Grease is the Word

July 25, 2014

“Our youth now love luxury. They have bad manners, contempt for authority.”

Our youth also have grease—on their hair, their pimply foreheads, their armpits, and other greasy areas that dare not be named. Our youth are walking grease pits. Good news: grease can now be converted to dinero, bucks, cabbage, green. Enough cabbage to put up with them and their teenagerly hijinks? You be the judge.

“They show disrespect for their elders and love chatter in place of exercise; they no longer rise when elders enter the room.”

Yes, they do; yes, they don’t. But the less they exercise, the less time they spend in standing, the more time they spend building their reserves of fat and grease. Buy a warehouse of Fritos and Blue Bunny Ice Cream and plop the kiddies in overstuffed La-Z-Boy recliners* and prepare to reap your rewards.

“They contradict their parents, chatter before company; gobble up their food and tyrannize their teachers.”

Gobble, gobble. The teenage turkeys can’t contradict if their mouths are full of Cheezit crackers and Hershey Bars. They won’t have the energy to tyrannize.

“What is your point, Gene?”

I’m glad you asked.

Three entrepreneurial thirty-something men have been arrested by O’Fallon police and charged with grease theft. (The smarter people among you won’t read the rest of this piece because you know where I’m going, and you’re halfway to Costco for snacks by now.) The brazen grease thieves were arrested in the barn where they allegedly stored ten thousand gallons of grease worth thirty thousand dollars.

The victims were Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurants and Cecil Whittaker’s Pizzerias. I’ve never heard of the latter, and—no offense to the fine people at Whittaker’s—I wouldn’t eat a pizza made by a guy named Cecil. Sicily, yes; Cecil, no. Just as I wouldn’t order chili at a diner named Ma’s or Grandma’s. Joe K’s in Alton, yes. But Grandma’s? Nah.

“Why would people steal grease, Gene?”

I’m glad you asked.

In these green times, grease is converted to biofuel. You can run your SUV on Kentucky Fried Chicken fat. The grease that might have gone into soap making and animal feed now goes into your mega gas tank. There is a grease shortage. Our thirty-something bandits allegedly were stealing grease barrels from Cecil and The Colonel and loading up their barn.

(The next time you’re driving on an interstate highway, think about those cute country barns you see off to the side. Drugs and illegal nuclear waste, and now grease are stored in many conveniently close-to-highways barns.)

Grease shortage, fat teenagers equals profits! Okay! Fatten up the kiddies and wait until they fall asleep in their La-Z-Boy’s. They sleep longer than cats. Take the scraper you use to get snow off your car and gently rake the grease from Junior’s face into a bucket. Scrape your granddaughter’s neck and belly. *The faux leather La-Z-Boy model scrapes most easily. Do not smoke during this operation as your teenager might catch on fire. Store your grease in the barn or in the shed.

Like millions of Americans, I suffer from rosacea. My nose, particularly, exudes grease at the rate of a chocolate fountain. I complained for years. Then I started squeegeeing my nose grease into empty beer bottles—I have a lot of those—and profits started rolling in. 12 ounces per bottle, 128 ounces of grease sells for $3! Now, I love rosacea. I’ve stopped showering, to promote grease health.

Did you recognize the quotation? Did you assume Farmer Orville opined that? Nope, that was Socrates, complaining about indolent youth of ancient Greece. Imagine if Socrates saw the future and scraped the grease from gross, grandiose Greek geeks he had stuffed with gyros!

Grease: It’s not just for breakfast anymore.




About Eugene Jones Baldwin

I am a writer: non-fiction, fiction, journalism (Alton Telegraph), essays (The Genehouse Chronicles) and have a website: I've published a couple dozen short stories and had eleven plays produced. Current projects: "Brother of the Stones" (available on Kindle), a book of short stories; "The Faithful Husband of the Rain, short stories"; "A Black Soldier's Letters Home, WWII,;" "There is No Color in Justice," a commentary on racism; "Ratkillers," a new play. I am an avocational archaeologist and I take parts of my collection of several thousand Indian artifacts (personal finds) to schools, nature centers, libraries etc. and talk about the 20,000 year history of The First people in Illinois. (See link to website) I'm also a playwright (eleven plays produced), musician, historian (authority on the Underground Railroad in Illinois, the Tuskegee Airmen) and teacher.
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