SHOOTING THE ONION

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Why onions need to get shot

SHOOTING THE ONION

Have you ever considered shooting an onion? Well, if you haven’t  you should. Why, only this morning I went out and shot one, and boy did it do me good. I got it home, dragging it over rough terrain and even. Though dead, it got me crying and weeping and wailing like a repentant sinner. And that’s the reason why they need to get shot! They just shouldn’t make tough guys cry. The bastards are asking for it. Don’t think twice. Shoot ‘em!

                OK, OK, I know it’s not nice – all this violence and its aftermath – many strewn and multiply dead onions, but let’s face it, they ask for it. I know I’m repeating myself, but sometimes you just have to. Onions are sitting-targets, asking to get zapped (preferably in the bulb).They hurt our sensitive eyes. They make us cry. They require zapping. Zap them.

                Onions grow out of the good earth, shoot up a shoot and get harvested. And then what do they do? You touch one, you start to prepare it (OK, sorry for the euphemism), you start to fucking butcher it, you get your long sharp onion knife out, you spit on that long blade, and you peel and chop and…but the problem is already there. It’s got you crying! You’re a fucking man, you pay a fortune to work out in the latest, newest, state-of-the-art  gymnasium  to have those engineered, bulge-breaking biceps, with lots of lithe girls cooing and poking and praising you, and an onion has got you weeping! That’s just not Kosher, no, no way, not on, really and truly not on, not politico-correcto!!!

                Now I remember reading the Swan of Avon, that guy who lived several hundred years ago and still has us all flummoxed, and he wrote “…the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow”. (“Antony and Cleopatra”, Act 1 Scene 2). Well, I didn’t like it then and I still don’t like it now.

                Of course I’m definitely feeling much better after shooting that onion but as for Shakespeare I still don’t like the guy’s use of onions.

                Now, let’s get philosophical.

                Question : The onion is a  bugger, but why in hells-bells’ name does it sweeten when you cook it? I just don’t trend to that metamorphosis. Why does that round, onion-coloured onion lose its bumph which makes you cry or gasp if you eat it raw? Why does it get nice and sweet and delicious when you fry it and munchy it? Are you with me? Do you dislike it as much as I do? A bugger that makes you cry and catches a tonsil, even two, in its raw state sweetens up (for deception and cholesterol) in the frying pan! And do not think I am paranoid. I am not fucking paranoid. I am not fucking Adolf Hitler. I am not fucking Joseph Stalin. No way at all. I am merely writing a well-informed critique of onions.

                Now, perhaps, just perhaps, you think I’m a chef trying to promote an ambiguous vegetable. Far from it. I’m a non-chef contemplating onions. This contemplation is not just a temporary pastime. It is one  monomaniacal fixation of which I am rightly, swollen-headedly, proud, and it goes back more than a quarter of a century.

I swallowed a whole, uncooked onion about forty-two years ago. OK, I had drunk three pints of British ale in the Vale of Avon and I’d returned to my student digs. Feeling a trifle peckish, I puckishly peeled and ate, chomping bits, an imperial onion. It had been hunted, hurt, wounded and butchered earlier on in time, but not by me. I am not always a murderer, I do assure you, gentle reader. Knowing that being an honourable murderer gets you many lays in America, I’m working on becoming a permanent, honourable murderer, but for now I don’t  go out and kill every day. Don’t ask me to get more specific. I’m already specific enough. How much more specifickness do you require in one day?

That onion was well and truly down me, inside the insides of me, when a gorgeous, luscious-limbed, nubile-“nimbile”-nombile student appeared out of the blue. (“Nom” is transliterated Thai for breast, bosom, and milk*.)  She hovered in the room where I sat on a small divan watching my stomach housing the raw onion, shot, entire, gorged entire, and she stayed long enough to articulate the following sentences in clear, surprised tones:

                “Oh, my God, this room stinks of onion! Someone must have left one under the divan!”

                That comment hurt, it hurt so much! I went into my little student-room and fell asleep, dreaming of annihilating onions.

                And so, when you shoot an onion, think of me, feel happy and never look back. One onion the less is always one onion the more (dead) because less is more, and the more we shoot the more we do the world a service it needs (by making them less).

Conclusion concluded.

N.B.

*”Nom” in Thai is “milk”, giving rise to many jokes at us foreigners’ expenses. Why only yesterday I went into my local 7-Eleven in Nongprue, Banglamung, Chonburi, Thailand, South-East Asia, Asia, The World, The Universe, Terra Firma, Terra Aquosatica (neologism), and asked for “nom” whereupon the adolescent joked with her friend saying, “The “farang” (foreigner, gringo) wants a bit of breast.” An unnecessary joke and something an onion-shooter like me can do without. We shooters are stressed out enough and do not, I repeat, do not need attractive, 7-Eleven, female, teenage-employees mocking our credential essentials and our essential credentials (no hypens (-) necessary).  N.B.

 onion

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