Mr. Rock, the craw-toady of the Dixie Crossroads restaurant, sure seems eager to please. He has submitted to the apron, the (plainly incongruous) white mittens, and the chef’s hat. He looks beseechingly “off screen,” doubtless to his human betters. He holds his plate aloft, awaiting praise for the heaping bounty carried thereon. He has entered the world of animal-eaters, and wants nothing more than to appease them. So far, Mr. Rock is a textbook case of Subservience Complex, Animal.
But look more closely at the plate in his “hand.” On first glance, he appears to be brandishing a deep-dish casserole of ants and marshmallows. The truth is more horrific.
What you are witnessing is a platter of decapitated crawfish, and, judging by their size (compared to Mr. Rock), they are babies! This self-loathing crustacean has taken his psychosis one step too far. Not satisfied to sell himself into slavery to a world of dixie diners, he is even willing to offer up his own spawn to the demands of a hungry South.
No comments:
Post a Comment