Saladpocalypse Now: The Unholy Bottomless Brambor Box

Описание: Verse 1
Oh gather ’round the table,
and hear this festive tale —
of a dish so mighty, creamy,
it makes strong men turn pale.
Potatoes boiled like warriors,
carrots chopped with pride,
peas that stare into your soul,
and onions that make you cry inside.

Add pickles sliced in chaos,
add mayo like a flood,
add mustard for the courage,
your ancestors whisper: “Good.”
But once you make this monster,
there’s no way to roll it back —
your fridge becomes a bunker
packed with salad to attack!

Chorus

Bramborový salát, king of Christmas night,
we made enough for armies —
and now we face the fight.
It’s January, February…
March is coming near —
and still it haunts the kitchen,
dripping mayonnaise and fear.

Verse 2
My doctor called me gently,
said, “Your cholesterol’s not fine.”
I said, “It’s Czech tradition
and legally counts as brine.”
He sighed and whispered softly,
“You’ve eaten way too much…”
But it’s hard to quit the salad
when it stares at you like: “Lunch?”

Grandma guards the mixing bowl
like a national monument —
if UNESCO had any taste,
they’d grant it recognition.
Tourists ask for postcards,
we should sell tubs instead —
“Greetings from the Czech Republic:
Here’s the thing that made you dead.”

Chorus

Bramborový salát, king of Christmas night,
we made enough for armies —
and now we face the fight.
It’s January, February…
March is coming near —
and still it haunts the kitchen,
dripping mayonnaise and fear.

Verse 3
It follows me to breakfast,
appears beside my bed,
I swear last night I dreamed of it
wearing a pickle on its head.
My family’s turning yellow,
mayo leaking from their pores,
the dog refuses dinner —
he’s seen this dish before.

We’ll eat it ’til the springtime,
’til the last snow melts away,
’til the sun cries for our freedom
and the birds return to say:
“Please stop feeding us potatoes,
we cannot chirp with grease!”
But no — the bowl refills itself…
This salad will not cease.

Final Chorus

Bramborový salát, legend of the land,
crafted with a wooden spoon
and grandma’s iron hand.
A monument of mayonnaise,
a tower built to last —
may it rule our Christmas tables…
but please not past March 1st.