THEORETICAL ESSAYS FROM THE NORTH POLE

On the Theoresticity of Snacking - Part One


Dearest Heads of State, I wish to address you today on a most central, most sacred, utterly crucial topic, one which we all hold close to our innards, wrapped possessively in the upper intestine, and encased lovingly by the lower, that ever-fertile field, laden with sumptuous fruits both intellectual and victual in nature, which imparts energetic and sometimes stinky ramifications throughout the arts, letters, sciences, and punctuation marks, with particularly virulent implications in the realm of dental care. I speak, of course, of those most holy tenants of North Pole tummies, snacks.


To begin with, we must ask ourselves "What is the essence of snacking?" The word itself, "snack," derives from the Middle Dutch to snacken, meaning to snap or bite, as in the bite of a dog. Now this theoretical dog could be supposed to snack on a small squirrel-like animal, a bed of turnips, your left pinky finger, or even - gasp! - the Great Hoary Marmot. These items being singularly and plurally untasty in essence to us, so much so that we must transliterally transmogrify them into such succulent items as the bing cherry, pomegranates, Wheat Thins, or the stately Everlasting Gobstopper. To this we might add a Thai iced tea, a pint of Ben and Jerry's, a glass of grape Kool-Aid, or a chilled mug of our favorite microbrew.


As we sit down, at the end of a brisk day of sand croquet, to sample such culinary delights, we feel something sinister brush against our feet. It's that damn theoretical dog again, looking for handouts. And reminding us that, yes our mothers did teach us to share, and if we'd like to retain a full twenty digits we'd better hearken back to those idyllic childhood scandals involving surplus brussel sprouts, surreptitiously slipped on the sly to slightly starving Saskatchewan spaniels suggestively submerged beneath the table. Ah yes! We know those undesired "clean your plate" items did not really go to the same place as The Other Sock, the bottle opener, and all my ball point pens, but were instead snapped, bitten, and in effect snackened up by Spot.


For what indeed is snacking, if not eating? And what is eating, if not the intake of food? And what is the intake of food, if not an overused, pseudo-intellectual, not terribly new, challenging, or creative metaphor for either the imbibing of knowledge or sex - depending, of course, on whether you are more in need of a good fuck or something new to read. And if you were to go to the library, you might happen across a book on rare elephant diseases, which would remind you that your rather tubby uncle Stewie Horblubberwitz's birthday was last week. After three hours in the Hallmark Shop- during which you are reminded of and proceed to rectify several other natal, nuptial, and anniversarial oversights - you might find yourself, with a bag of stuffed unicorns, two porcelain statues of Bambi, an embroidered moose potholder, several erasers shaped like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, twelve candlesticks with santas and reindeers printed on them (they were on sale), and a pack of kitten stickers, heading towards the bridge with a greater purpose and a blind spot in the vicinity of the crisis line phones. AND ALL BECAUSE YOU NEGLECTED TO SNACK PROPERLY.


For, my fellow Heads of State, let us recall that SNACKING ENSUES, and as such, it is such, and shall remain such, evermore, more so, and furthermore moreover more. Henceforth, go forth... and snack.

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