Whenever I go into a fast food place I start to hear voices in my head. It's both disturbing and exhilarating. I think the voices are kinda like those of Ariel from The Tempest by Shakespeare -- they don't really threaten anything, just tantalize with their ambiguity.
The last time I went into McDonald's for breakfast a voice in my head clearly kept repeating: "Existence is a great pile of afterthoughts to a perfect masterpiece." It puzzled me, yeah, but it gave great relish to my egg McMuffin.
I stopped in at a KFC on State Street for biscuits and gravy, which I always crave before a session with the Ouija Board. As I was wiping my chin I distinctly heard someone say "We suffer not for our sins but for our virtues." But the place was completely empty -- I was the only customer in there at the time, and the staff looked incapable of stringing five consecutive words together at a time.
I never hear voices anywhere else -- not at home, or at work, or in church, or even when I'm praying. I only hear voices when I'm sitting in a plastic chair and eating something high in sugars, fat, and salt -- and it's usually fried. Then my inner muse or misfiring neurons begin to produce profound and sometimes enlightening sounds that coalesce into words.
I didn't think it would happen at Kneaders, cuz they are a high class bakery that serves organic whole wheat pastries and lots of different kinds of herbal tea. But the minute I placed my order for a sprouted wheat Kringle and a glass of kefir the voices were at it, hammer and tongs:
"Twenty minutes can save you twenty percent or more."
"It's not nice to feel Mother Nature."
"Where's the veal?"
"When you can't say Schlumberger, you can't say quality."
I covered my ears with my hands and banged my head on the table, but the phrases would not go away. Then I looked up at the ceiling and saw there were several loudspeakers going full blast. Ah-hah! I was not going crazy, I was just being bombarded by commercials. I felt so relieved that I left an extra big tip when I was done with my Kringle and kefir. (Which were not all that good, to tell the truth -- I found a stalk of alfalfa in the pastry.)
I want to go get a hot dog at Wienerschnitzel over in Orem today, but I hesitate cuz I don't want to hear anything in German or by Nietzsche. He's a real buzzkill. So maybe I'll open a can of beans at home and slice some Ball Park franks into it, then nuke it in the microwave.
But come to think of it . . . my microwave is starting to act funny, like it wants to chant Longfellow's 'Hiawatha.' Maybe I'll just order a pizza, to be on the safe side . . .
I never hear voices anywhere else -- not at home, or at work, or in church, or even when I'm praying. I only hear voices when I'm sitting in a plastic chair and eating something high in sugars, fat, and salt -- and it's usually fried. Then my inner muse or misfiring neurons begin to produce profound and sometimes enlightening sounds that coalesce into words.
I didn't think it would happen at Kneaders, cuz they are a high class bakery that serves organic whole wheat pastries and lots of different kinds of herbal tea. But the minute I placed my order for a sprouted wheat Kringle and a glass of kefir the voices were at it, hammer and tongs:
"Twenty minutes can save you twenty percent or more."
"It's not nice to feel Mother Nature."
"Where's the veal?"
"When you can't say Schlumberger, you can't say quality."
I covered my ears with my hands and banged my head on the table, but the phrases would not go away. Then I looked up at the ceiling and saw there were several loudspeakers going full blast. Ah-hah! I was not going crazy, I was just being bombarded by commercials. I felt so relieved that I left an extra big tip when I was done with my Kringle and kefir. (Which were not all that good, to tell the truth -- I found a stalk of alfalfa in the pastry.)
I want to go get a hot dog at Wienerschnitzel over in Orem today, but I hesitate cuz I don't want to hear anything in German or by Nietzsche. He's a real buzzkill. So maybe I'll open a can of beans at home and slice some Ball Park franks into it, then nuke it in the microwave.
But come to think of it . . . my microwave is starting to act funny, like it wants to chant Longfellow's 'Hiawatha.' Maybe I'll just order a pizza, to be on the safe side . . .
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