Harassment Architecture by Mike Ma: A Review

Harassment Architecture by Mike Ma
A Review

I am a child of the American suburbs, late twentieth century, and I fucking love Chili’s.  Seriously; I can’t get enough of that shit.  Is it poison?  Absolutely, but so is nearly everything.  The hidden beauty of Chili’s is found not in the “food” that is served (though this is of course delicious beyond all human comprehension) but in the public act of consuming it. Chili’s is among the most ostentatious symbols of what this parody-civilization has achieved.  To sit in a great neon hall bedecked with horrible tchotchkes, to poison oneself before a live studio audience and not care a whit for one’s health or dignity, is a magickal act.  To sit, in full view of God and everypony, scarfing down microwaved nacho-chili-cheese-jalapeno poppers, drenched in a vat of ranch to hide the flavor of everything but ranch, ramming that malodorous excrement down your greasy craw, is the essence of what it means to truly be alive.

I, personally, am partial to the Buffalo Chicken Ranch Sandwich™.  I don’t even look at the rest of the fucking menu; the menu is for plebs.  The pathetic, weak, bleary-eyed untermenschen will stuff themselves into their Sunday best and waddle to the table, and waste precious minutes of their lives studying the menu like some poor half-wit King trying to make sense of the Magna Carta.  A real man knows what he wants; a real man doesn’t even pick up the menu.

“Yes,” says the Uberhengst immediately, in response to the robo-waitress’ talking boobs when asked if He is ready to order.  “I would like the Buffalo Chicken Ranch Sandwich™, please.”

I would like the Buffalo Chicken Ranch Sandwich™, and may God have mercy on your soul if any essential component is missing from the holy concoction.  The chicken, such as it is, is the least important part of the equation.  The bird in question likely lived and died without ever seeing the sun, harvested in a gigantic warehouse, crammed in amongst its fellows with barely enough room to move and breathe, injected daily with all sorts of horrible Jew-created toxins that cause its breasts to swell to the size of small Volkswagens.  These engorged mommy-milkers are then to be brutally hacked off, breaded, deep-fried, frozen, shipped thousands of miles to your local Chili’s, microwaved, deep fried again, frozen again, re-microwaved, deep-fried one final time, and placed between two halves of what is probably meant to be some kind of bread.

To the yet-unfinished chimera is added a fistfull of limp, laboratory-grown lettuce and a slice or two of something resembling a tomato, and yet even now it is not complete.  The crucial addition of two kinds of sauce, harvested no doubt from the boiled blood of some Lovecraftian horror from beyond the stars (yes, we have found such creatures and yes we have slain them; the existence of Chili’s is proof that our species has conquered the multiverse), is what transforms this paltry labratory experiment into the pure Gold of the Alchemist.  The two Holy Sauces, the Buffalo and the Ranch, are what binds it all together, and makes it a Buffalo Chicken Ranch Sandwich™.

Yes, you unholy, robotic slag, I would like the goddamned Chicken Buffalo Ranch Sandwich™.  I would like it with all the Buffalo and all the Ranch.  I want that almighty sumbitch to be veritably dripping with the stuff, and yes, for the love of my ancestors’ entire pantheon I would like a second vat of Ranch on the side to dip it in.  I want to soak up the Ranch with the torn remains of some doomed Chicken that lived and died in some laboratory deep in the bowels of South Dakota, and let the Buffalo drool into the vat, mixing with the Ranch, tainting its bloodline so that it will never be pure again.  I want to grab soggy microwaved potatoes by the fistful and soak them in this Buffalo-Ranch mixture, I want to shovel them into my esophagus until I die gasping for air like George Floyd, I want to guzzle the sweet nectar of life until all of my arteries explode.

As an appetizer, I would like the Chips and Salsa™.  Send me a basket of chemically-modified corn byproducts, mashed into a pulp and boiled in chemically-modifed-corn-byproduct-oil, covered in salt.  Extra salt, if you please; the last time I thought I could still taste a bit of corn underneath it all.  Pair this with a vat of salsa, fresh from the Home Vat in Sioux City, Iowa.  From the Salsa Fermentation Vat to the jar, and thence to the truck; from the truck to the refrigerator, and from the refrigerator to the serving vat.  Place this vat beside the burnt and crispy and oil-soaked corn concoction so that I may soak it up, and pour it into my brutally-abused human frame.

Ten thousand years hence, when the dust of this civilization has blown away, the deracinated descendants of our present nu-humanity will comb the beaches, battling gigantic mutated crab-monsters, smashing them to pieces so that they may feast on the slimy, irradiated meat within.  All that remains of our gilded twenty-first century age will be a pile of Jeb Bush Guacabowles™, an ocean full of Aquafina™ bottles, and the face of George Floyd carved into the side of a mountain.

These pour lost souls will tear at their irradiated crab meat with their stunted incisors, gazing up at the mountain in reverence.  They will wonder at this Godlike race of hideous ape-men that must have once roamed the earth, creating Guacabowles and Aquafina-Containment-Cylinders out of some unknown, indestructible substance so that they might litter the earth with them as testaments to their greatness.

Pity these pour, ignorant, backwards and savage souls, tearing at their crab meat, for they will never know the joy of scarfing down a Buffalo Chicken Ranch Sandwich™ from Chili’s (with Chips and Salsa™ as appetizer).