Sometimes you need a flapjack. There is no metaphor here, because if there is one thing that cannot be used figuratively it is a flapjack. I'm not reporting something here, I am telling you that this is the way it must be. If you need to make an overarching point via the medium of analogy use football matches or a paperclip factory, or Belgium, leave the crazy fudged up oats alone.
Sometimes you need a flapjack. It was such a day today. The centre of Bristol has jettisoned its Chandos sandwich shop, has thrown the woman with the Salted Monks by the Watershed into mythological memories. You are a man surrounded only by pretzels. Only by pretzels. People really want to sell you pretzels. They carry plates of pretzels around offering you free sample after free sample after free sample. The world has produced too many pretzels and the pretzel foot soldiers are hungry for battle. In a few years they will be tired and disillusioned as happens in every war, but for now they only want your blood, they want it sucked out of you so they can force pretzel into its space. You will be a spongy pretzel filled doll, empty of your previous passion. Don't let them make YOU pay for their over enthusiastic knot-shaped dough baking.
I'm not saying I couldn't find a flapjack, that I couldn't have walked in to any newsagents and picked out some plastic covered dry shadow of flapjack. But we both know, me and you, that that can never be enough. That it can never feed that hunger without humiliating itself. It's Emmerdale not Coronation Street, it's Chevy Chase being filmed in the shadows of Apocalypse Now 2. I stand in the centre of Broadmead a camera sweeping around me as I turn violently searching for the smallest hint of quality flapjack aroma. The street preacher who has never had a whole sentence consumed by anyone ensures us that, ",HE will take away your sin," and I know now what I must do. I must leave this place and walk for 23 minutes to Cotham Hill, because the pretzels haven't got that far yet.
Sometimes you need a flapjack. It was such a day today. The centre of Bristol has jettisoned its Chandos sandwich shop, has thrown the woman with the Salted Monks by the Watershed into mythological memories. You are a man surrounded only by pretzels. Only by pretzels. People really want to sell you pretzels. They carry plates of pretzels around offering you free sample after free sample after free sample. The world has produced too many pretzels and the pretzel foot soldiers are hungry for battle. In a few years they will be tired and disillusioned as happens in every war, but for now they only want your blood, they want it sucked out of you so they can force pretzel into its space. You will be a spongy pretzel filled doll, empty of your previous passion. Don't let them make YOU pay for their over enthusiastic knot-shaped dough baking.
I'm not saying I couldn't find a flapjack, that I couldn't have walked in to any newsagents and picked out some plastic covered dry shadow of flapjack. But we both know, me and you, that that can never be enough. That it can never feed that hunger without humiliating itself. It's Emmerdale not Coronation Street, it's Chevy Chase being filmed in the shadows of Apocalypse Now 2. I stand in the centre of Broadmead a camera sweeping around me as I turn violently searching for the smallest hint of quality flapjack aroma. The street preacher who has never had a whole sentence consumed by anyone ensures us that, ",HE will take away your sin," and I know now what I must do. I must leave this place and walk for 23 minutes to Cotham Hill, because the pretzels haven't got that far yet.
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