Part two of the UTSU AGM was going to feature a samosa eating contest. How exciting, a match truly made in heaven. The event had already been up on Facebook for a while. Over 350 people were attending; so much interest! So many contestants! I thought. I was expecting an exciting feeding frenzy to ring in the ensuing political drama of university student politics.


Samosas are, after all, a staple at all political events. Conservative or Liberal, NDP or Communist, they will arrive by the boxful, ready to be thrown to the hungry politically-astute lions. To add a competitive aspect to their consumption was only natural.


As I walked into the OISE auditorium, a wave of hot, scented air hit me like a tonne of deep fried Indian bricks.


I had arrived.


Settling into my seat, I waited patiently as the room slowly started to fill up, craning my neck to watch as the amount of samosas dwindled and the grease stains at the bottom of those soggy cardboard boxes grew. Yet the more people there were, the more uneasy I felt.


Where was the competition I had been promised?


While samosas were indeed being consumed, there was none of the hype, none of the action that I had been expecting. I had been looking forward to at least one person choking on their samosa, to Evoy hollering “FOLKS, ORDER” at the top of his lungs as people shovelled fried triangles down their throats, to the last person standing, triumphant, crying salty tears as Ben Coleman crowned him winner of the Great Samosa Eating Competition of 2015.


What I got instead was empty boxes not even halfway through the (always lengthy) meeting.

Outrage! Mutiny! How dare they deprive me of what little happiness I had been hoping to gain in my sad, pathetic life? Nobody on the board seemed to have the answer. Nobody seemed responsive to my pastry plight. Why did these folks care only for the dry details of board structure A or B? Why didn’t they care for well-defined, equally dry samosa structures?


This was why I had trust issues.


The meeting ended with more questions for me than when it began. Why did the samosas go much quicker this time? Where did they come from? Where did they go? Sadly, Cotton-Eyed Joe offered no explanations.


The more I thought about my robbed happiness, the angrier I became, that is until I saw the people around me, supposedly describing the shape and size of these slices of flakey pastry heaven, creating triangular outlines using strategically bent fingers.


And that was when I realized: this was the Illuminati’s fault.


It had always been the Illuminati.

comments powered by Disqus