed a bottle of Heinz ketchup on every table.

Crepes are quintessentially French, while ketchup is a non-Newtonian fluid produced by Germans who don't understand salsa. Throughout much of France ketchup is actually banned, and for sure if you go into a restaurant there and order crepes, and then ask for ketchup, the chef will come at you from out of the kitchen, screaming and waving a cleaver.

Germans like Heinz and Hunts pummelled the Americans with ketchup for many years, but that is over now. Which buggers me why these crepes-people would put out the ketchup now, when ketchup has clearly become a buggywhip in the foods. Among the Americans, salsa sales surpassed that of ketchup more than twenty-five years ago; the hamburger, another invention of Germans with names like Otto and Oscar, is also coughing up blood, stomped now every year in the sales by tortillas.

Ketchup is today mainly used by the Americans to smother the french fries—which are not French, or, really, food. Officially, they are classified as toxic fat tubes, purposed to blow out your aorta. When the Bushmen were preparing for War On Saddam II, some of the Piltdown Men in the Congress renamed the french fries in the House cafeterias “freedom fries.” This is because the French had told the Americans they were not having anything to do with War On Saddam II, because they knew the notion of Iraq possessing “weapons of mass destruction” was just shit made up, and they knew this because a member of Saddam’s cabinet was on their payroll; the Piltdown Men then commenced the St. Vitus Dance, declaring that everywhere in the language "french" must be replaced by "freedom," their sickness spreading among the Americans, readily infecting those who would some years later become the people of The Hairball. The French, they gave no shits that the french fries had become freedom fries—the very idea that something that is served in a McDonalds would have a French name, this anyway makes the French want to stab and shoot. Which is why sometimes when you are French, you jump on the bulldozer, and you mow down the McDonalds. You then become a Hero, and Juliette Binoche says you should be the president; you haven’t made it there, yet, but you are in the European Parliament.

The Germans have never bulldozed a McDonalds, because that would violate Order. Also, they do not really mind a McDonalds, so long as the hamburgers are pickled, and the beer is served in a stein the size of a horse.

The Germans have proved adept at many things—music, philosophy, jumping in tanks and driving at top speed for thousands of miles, crushing everything in their path—but they have never really successfully grappled with food. This can be understood when you sit down to a traditional German meal. You will be presented with a plate upon which rests the leg of some animal, still covered in fur. They will want you to dip the leg in a great festering urn of pickled cabbage, exuding a stench so powerful it can chase skunks from the room. The leg is also used to stir the soup, in which whole apples float, as well as many specimens of a demonic variety of bean, which start loudly belching out farts before you even eat them. Meanwhile there is zungenwurst, a tongue covered in oatmeal. The bread is so hard and so dense it is used by the police as a nightstick; you smear it with griebenschmalz, which is spreadable pig fat studded with pork rinds and onion chunks. Dessert is a thing called speck: pure pig fat. If you start snooping around the house of your hosts, you will discover that all of the Germans have somewhere in their homes a secret shrine devoted to the worship of sülze—pig snouts embedded in aspic.

When it comes to the food, the Germans can at least say they are not the British, whose cuisine is limited to blood and boiling. When, back in their day, the British were rampaging all over the globe, they were constrained from making even more of a mess by the fact that at least half their rich rat bastards were at any one time crippled by gout, brought on by a diet consisting solely of huge chunks of beef, spewing blood, washed down with endless bottles of Bordeaux, filched from the French.

If you have a crepe in Germany, there will be a hoof in it; if in Britain, some hideous, quivering, pudding.

In the town down the hill the crepes place is open now, and sometimes I walk by and can see through the glass the humans sitting at the tables studded with the Heinz ketchup bottles.

Why in the humans do the restaurants have walls of glass that confront passersby with the spectacle of the diners inside gnawing on fur-legs and feeding from big bowls of weeds? In the homes of the humans the dining rooms are not glass-walled and placed right on the street so everybody can observe the occupants inside worshipping the sülze. So, I don't get it.

Anyway, on the plates of the humans, there in the crepes place, are these slabs. And these slabs do not resemble any crepes I have ever met. I know some of crepes, because for many years I was making crepes pretty much at all times. Because they were among my daughter's favorite foods. These were Breton crepes; Brittany, or Bretagne, if you speak French, rather than "freedom," is where crepes were born. Brittany is where live the Celts who did not get on the boats and sail off to become the Irish. When the Celts got to Ireland, the Tuatha Dé Danann were already there; these did not want to get involved in any stupid human fighting about who got to live where, so they became trees. This is why in Ireland everyone is nice to the trees. Also in Ireland, sometimes you have to divert the roads, so as not to disturb the fairies.

Sometimes Brittany gets into the news of the Americans. Like when The Nazi went there, trying to be the French president, and the Bretons barked at her like dogs, and pelted her with eggs.

The Bretons have a long and storied history of not putting up with fuckwits. In 1382, Charles VI, alleged king of France, decided he would invade Brittany. But, while he was riding forth, all kingly and shit, on his horse, a Breton ran at him from out of the woods, grabbed at his garments, and commenced magical babbling. While various courtiers chased the Breton back into the woods—where he promptly disappeared—Charles proceeded to lose all of his mind. He began slashing at his people with his sword, foaming and raving; they managed to subdue the fellow, and tie him down in a cart, and then they bounced him back to Paris. Charles spent much of the rest of his life sitting petrified in a chair in his palace, afraid that if he moved he would shatter, as he was convinced he was made of glass.

So, it isn't wise, to mess with the Bretons. But, if you do, it is probably best to mess with them with calvados. This is a brandy distilled from apples—there are more apples in Brittany than were planted by Johnny Appleseed, or even than are in that Wizard of Oz orchard of grumpy apple trees that look like late-form Bette Davis—and sometimes the Bretons will drink so much of it they will need to lie down, and then they will either not notice, or not care, that the Atlantic Ocean is washing in and swirling around under the bed, as set forth in Emile Zola's true-life non-fiction tome La Joie De Vivre.

Calvados is one among many alcohols that do not often make it to the Americans. Another is retsina, which the Greeks make from needles. Airag, that is fermented mare's milk, which the Mongols drink as they ride to the gates of Vienna. Then there is raicilla, a 180-proof brain-bender the Jaliscans conjure out of cactus. Richard Burton was powered by raicilla throughout the filming of The Night Of The Iguana: “if you drink it straight down,” he marveled to one reporter, “you can feel it going into each individual intestine.” Burton, controlled by raicilla, and hallucinating that Sue Lyons has entered the room, can be seen in that photo over there to the right.

All of the humans are always trying to alter consciousness. Because there are Hairballs.

Sometimes the Bretons put the calvados in the crepes. Usually with apples. Then they set the crepes on fire. Because they are pyromaniacs. I do not use a flamethrower, when making the crepes. Otherwise I adhere to the Breton method, using buckwheat flour, and cooking them only on one side—this presumably because the Bretons are in too much of hurry to eat them, to cook both sides. Then I fold inside Breton-approved innards: a little Roland dijon mustard, gruyere, ham. Westphalian ham is best, though if you live among the Americans, it costs more than cocaine. Also, you have to check to make sure the ham doesn't glow in the dark, because the pigs wandering about eating acorns, who become the Westphalian ham, are sometimes brushed by wind blowing in off Chernobyl, or wherever else the Russians might happen to be melting the nuke fuel at the moment.

Throughout civilization, Westphalian ham can only be called such if it is made of acorn-fed pigs raised in the forests of Westphalia. However, if you are marooned among the Americans, you will be beset by criminals from the Hairball regions who will try to Fool you with some trotters they found on the floor and then pronounced "Westphalian ham." Similarly, in civilization, "Black Forest ham" must come from pigs raised in Germany's Black Forest. But, if you are an American, you can buy a big barrel of snouts, grind them up, slap some caramel on them, and announce you have produced "Black Forest ham."

The Italians are meanwhile grimly pursuing a nuclear program, because the Americans will not stop dumping sawdust in a can and calling it "Parmesan cheese." The Italians have concluded that only by making nuke bombs and putting them on missiles and aiming those missiles at the Americans, can the Americans perhaps be persuaded to cease their wanton defilement of the Italians' sacred parmigiano-reggiano, the god-emperor of cheese.

It occurs to me that Westphalian ham is German. Therefore I must withdraw all those Libels I inscribed above about the Germans and the hair-legs and the tongue-oatmeal and the sülze-shrines and whatnot. I'm sorry.

When you bake the crepes, the oven emits odors of wonder.

There is a Breton variation involving putting mushrooms in the crepes. But I prefer my mushrooms raw, and with purple veins in them. With these, I can See things. There is a book that explains that such mushrooms are extraterrestrials who came to the earth to help the humans Grow Brains. This is working. It could, however, work faster. Which is why humans in the Hairball-Free Zone of California are now involved in a voter thingy that would allow the humans to eat these mushrooms without going into the jail. Once this is accomplished, then it won't matter even if the state is assaulted by frenzied hordes of knuckledraggers ululating beneath the banner of The Hairball. Because the humans can then just become trees.

Recently I walked by the crepes place in the town down the hill and saw on the sidewalk a signboard urging me inside to consume "chorizo crepes." This amused me pleasantly. As yet another in the ceaseless series of signs and wonders that, Hairballs notwithstanding, the Americans are browning.

Spanish chorizo, that is generally cooked and cured and stuffed in a casing, and can be wielded as a weapon, like a good stick of salami, if a chair leg or baseball bat is not at hand.

But I knew this was not the sort of chorizo the crepes-people wanted me to come eat. They wanted me, instead, to feast on Mexican chorizo. Which is a bruja brew of animal parts you really don't want to know anything about, that are subsumed in many powerful spices, so that you will not know or care that you are eating cheeks, lips, lymph nodes, salivary glands, and various other assorted sorts of offal.

A crepe doesn't really want Mexican chorizo in it, but that is just too bad. Because in the town down the hill, chorizo is in everything—even the milkshakes. This is because the town down the hill, it is a college town. And the first thing that an American human does, when s/he goes off to college, is Drink. Then, inelcutably, the collegian Suffers. The sufferer then searches, desperately, for a means by which to relieve that suffering. The sufferer is then introduced, by those who have so suffered before, to chorizo. Because Mexican chorizo, and especially when mixed with scrambled eggs, contains, within its endless outpourings of spiced pig-face grease, some magical mystery tour of healing properties, sufficient to reduce the Suffering at least to a place where the sufferer will not Die, from the Drinking.

The crepes-place, it was clear, with its "chorizo crepes" signboard, was trying to convince the humans to ingore its ketchup anathema, and come on in, there to relieve, with the chorizo, the effects of their bibulating.

A lot of the Americans who are mobile without walkers, they do not understand that not so long ago there was not really any Mexican food easily available to the white people, there in their land. This now nearly unimaginable dearth of Mexican food can be apprehended in the true-life documentary film Peggy Sue Got Married, in which an American boy of 1960 informs a time traveler that he knows what is a burrito, while the rest of the Americans do not, because he has been to Mexico, while they have not.

Today, of course, the burrito has thoroughly conquered the Americans, so much so that burritos will be ceaselessly churning through the Americans' digestive systems, all day, and all of the night, long after the bland German fat-patty that is the hamburger has been relegated to a Museum.

A couple years before the "chorizo crepes" experience I was walking to the Syrian cigarette store when I encountered a similar browning-of-the-Americans signboard.

What is now the Syrian cigarette store, when I first lived in these parts, was owned by a blazingly white Piltdown Man, so outre and extreme that when I interviewed him for the newspaper it was hard to believe he was even Real. He freely opined that black people were a form of monkey invented by Jews to burn all the cities and rapine all the white women. Brown people were supposed to mow his lawn and trim his roses and if they wanted for this to be paid, he would just call the Government, and have them Deported. Brown people in the Middle East, they needed to be melted by nukes, so long as their oil would not then glow in the dark.

This man's brother, he was the "sane" one in the family, and started out as a "liberal," a schoolteacher, all for "the working class" and shit—until the black and brown and red people, and the women, there among the Americans, said maybe they would like to be humans too . . . at which time he proceeded to become controlled by Fear, of the Other, and so rushed into the politics, and there attained elective office, so he could introduce avalanches of legislation designed to forever freeze the Americans in 1952.

Both these men eventually died, as humans will inevitably do, and today the Piltdown Man's store is run by Syrians, who speak at all times in Arabic, and bring into the country, past The Hairball's gauleiters, ceaseless streams of "illegal immigrant" Syrians who refuse absolutely to take up arms for any of the 693 forms of dumbshit who at present in that country are all about killing people. Some of them are Christians, some of them are Muslim, some of them maybe worship Beelzebub, but what shit does that give? All of them are about not killing people; thus, all of them, are godly.

Sometimes I go out to the boneyard and help the people working there drive these big Humvee-like lawnmowers that both trim the grass and also knock back into the grave golems like this guy who used to run the Syrian cigarette place and is now having an undead Frenzy and trying to climb out because there are brown people all over what was once his Store.

Anyway. While walking to the Syrian cigarette store, a couple years ago, I passed a signboard that read: "Pancake Breakfast." And, scrawled under those words, like sort of in italics, was "And Burritos."

I loved that so much. A "pancake breakfast," that is a complete white-people thing. Where you go, early on a weekend morning, into an Oddfellows Hall, or onto a covered bridge, or something like that, and there you eat pancakes, for which you have forked over dollars, for some sort of worthy white-people charity.

A traditional pancake breakfast: as white as the Bee Gees.

But, now, there were burritos in it.

The pancake breakfasts, they had gone brown.

Through many decades, I would recurrently write in the newspapers, that the white people, they had better hope, that when the brown people inevitably became ascendant, they would not treat the white people, as the white people had treated them.

And, as it happens, they have not.

Here, in the Hairball-Free Zone of California, in this moment, the white people are but 38% of the population. And that precentage is declining, in every second. Yet, here, no one shoves the white people off the sidewalk. They are not redlined into barrios. They are not told they cannot speak their language, practice their customs; vote.

It is perfectly fine, fine and free, to be among the white minority, here in the Hairball-Free Zone of California. If only the people of The Hairball, they could understand, experience: this. Know that they need not live, in Fear.

But, fear: that is why, they are people of The Hairball. If they did not live in fear, they would not adhere to The Hairball. Because a Hairball, can only live on fear. Without it, he would shrivel into a small, gnarled turd. And be flushed, quickly and quietly, down the pooper.

An amazing thing happened this past weekend—more amazing even than that the chorizo is crawling into the crepes—in that, for the first time, to my knowledge, a deliberative legislative body of the white people, voted that brown people, in actual physical existence, are more important than the figment of some white-people "government."

This occurred when humans in the United States Senate of the Americans decided it was more important to stand by brown people who had no "papers," proving they were "citizens," than it was to continue to funnel money to the "United States government"—which is, of course, just shit made up.

For a time, thereby, these humans shut down the government—which came as a great relief to the government, which doesn't really want to remain open, so long as there is a Hairball; it is too embarrassed, the government, to be anywhere near open, while The Hairball, is at its head.

The Democrats of course quickly caved—Science Men, it is said, are nearing a Conclusion, that those who get into the government and there identify as "Democrats," are invariably fatally impaired by a congenital "cave" gene—but, before they did, they presented to the world the bright shining wonderment of a legislative body advocating that humans should be allowed to live on certain dirt, though they have no Papers, at all, entitling them to said dirt, and any "government," claiming to exercise Power over such dirt, should just Fuck Off.

These crippled caved Democrats, they had voted for, if not understood, the bedrock human principle: "free human being, alive on this earth."

They voted that brown people, who had burrowed in, to try to become Americans, they were worthy, of more Real, than the entire United States government.

How is this not. Oh happy day.

Of course, the Democrats standing on their own hind legs: it didn't last long.

But: so what. Heigh-ho. Nobody home. Meat nor drink nor money have I none. Yet. Shall. I. Be. Merry.

My companero M, he lived in the mountains, for many years, and came down understanding, that humans, they are descended from trees: humans, realized he, are trees, with feet.

My companera T, she heard trees talk, when she was a child, but had to shut them off, so she would not be confined, by humans drooling and knuckledragging and not understanding, in a Facility.

Some can be humans, and some can be trees, and some can be both, and more—quantum—all at the same time.

Like: you, and me, and all of we: here: in: he.
[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4dRTfQ9Rkg]