Twelve eager eggs; Seven scintillated stock cubes; four favourable milk drums; other such objects; On a Saturday morning they all waited expectantly in the basket to see the land beyond, the new world.

Now, these guys knew they had full authority over their new jurisdiction. They knew it. There were too many of them, they were too strong.

They were right.

They wiped out the opposition, the natives, and left not a trace of them but a bag of pasta which had seen many previous plantations. As the old saying went, “The pasta knows(a) the Past(a).”

But anyway, (not so) subtle racism aside, everything got settled in. Everything had it’s role. Everything worked swimmingly – until – the four favourable milk drums ran out.

“IMMIGRANTS!”

And from a different supermarket no less! The items in the fridge stared suspiciously at them, blaming them for their own dwindling resources, their own spoilage. And then it happened again! And AGAIN! Until this once-great empire fell. And what was left of it?

The pasta.