Gelati al sapore di trippa

Avevamo già parlato di ghiaccioli alla busecca, una proposta artistica milanese, ed ecco che sul sito satirico americano The Onion (n. 31-23 del 9 luglio 1997) ho trovato un articolo di fondo nel quale tale T. Herman Zweibel se la prende con i lettori, colpevoli di aver decretato il fallimento della sua ditta di gelati al sapore di trippa. Si tratta ovviamente di un pezzo di pura fantasia, che qui riporto in versione originale:

You Ungrateful Bastards!
By T. Herman Zweibel
Publisher Emeritus (photo circa 1911)
You bastards! Why will you not buy Old Uncle Zweibel's Patented Tripe-Flavored Ices? Damn you! Damn you! Nearly half a million dollars I've sunk into this venture, and I'll be lucky if I see a penny of it. I added a whole new wing to the estate slaughter-house, kept continuously cold by precious ice shipped via barge from the Arctic Circle, so that tripe and other miscellaneous drippings collected from the slaughter-house floor could be frozen into delightful summer-time refreshments. It's the wonder of the age, by cracky, and it's going to pot because none of you damn fools will purchase my ices! I also spent a pretty penny on elaborate molds into which the tripe is poured before freezing. Who wouldn't drool over a tempting tripe-flavored ice shaped like a steam-locomotive, the Lady Liberty, or Grant's Tomb? I can't understand it. It's summer-time! The heat is stifling! The American people are languishing on the roof-tops of their sordid tenement houses, slowly being driven mad by the neighborhood organ grinder's cacophonous rendition of "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles" below. This should be the ideal time to manufacture and sell delicious tripe-flavored ices. But no takers! I might as well have tried to sell rabies to dogs! I'm always trying to do nice things for you. Who sponsored the public hangings and bear-baitings in the nearby village? Who gave every townsperson a shiny new button for their birthday? And who got the entire village hooked on opium? Me, that's who! At this moment, my estate is lousy with melting, stinking tripe. We tried to feed some of it to the estate's herd of boars, but the spoiled goods exploded in their stomachs, and they died spectacular deaths. So now I'm forced to store crates of it in my armoire. Now I don't even have a place to put my jars of urine! This glut of tripe breaks my spirit. I've always prided myself on my uncanny ability to sell anything to anyone, be it through sheer force of personality, legal writ, or physical coercion. But I learned long ago that when plans backfire, it's best to find a scape-goat and pin the blame on it. You'll pay dearly for this, you bastards!