Your pantry is making me sick. Your cracked wheat, your pulled pork. I shouldn't look at this when I have such a hangover. Your staples are ludicrous, how can you live this way? Like I should talk, all I even have in mine is a ten-ounce box of mysterious dust with the label ripped off and fifty cans of turkey chili. How can I, how can any of us. Agriculture was invented in the distant past, sometime between the domestication of fire and yesterday around noon when I ate a dry roll from Piggly Wiggly's discount day olds shelf, which is sometimes an actual shelf and sometimes just a parked cart full of forlorn staleness and partially smashed items of food, starchy roadkill from aisle six. The historical thrust of agriculture is now evident, from the Fertile Crescent under ancient skies to day old chalky crap buns at $1.99 yesterday. Civilization. The Tigris, the Euphrates, turn the rich soil. Cling peaches in heavy syrup. You know they really aren't doing the heavy syrup these days, don't you read the papers? Niblets. The great alluvial plain, the river Po, the yoked beasts and teeming masses. Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on? Helen Reddy was the nun in Airport 1975. Gloria Swanson wrote her own dialogue. Now the bathroom, I need to see your intimate ointments and queasy tubes with their applicator tips. Proctofoam.