To view something awesomely strange...
Consider how your life is entwined in a tapestry of numbers. Social security, checking accounts, savings accounts, credit cards, drivers license... enfold you within a womb of uniqueness that even identical twins cannot interchange. What the myriad combinations and permutations of genetics allow in duplication accountants have forever irrevocably differentiated. A river of traceable paper travels with you, documenting each trip to the video parlor and each gallon of gasoline consumed. That even a single person could escape notice by omission or commission is beyond belief. That tens of thousands of adult men and women might be reported missing in a single year is an impossibility. That tens of thousands of adult men and women might be reported missing in a single year is a fact, but not an innocent fact.
There are places within this nation where anything may be hidden for any length of time, in full public view and totally beyond public notice. Secret departments of the US government have for decades placed their most secure and sensitive facilities on the thirteenth floor of skyscrapers which, not appearing on the elevator panels or the building directories, are even more secure than the Big Blue Cube in Yakima, Washington. The thirteenth floors of skyscrapers are not merely missing, they are with the highest security clearances issued, officially uncreated.
In Gorman, California there resides a secret. In Gorman, California there rests a whisper. In Gorman, California there is weeping and anguish and death and pasta.
Have you ever actually SEEN a spaghetti factory? Do you know of any public or private school that has actually taken a field trip to a macaroni manufacturer? Children are taken on trips to bread factories and beverage bottlers and car factories and breweries and all manner of exemplary American manufacturing facilities. Think about it. Nobody has ever gone on a tour of a spaghetti factory. Isn't it odd that the so called ingredients of pasta, which must surely total into the millions of tons of wheat and eggs alone, when considered in light of the gross national production of farm goods, total to exactly ZERO?
The truth is that the thousands of missing persons reported each year are not missing at all. The truth is that an extraordinary and vicious criminal conspiracy dating from the first appearance of pasta in China is alive and active and prospering, exulting in profits beyond comprehension, supported by every citizen seduced by the red lure of marinara sauce. The truth is that no honest citizen is safe from a loathsome abduction, the sharp stench of an ether-saturated cloth choking off consciousness, and the bubbling squeal of a glowing branding iron as it is pressed against human flesh.
The truth is that the thousands of missing persons reported each year are not missing at all. They are the manacled slaves working to their mortal conclusion in the Gorman Federal linguine mines. The cheerful shelves of our supermarkets brimming with the healthful goodness of pasta are the culmination of centuries of odious human servitude. Legions of desperate men and women, their fingernails bloodily lacerated with embedded shards, are worked to their death in deep underground caverns as exhaustion, hopelessness and al dente lung wreak their toll. Their gaunt, lifeless remains are ground into a paste, cooked, and used as rations for those still living. Pasta, the strength of America, is torn from virgin rock by citizens who found the thirteenth floor.
Have a bowl of alphabet soup. Feel the wonderful squishy between your teeth as the O's and W's delight your palate. Have yourself a fine old time swirling the little pasta letters though the yellow broth, making words and munching them. Experience the steam rising from the liquid caressing your face and tickling your nose. Enjoy your pasta; spell out a eulogy for somebody's death.
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