Ramblings on Argieball and other nonsense
Monthly Archives: December 2010
So scholars, attest! The Original Sin of the Fall has nothing to do whatsoever with the bleatings of the Pelagian or Hippomatic heresies. The sin was to suppose oneself able enough to select fruit at random without even an informal education. Eating the apple was not the point; rather it was the choice of apple that sparked God’s ire and ignited the fires of hell.
“Such arrogance!” He was heard booming to the men in His eternal fruit and vegetable market. “When all I ask is a little piety, some respect for those hands trained in the ways of My bountiful earth.”
Yet hope still sprang eternal in His eternal breast, and so as a reminder to future generations He named one of the seasons ‘the Fall’. Unfortunately, the Chinese Whispers nature of prophecy, coupled with the ceilinged nature of the office of scribe, led to some confusion. Forgotten it was that the Fall was about that purest of joys, ripened fruit, and the expert hand that leads one down the path to tastiness, that of the greengrocer. Instead, guilt, pain, suffering followed, inspired by ‘saints’ who were in truth vegetable heretics – abstract blasphemies from Gnosticism down through the witterings of Saint Augustine and the Council of Trent, all utterly foreign to a fruit-loving God. Continue reading
Now this particular greengrocer was truly a good noodle, bonum fideum as the Romans say, for he was no taller than a suburban hedge, hardly surpassing the shrubs in the Jardin du Luxembourg, indeed. He had a gambler’s limp and that crook in the eye special to men who’ve seen too far.
Faithful to one of the ruling principals of boludoísmo, this grocer’s was grossly overstaffed. Three men inside: one cashier, one watcher, one sitter. Despite the obviously negative economic consequences of such cultural oddities, however, they carry a, dare we say it, spiritual weight of their own. The old (though strictly speaking all greengrocers are old – indeed one suspects they come into the world fully dressed in their worn apron and cap, emerging at daybreak from the nearest gutter as the supply truck rolls up) man hobbled over and crooked us a glance. No more.
* Un kilo de naranjas, por favor, señor.
* Aye, pibe.
Only a cold-hearted monster could fail to be moved by the ensuing display, nay performance. Limbs so lately lame became infused with a spirit not seen since Casper, with a glee not witnessed since the shackling of Colombus, with a joie de vivre unheard of since the early carefree days of tobacco, a steadiness and resoluteness absent from the world since the vote for the execution of the cock-robbing debtor of Aesclepius. Not even in the wildest moments of Lord Zeus and his friends’ most fanciful siring parties was there been such passion. Touching, prodding, sniffing, a toss or two in the air, a manly squeeze and even a sneeky pinch. We finally understood why our mother always insisted we wash our fruit, even those with skins. Continue reading