LES BAGLEUX D'INDOCHINE
In reference to that mishegoss with the missing bagels:
Visualize Keebler Elf Road kill, on the great Saigon to Hanoi highway (Route One) built by the French. Nha Trang is north of Saigon, before you get to Hue. Hot, sticky. And there, just south of the city, is the smear on the pavement.
The dead Keebler is slimy and turning greener than he already was, flies are nesting in the putrefying flesh. Buzz buzz buzz. The air is so thick, so moist, you can't breathe it, you swallow it. Like walking through hot Jell-O. And even disregarding the Keebler corpse self-alchemizing on the hot tarmac a few feet away, there is an unmistakable fecundity to the tropical reek.
Keeblers should never use camouflage grease on their faces or head into the bush; the tribals in the hills will kill them and take their heads for charms. Consecrated when the rice-wine has been made after the harvest, bubbles the size of missing bagels on the cream-cheese white surface of the fermenting brew. You can smell it a mile away.
Enjoy your lunch.