Much later, after the gross unfairness of the trial and the anti-semitism involved became common knowledge, a local restaurant celebrated Dreyfus with a dish called J’accuse-cous-cous.

Oh, silly things like an argument about how much garlic to use or the proper use of a wooden spoon. Things just get out of hand, tempers rise and unforeseen words are shouted in the heat of the moment. Next thing you know the dishes are flying and divorce papers are being filed. A common complaint among the women is lack of appreciation on the man’s part of her prowess in the kitchen.

“Complain, complain. It’s either too soft or too hard. He is never pleased,” housewife Jamila M reported. “I just can’t take any more of this verbal abuse-cous-cous!”

But just as he burst out onto the wooden porch of his creaky hotel, the local lawman intercepted him.

“Well,” said the sheriff, squinting in the glare, “hold up there, pardner. We don’t allow waterfowl to carry guns in this here town, ’specially no-account, immoral furriners such as yourself. I guess you know what I’m a gonna do.”

And without another word he was locked up…

in the loose-goose-calaboose-couscous.

There was succulent squirrel surprise scrub made mostly of nuts, which was okay. And hare hair gel jelly.

But what about moose mousse cous-cous??

I refer of course to Dr Seuss-couscous

I know, I know, it’s a lame excuse-couscous.

That’s the last time I’m getting the chartreuse-cous-cous.

Now you’ve done it.  Now he’s on the loose-couscous . . .

O for Olaf has gone too far. I mean, I’m not going to Herbert Hoover it. But please. Do us all a favor. Native American couscous?

I say it’s Tunisian. But who even cares if it was the Etruscans, the Romans, the Moroccans, or whoever. ENOUGH ALREADY!

Let’s just call a trucecouscous.