Resumo de You "r" What You Eat

YOU R WHAT YOU EAT(ca 650 words)Copyright Andrew McKillop, 2006Toys might be them, but you really are what you eat. Dave was sure of it, that was no throwaway slogan, to him. Coming back to London, England, Rip van Winkle style after a somewhat long absence, he found the populace ate just anything at all. So there was the total explanation of why so many monster, grunted along the sidewalks, burning off those fatty acids as best they could. Before the cellulite and the diabetes triggered, that is. Of course foreigners, students and suchlike, could pretend innocence, they were crunching Universal Fastfood, and it was natural to pay a fortune to massacre themselves. They'd be out of the country when they popped their clogs, nobody would know."But what about the Brits, that dwindling bunch of hopefuls?", asked Dave. He set out to investigate what they eat. Dave started with Working Man's Diners, it even said that on the notice above the door. He had to chicken out of the first few he found, they were too toxic to enter without breathing equipment. Inside, the populace was crunching and slopping high-price obscenities that came from behind a screen. Back there, they had a Kosovan refugee chef, perhaps the same one who cooked at that prison where they took the obscenity photos of starving men with their ribcages sticking out?, surmised Dave. They were so thin because they refused to EAT the glop, they wanted to stay alive. Imagine the joy of that sadistic Kosovo chef to find that Brits pay to eat the same creative servings !There was a weird atmosphere of para normality in all those Diners, he soon found. Sort-of normal persons were there glopping stuff straight out of a horror movie, and paying big dosh for the privilege! To Dave the big question was: "How do they do it?", how do they keep up the pretence, the madness of buying pure trash and smiling soporifically as they wolfed it down. The servers often asked if they wanted another helping. "Help them die, get the agony over with, maybe thats what they mean?", asked Dave, of course to himself.Sure as sugar and salt, and other things that begin with 'S', they certainly werent working men, women, children or dogs, in those places. They were suicide cases, Dave was sure. So he went up market, one notch.These were the pizza-pizza joints, you could go into almost any one, get a lousy meal for 10 quid, and be in good company, even Brit company. Dave knew a little bit about cooking, so he was astonished, then enraged by the fantastic ignorance of whatever the grunts behind the scene, behind the screen thought they were doing. It was no good talking to the servers about anything, he soon found. They did a marvelous and sincere stage act of village idiot, followed by exasperation at the client-victim not choosing fast enough. In fact, it was more than obvious, they didnt know or care: bang out the crap and the fools will come back, every time. Maybe they will die of food poisoning, but if they dont they will come back. Lemmings never give up, they love punishment.Dave though he had to try out another approach, try some lateral thinking, and he found it in a royal way. He'd noticed how well fed the last remaining homeless were, in London circa 2005. They were all rough-hewn characters, steeped in alcohol. After a while he struck up conversations with a few of them, along the Pentonville rd or round Euston and Victoria. "So where do you eat?" he asked them, after some chat about their cause and their militant, unreadable magazine.They came back with all the details, specially if he offered a can of turnip alcohol reinforced, cider-type drink. They explained all. First you go to Camden Lock or the Angel, or one or two other places, you say you are into Hari Krishna, and you get Indian veggy dishes, free. "Maybe at Ali Akhbar's Internet caff, if you say you love Bin Wotsit they will give you a kebab?", asked Dave, but none of the homeless were sure about that one. That was coming latermuch later, but enough to make the Endless Present taste bad, bad, bad.

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