COGITO ERGO HAM:

— It’s What for Lunch at the Gist & Tangent Food Truck.

Conversations Under The Knife [Even if it is plastic this time.]

—A series of cutting discussions hosted by Mrs. Begonia Contretempt

Scene 1 — Hangry Thoughts In Line

Mrs. Begonia (aside):

The Gist & Tangent Lunch Truck has become the Council’s agora on wheels. The menu changes daily but always contains pork; the arguments never do. I spot Vito Haeckeler—our self-appointed man-on-the-street pulse-taker of the populace— considering his choice like a statesman choosing sanctions.

Vito (ordering):

“Give me the Pulled-Pork Realpolitik—rye, no slaw. And a yellow-gaiter lemonade. Keeps the vision clear.”

Mrs. Begonia:

“Make mine a Cultural Reuben. Half-sour, double dressing. I like a sandwich that quarrels with itself.”

Vito (grinning):

“Perfect metaphor for the Republic, ma’am.”

Scene 2 — Picnic Table

They settle beneath a tree whose shade resembles the dimming of empire.

Vito:

“You catch the news? The day our favorite arch-interventionist Dick Cheney finally punches out—heart stopped, policies still ticking—Mamdani, a socialist Muslim from Uganda gets the keys to City Hall. Tell me Providence doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

Mrs. Begonia:

“Ah, poetic symmetry! The author of invade-the-world exits just as invite-the-world takes the podium. The ages do love their rhymes.”

Vito:

“Exactly. I used to be allergic to outside influence—foreign lobbyists, global entanglements, all that. Now I’m thinking we might need a sterner set of cousins. Folks who understand the neighborhood, if you catch my drift. The sort who can make a pager explode without starting a symposium.”

Mrs. Begonia (fanning herself):

“Vito, such directness! But I must confess, I adore a man who learns from experience—even if the tuition is geopolitical.”

Scene 3 — Enter Peter R. Mossback

Peter R. Mossback appears, thermos in hand, as though summoned by the word tuition.

Peter:

(in his gravest scholarly budinski tone.)

“I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re both treating the headlines like novelties. They’re old patterns with new costumes. Spengler called it the Magian current—one great spiritual civilization rolling west, Jews, Christians, Moslems, changing banners but never essence. In Prophet Of Decline Farrenkopf wrote that in Spengler’s morphology, the awakening began with a vision of one transcendent God, and the desert prophets became its vanguard—storming out to absorb the petrified forms of an older world. That’s what you’re watching in miniature out of New York—civilizational weather, not local politics.”

A rabbi, a priest, and an imam walk into a bar in SoHo.
The bartender asks, “Is this the beginning or the end?”
They nod and say, “Yes.”
Then they order one revelation, neat — but ask for three interpretations.

Vito:

“So this new wave—political, religious, whatever—it’s not new at all?”

Peter:

“Hardly. Yet it must be interpreted in light of today’s situation. In this cycle the same desert wind returns. The Hart-Cellar Act that fundamentally changed immigration policy into America planted the seed, another spreads it, a third rides into the empire—now in force. This time, yesterday’s foe becomes tomorrow’s front-rank ally within the Jewish/Christian/Muslim axis. Is this what you’re saying?

The West isn’t unique — it’s merely next.

But that’s not quite what you mean, is it?

Yesterday’s foe becoming tomorrow’s front-rank ally — that’s where you’re heading.

You’re flirting with the idea of seeing the people of the exploding pager as partners — out of convenience, or dare you admit it, desperation.

Mrs. Begonia:

“Peter, must you serve Machiavellian political gumbo with every picnic? Some of us prefer our decline without footnotes.”

Peter (smiling):

“Then take this one as a weather report: the Magian storm never ends, it just changes umbrellas. Just putting it in context. Align wisely.”

Scene 4 — Aftermath

Vito:

“So maybe my epiphany wasn’t betrayal—it’s barometric.”

Mrs. Begonia:

“Darling, Realpolitik is just pragmatism in heels.”

Peter:

“And history always tracks the footprints.”

**************

A breeze rattles the lemonade cups. The pork roll sizzles on the griddle. The lunch truck considers an addition to the menu.

Vito steps toward the old payphone bolted to the sand, drops in a coin, and dials a number.

911 OPERATOR: “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
VITO: “Yeah, I’d like to report an emergency.”
911 OPERATOR: “Sir, the police have been defunded.”
VITO: “Never mind — I’ll dial another number.”