Smashed avo toast has rightful place as our national dish

There is no such thing as twenty-two dollar avocado toast. But maybe there should be. Ridonculous think piece auteur Humbert Blowave may simply have been meeting his clickbait KPIs when he set the dumpster on fire over the weekend, claiming that kids these days should be driving trucks for their country and negatively gearing their second McMansion instead of galavanting about the boulevards combing truffled avo toast from their hipster beards – but his was the hot take we desperately needed.

Not because he was right – he was the exact opposite of right – but because our long national nightmare is over at last. Finally we can have the angry, undignified discussion we should have had about smashed avocado a long time ago.

I put it to you, my friends, that the day is come for us to tip the old, cold bowl of spaghetti bolognaise off its pedestal as our national dish and replace it with – Yay! – smashed avocado toast.

Spagbol has had its run, but avocado toast has been a victim of prejudice so entrenched in our system that it is sparking revolt across the West in general, and most specifically here in this column where I'm talking about it.

What am I talking about, you ask, the way you always do?

Avocado toast and bigotry, that's what. For although none dare call it bigotry, this is the endgame of Humbert Blowave and his ilk.

Think about it.

How can spaghetti bolognaise remain our national dish when it has proven itself wholly unsuitable as a breakfast option? I will concede, under duress, that it will do for lunch, but only after steeping overnight at the back of the fridge in the form of conveniently microwavable leftovers.

No, spagbol, is an entirely reasonable dinner, but not a national dish.

Only smashed avocado, available on toast at all three main meal times, and as a tasty snack at all the other hours in between, has the versatility to be on our coat of arms, and the sustainable price-to-earnings ratios that will keep generations of avocado miners down in the giant open cut avo pits of far-north Queensland for generations to come.

They are the ones I worry about if Blowave should ever have his actual way. He may not care about the livelihoods of those hard working men and women who risk everything to dig our precious green golden nuggets of goodness from trees deep beneath the earth, but all right-thinking Australians do. And if a twenty-two dollar plate of avo toast is the price we pay for our precious freedoms then that is a price I am willing to pay as long as there's some fried haloumi too.