[2102] in peace2
Re: Thurs (12/5): talk on child slavery in chocolate production
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Shervin Fatehi)
Tue Dec 3 22:46:31 2002
Message-Id: <200212040343.WAA13262@melbourne-city-street.mit.edu>
Date: Tue, 03 Dec 2002 22:43:54 -0500
To: George S Waksman <waksman@mit.edu>,
Anke Hildebrandt (by way of "Steven R. L. Millman" <millman@mit.edu>) <hildebra@mit.edu>
From: Shervin Fatehi <gkl@MIT.EDU>
Cc: ps-phd@mit.edu, sci-tech-public@mit.edu, hrp@law.harvard.edu,
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At 06:17 PM 12/3/02 -0500, George S Waksman wrote:
>Look, if I didn't like slave chocolate I would have joined your little
>cult. However, since I have obviously not joined a mailing list to get
>your stuff, don't send me your crap. I mean, hell, everyone knows that
>oompa-loopas make the best candy.
>
>-George Waksman
Verily, what hath Yog wrought? I drown thee in flames!
There's a time in every young boy's life, perhaps in Spring, in which
something magical happens. To the sound of birdsong and angelic lutes, his
testicles begin producing sperm, wondrous sperm, life-giving spermatozoa,
whose infinite variety and potential speak volumes about the mystery of
life. Obviously, that never happened to you, George. In fact, I would argue
that you have never known the wonders of erection, let alone the yet more
stultifying and majestic wonder of a creamy, sizable ejaculate. Emasculated
in utero by your despairing mother's ingestion of the wonder-teratogen
thalidomide, your unmanning is seconded only by your flippers and
guilelessness. As it stands, I, and the other unfortunates party to your
moronic drivel, must suffer forever with the knowledge that it did not kill
you as intended.
Of course, it is not my place to criticize your most excellent mother,
whose moral stature and fuckability tower over all others. "Dearest
Genevieve," I would exclaim, "Your asshole, much like that of Burroughs,
would confound the Louvre; thusly I must pity its proximity to that
diseased orifice which bore your son into this world. A little to the left,
please." Then I would resume my grunted obscenities while reaming her out
with my anus-destroying, elephantiasis-riddled monster cock.
Indeed, your father must also be declared blameless. His philosophical and
mathematical genius aside, you have rent his life and dreams asunder. I see
him now in my mind's eye, the prematurely stooped and wizened "Old Man"
Waksman, sobbing and gnashing his teeth. Driven mad by the Advent of the
Waksmanian Selmanite era, he spends his days lost in childhood dreams from
which he may never awaken. Your brothers, too, suffer from the Selmanite
Touch, but their state is so pitiable I fear its description might shock my
gentle readers. Still, I fear I must go on -- to believe in truth, as we of
this Blessed Institute profess, we must never shy from its light, no matter
how bright.
Your middle brother, the most hardy and therefore least affected by the
cloying sickness left as a calling card in your mother's newly
Carlsbad-cavernous uterus, stands as an example to students of physiognomy.
His heart-shaped face signifies impracticality, inattentiveness, and an
unmanly sensitivity; his concave profile: shallowness, triviality, and
tendency to charlatanry; his similarly concave forehead betrays
cautiousness unto cowardice; his hooded, narrow eyes: envy and suspicion by
turns; his widely-set eyebrows: malleability; his thin nose: irritability;
his sensuous lips: hedonism and all its evils; his cleft chin: egotism;
and, lastly, his pointed earlobes betray his deviously conniving spirit.
One such as he must not be trusted.
Your youngest brother, to my sadness, came to term before the putrid,
fermenting unguent of Selmanite slime could dull his mind. Instead, he
lives as a feral child, replete with the blood of your benighted neighbors'
pets. His days are spent wallowing in a turbid shit-stream sewer, dug by
his own clawed hands, deep within the rotting bowels of Concord. Mildewing
in the dead earth, he schemes and plots the rising of his Master
Nyarlathotep, the Black Avatar of the Outer Gods, whose Waksmaniacal
allegiances cannot be questioned. Some say that once a year, during the
Ligottian Greater Festival of Masks, Josephus Youngblood Waksman barks a
demonic paean to his abhorrent brother over a candle of vomit, breast milk,
and hymenal blood.
In light of these great evils, any and all of sufficient faculties must
come to the immediate conclusion: child slavery ain't no thing. However, I
must admit that I am not unbiased on this issue. As Wallace Stevens has
declared, I am the Emperor of Ice-Cream! In fact, I shuttle children yearly
from the Arnold Air Society Christmas Party to Our Royal Ivoirian Chocolate
Mine. It is for this reason that I appeal to you now: good help is hard to
find. Much like the famed Hungarian, Countess Elizabeth Bathory, whose
daily libations and baths of blood were intended to keep her young, I bathe
daily in only the finest warm cocoa produced lovingly by the tiny hands of
the children of Cote D'Ivoire.
As you might imagine, this is a tremendous strain on Our Royal Pocketbook,
and I have busied myself so with dalliances that the Empress has yet to
bear any children worthy of mining the Imperial Cocoa Vein. What's more, my
half-hearted attempts to vanquish the Dread Pirate Hershey and the
Cadburian Horde have been met with chummy laughter and free rounds of
gourmet cocoa from the Swiss Miss (subsidiary of ConAgra Foods), Cocoateer
to the Emperor since 1913. Only the Papist Ghirardelli and the Cowardly
Lady Godiva have succumbed to my fearsome Frozen Scepter, and, really...
They were little challenge. In this business, it's quantity, not quality,
that counts.
Although I fear I stoop below my worth to ask you this: where'd you get
those Oompa-Loompas?
Yours in Christ, Whose Holy Bones guide Our Rocky Road,
Emperor Shervin the Double-Dipped and Malted
Postscript to Ms. Hildebrandt: Do not send HTML-formatted messages. To
paraphrase a friend, perhaps you should develop some social consciousness
before exposing jaded nihilists to your baby-loving screed.
>Anke Hildebrandt wrote:
>
>><html>
>><br><br>
>><br>
>><div align="center"><font size=4><b>Child Slaves: An Ingredient You
>>Wouldn't Expect In Your Chocolate<br>
>></font>Thursday, December 5<br>
>> 7:00 PM, room 4-231<br><br>
>>a talk by Steven R. L. Millman<br><br>
>><br>
>></b></div>
>>A talk about what can go wrong with globalization and FREE GOURMET
>>CHOCOLATE (no slavery added) to taste.<br><br>
>>*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\*/*\<br><br>
>>Event sponsored by Students for Global Sustainability and the Graduate
>>Students Council. Chocolates donated by Scharffen Berger!<br><br>
>><b>Abstract:<br>
>></b>It is one of the cruelest ironies of the modern world that children
>>in rich, industrialized nations eat chocolate everyday made with cocoa
>>grown and harvested by child slaves their own age in the Ivory
>>Coast. Some are as young as eight years old, stolen away from their
>>homes and families, barely fed, and savagely beaten if they work too slow
>>or attempt to escape. Ivorian cocoa (~45% of all cocoa produced) is
>>used by nearly all of the major chocolate companies, and represents a
>>crown jewel in what can go wrong with globalization and poor planning in
>>sustainable development. <br><br>
>>For more information, see
>><a href="http://www.radicalthought.org/"
eudora="autourl">http://www.radicalth
>>ought.org</a></html>
