In the house there was a stove. The stove was hot. Something was cooking. A meal prepared for the ones that will die. Prepared to seek relevant action, as the footsteps of Kipling and Conrad are compared to those of Bigfoot and the Snowman. Farms for food, farms for death. Mugabe that animal. Big steps for a small race, a big race has to learn how to step small. White men limp
in numbers because the numbers come: they speak in units that defy gravity, reason and self-preservation. But what was in the stove? It sure smelled good, Bubba! But the time is now. It sure smells good, Bubba! The first intelligent Frenchman on the Ivory Coast says, "Behold him, and though Bubba stink of sweat, disdain him not, for shall I tell you what? A pale-faced slave a darkie cannot be, therefore let him be taught the veneration of the aristocratic archetype. And to serve with ointment he shall learn to be cute!" And after a while the once beaming white Ivory became dark and dull again. The elephants would never know what hit them - but the White man knows how to use the poachers for gain, profit and wishful doom thinking. Slum-boys, sand-monkeys and doo-doo promoters now pave the way for an era free of neo-colonialism and apocalypticisms. It is time for Orwell to wake up, as the elephants have now all been shot. Not in the past of this world,
but in a distant dream, a distant reality. "Bubba, but pray tell, what's cooking in the stove?" The White man begs and yelps and whines and grovels, and Bubba firm and proud, "Ostensible you are, my brother, but feed the family I won't. The luck of isolation is now mine. And the family can now
suffer because I was the one cast out of Eden." Is that a narcisstic nigger talking? "Bubba, the stove! the stove!" Automatons of Eden, chicanery of the State-sponsored cooking contest, "All in the pot! All in the stove!" This earth's material recalcitrance is the cause, but not the effect of pulling
down the blinds, the house symbolizing the divine cosmos and the stove..."what about the stove?" The White man begs and yelps and whines and grovels. Bubba shits the sixties, smiles and exclaims, "The stove is what's cookin' in the cosmos."