In the same
way, whenever a massacre of Armenians is reported from Asia
Minor, every one assumes that it has been carried out
``under orders'' from somewhere or another; no one seems to
think that there are people who might like to kill their
neighbours now and then.
And so it was with the new breakfast food. No one would
have eaten Filboid Studge as a pleasure, but the grim
austerity of its advertisement drove housewives in shoals to
the grocers' shops to clamour for an immediate supply. In
small kitchens solemn pig-tailed daughters helped depressed
mothers to perform the primitive ritual of its preparation.
On the breakfast-tables of cheerless parlours it was
partaken of in silence. Once the womenfolk discovered that
it was thoroughly unpalatable, their zeal in forcing it on
their households knew no bounds. ``You haven't eaten your
Filboid Studge!'' would be screamed at the appetiteless
clerk as he turned weariedly from the breakfast-table, and
his evening meal would be prefaced by a warmed-up mess which
would be explained as ``your Filboid Studge that you didn't
eat this morning.'' Those strange fanatics who
ostentatiously mortify themselves, inwardly and outwardly,
with health biscuits and health garments, battened
aggressively on the new food.
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