Originally Posted by
Hillbilly Jim
who made that roti some fat american
No, we don't much care for fat Americans in these parts and though it's unlikely my disinclination to their preferred "vehicles to aid the consumption of processed grease" has much to do with it, no doubt it is something of a chicken v egg relationship sustained between Bangkok and I. A mutually-shared disinterest in fat Americans or fat anything really; because if the eyesore that is obesity isn't offensive, I literally cannot imagine what possibly could be. It's something of an unspoken implicit arrangement shared between Bangkok and I; and if isn't, it really should be.
But this was purchased at a Food Court shopfront @ Bumrungrad Hospital that deals only in Roti. I respected the culinary purity of their purported range and found myself compelled to give them my exclusive attention. This was in spite of a tantalizing sandwich place that was making eyes at me far too suggestively to be either as healthy as it was incredulously representing itself to be nor themed remotely appropriately to be respectfully considerate of the morbid goings on in the immediate surrounds. And one should always be respectfully considerate enough to share in the misery of others, as we all know. So you might say I was turned off, as it were, by their galling display of disinterest in suitably reflecting their location, location, location in the heart of what amounts to a rallying point for those who perceive the world in a manner at odds with their Reality and hitherto manage to run themselves smack bang into avoidable death or traumatic injury, debilitating illness, communicable obesity, infectious disease and other horrifically unpleasant deal-breaking things like that.
It's no place for a Party, Party, Party type of sandwich joint; as I'm sure you can appreciate. To have the gall to so brazenly celebrate life in a house of death smacked me in the face as being a little too ambivalent to be anything but a cheap, insulting marketing stunt intended to provoke and thereby capitalise on the already-traumatised and strained emotional state of their prospective clientele. I stopped short of expressing my disapproval, however; but then I'm not necessarily saying what I did was morally right. If indeed, as I suspect I might have been, it was wrong of me to let the offence slide, I plead mitigation on account of being distracted by a store that sold roti and, if you preferred something else, you could choose between roti and roti.
"Give me roti", I ordered the man who looked at me like an imbecile, expectantly. What did he imagine I wanted, a Ceasar Salad? Thankfully, his mental deficiencies in not realising I was alone (which might have afforded him the opportunity to make the necessary mental adjustments to "bring one roti right up" and gain my impressed approval) was not reflected in his roti preparatory skills which, I concede, were hardly lacking; but then I suppose he gets a lot of practice so it's hardly worth crowing about.
Cursing my Self at the peppy winning out over my shrewd reservations, I was then forced to part with some of my hard-earned Thai promissory notes for a tasty beverage supplied by the aforementioned obscenely upbeat sandwich place. I guess I had hoped the roti marketing might be more rhetorical than literate, but no. Roti was all they did, literally. I guess they wanted to do one thing, and do it well; and in that light, I suppose I can let them off the hook for not having drinks and forcing me to endure social pleasantries with strangers three times in a single hour. But if I'm ever subjected to such unpleasantness again, it will be too soon.
When it comes time for me to die, I will consider my efforts to have been an all-round decent innings if no one is excessively delighted nor sheds more tears than is considered sufficiently appropriate by Societal expectations and social norms imposed upon children, forcing them to make a visible display of their internal degree of suffering (or otherwise) in order to placate those who are too busy mourning to notice how transparent they are being with all their hoopla and hysterics.
I daresay, though it's unlikely I'm in the position to be subjective, that the more emotionally you are mourned when you die, the less of a life you'll have lived. For if your wishes are not honoured even at that late stage, if at no other point, what kind of an exploited life could you have possibly led? And if your wishes were for others to suffer at your having been Rested In Peace, it appears a self-evident Truth that one particular scythe-bearing Angel came for you a great many years overdue.
Though I can't imagine it would please anyone to imagine a spontaneous Brazilian Carnivale atmosphere breaking out when you kick the bucket, if one did, this sandwich shop I was forced to (in the end) reward with my (thankfully limited) custom, could quite safely be relied upon to provide a conservative and suitably-themed ambiance that reflected the mood of those you'd left behind. You could bet your life on it. If upon your passing, the public mood was transported into a raucous din of life-filled revelry and debauchery and celebration of living, you likely couldn't ask for more in terms of appropriately-themed culinary stalls.
Take a note, if you have not done so already; you never know with the great Unknown, but it's better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. Though I'm not sure how that could possibly make sense, if you _think_ about it, I know for a fact that it is wisdom worth adhering to, regardless. My mother literally raised me with such quaint pearls of quixotic wisdom passed down through the generations of mindless twits incapable of thinking up wisdom of their own. But then unlike your mother, my mother Knew Best. I know for a fact that this is true.
She confided as much to me, on no less than hundreds of occasions. Before you offend, take pause vassal. Would you suggest my mother was lying to me?
I didn't think so. It's unfortunate for us both that only one conclusion can be garnered from your conceding the fact.
Your mother was a lying whore.
I'm very sorry to hear that. I understand roti is a wonderful comfort food. Don't mention it, my thoughts and prayers are with you during this difficult and trying time for you. I really wish there was more I could do. You'll let me know, won't you? Of course you will.
Sharing suffering is what humans can be relied upon in this unreliable world of doublespeak and innuendo and post-deadline renegotiated terms and clarifications requested to aid the understanding of agreements long since passed their use-by date. Because, you see, I'm all about me and you are all about you. And because I'm Selfish, I don't share my suffering with you. And because you're selfish, you do.
We can agree to disagree, but I am right. With your way, everyone gets to lose!
Rotiing away.
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