Cake
The tickets for the Conference On International Morals were expensive, but this year it was held in San Francisco, so I wouldn't have to pay for an airfare, and the topic was Peace. I really wanted to attend. nj took care of the baby while I went to the conference. I was looking forward to meeting all the world leaders that were attending, and was also pleased to hear that many of the world's Super-Ego-Models would be there.
The speeches and panels were relentlessly serious, as they should be. After all, we were trying to facilitate Peace. But in the grand foyer, the World Bakers' Guild had created Peace Cakes, and were offering everyone "Pieces of Peace."
The cakes were meticulously constructed and monstrously large. They teetered three stories high inside the vaulted ceiling of the foyer. The cakes were piled layer upon layer high, and each layer was made up of other desserts. There were pie layers, mousse layers, ice cream layers, chocolate layers, and layers in which cornucopia of fruits and vegetables and animals had been carved out of marzipan and colorful buttercream. Bakers clambered up and down ladders, offering people dainty slices from the layer of their choice.
One of the Super-Ego-Models, a fey, willowy blonde who looked a bit like a teenage Gwyneth Paltrow, paced the foyer and gesticulated at the cakes balefully as a reporter with a wry, bored twist to his mouth idly took notes. "It's excessive, it's ridiculous!" she cried. She directed her harangue at me for a moment as I accepted a slice of cake from a baker. "How can you even PARTICIPATE in such a vulgar display of waste and wealth? Don't you know people are starving?"
"Of course I know," I replied, "That's why I'm attending the conference, to see what I can do to help with the world's problems."
"But the conference is not just about problems, it's about the roots of the problems, the MORALS of the world. This is IMMORAL. All this flour, all this fruit, all this sugar, all, all..."
"The eggs?" the reporter goaded, as I took a second piece of cake from another layer.
"YES!" Cried the Super-Ego-Model, "The eggs! People all over the world really need food and we had all this, and did we send it to them? No! We're smugly celebrating our little intellectual 'contributions' with this disgusting exercise in conspicuous consumption. Why it's so, so..."
"Conspicuous?" the reporter grinned.
"Well, yes. Conspicuous. Sneer all you like, and you, you eat all you like, but it's wrong. It's just wrong," she cried, and walked away from me purposefully, circumnavigating the cakes again, declaiming them to anyone who would listen as she went.
I snuck a fingerful of mousse from another spot, had a piece of ice-cream cake from another spot, and finally just abandoned my plate. By the time the Super-Ego-Model had worked her way back to me, I had a huge wodge of cake in each hand, and my face was plastered with buttercream. She looked at me with such crestfallen disappointment. "Um, I know, I know, but it really is very good," I said. "Don't you want even one piece of peace?"
"A piece is not peace," she said haughtily, and stormed off.
I shrugged and went to find the baklava layer.
The speeches and panels were relentlessly serious, as they should be. After all, we were trying to facilitate Peace. But in the grand foyer, the World Bakers' Guild had created Peace Cakes, and were offering everyone "Pieces of Peace."
The cakes were meticulously constructed and monstrously large. They teetered three stories high inside the vaulted ceiling of the foyer. The cakes were piled layer upon layer high, and each layer was made up of other desserts. There were pie layers, mousse layers, ice cream layers, chocolate layers, and layers in which cornucopia of fruits and vegetables and animals had been carved out of marzipan and colorful buttercream. Bakers clambered up and down ladders, offering people dainty slices from the layer of their choice.
One of the Super-Ego-Models, a fey, willowy blonde who looked a bit like a teenage Gwyneth Paltrow, paced the foyer and gesticulated at the cakes balefully as a reporter with a wry, bored twist to his mouth idly took notes. "It's excessive, it's ridiculous!" she cried. She directed her harangue at me for a moment as I accepted a slice of cake from a baker. "How can you even PARTICIPATE in such a vulgar display of waste and wealth? Don't you know people are starving?"
"Of course I know," I replied, "That's why I'm attending the conference, to see what I can do to help with the world's problems."
"But the conference is not just about problems, it's about the roots of the problems, the MORALS of the world. This is IMMORAL. All this flour, all this fruit, all this sugar, all, all..."
"The eggs?" the reporter goaded, as I took a second piece of cake from another layer.
"YES!" Cried the Super-Ego-Model, "The eggs! People all over the world really need food and we had all this, and did we send it to them? No! We're smugly celebrating our little intellectual 'contributions' with this disgusting exercise in conspicuous consumption. Why it's so, so..."
"Conspicuous?" the reporter grinned.
"Well, yes. Conspicuous. Sneer all you like, and you, you eat all you like, but it's wrong. It's just wrong," she cried, and walked away from me purposefully, circumnavigating the cakes again, declaiming them to anyone who would listen as she went.
I snuck a fingerful of mousse from another spot, had a piece of ice-cream cake from another spot, and finally just abandoned my plate. By the time the Super-Ego-Model had worked her way back to me, I had a huge wodge of cake in each hand, and my face was plastered with buttercream. She looked at me with such crestfallen disappointment. "Um, I know, I know, but it really is very good," I said. "Don't you want even one piece of peace?"
"A piece is not peace," she said haughtily, and stormed off.
I shrugged and went to find the baklava layer.