🥄 On Mayonaise as State Religion
In quieter corridors of the République, beyond the shouting markets and vibrating devices, there exists a faith both ancient and aggressively modern: Mayonaisme Républicaine.
It began, as all great doctrines do, with emulsification.
Oil and egg—entities naturally opposed—brought into trembling unity through force, patience, and a whisper of acid. The state saw itself in this. What is governance, if not the constant blending of incompatible truths into something spreadable?
The faithful gather not in pews, but at long, reflective counters, where jars of mayonnaise sit like contemplative oracles. Each jar is labeled with a different doctrine: Classic, Light, Aioli Adjacent, Garlic of Dubious Intent. Debate is encouraged. Separation is heresy.
The central belief is simple:
“Stability is an illusion maintained through continuous agitation.”
Priests—known as Emulsifiers—perform daily rites, whisking vigorously while reciting market reports and love letters interchangeably. When the mixture breaks, it is not failure—it is revelation. A reminder that unity requires effort, and that even the smoothest surface conceals a history of violence between parts.
Citizens dab a small amount behind each ear before negotiations, believing it grants cohesion of thought and a pleasing sheen of inevitability.
And in times of crisis, when Wantz scream and Needz go hoarse, when the lines in sand refuse to hold—
the people turn to the jar, and whisper:
“Bind us again, however absurd.”