Ever have the unfortunate experience of looking into one of those clear plastic Honey Bear honey bottles only to see, trapped in the golden sludge, a tiny, little human being, a mask of horror locked onto its face? How did he end up there, so far from home? How long has he been in there? Minutes? Years? Why isn’t he just a skeleton? If the honey is that good at preserving his features, what on earth is it doing to my digestive track?
Did his village send a search party out for him? Where is his village? Ohio? Think they have charming little bed and breakfasts? Am I just stereotyping?
And what of this restaurant? What kind of place is this with little people getting into the food? What’s going on in that kitchen? What’s trapped inside this opaque mustard squeeze bottle? If, in the act of squeezing honey onto my fruit crapes, the little man ends up on my plate, will he make an audible crunch in my mouth? Will my table mates think me a barbarian? Will they want a bite? Who are they to expect I cover tip since they’re only having water?
What if I’m just a limbless corpse, hallucinating all this in an infirmary somewhere after World War 1?
Why’s it so humid here? Where’s the waiter? Why’s this happening to me? Why are you saying I’m shouting? What are you doing with that fork? WHO TURNED OFF ALL THE LIGHTS?! What is this?!