Strictly speaking a “bolus” is a thing you can’t swallow. Implicit is the idea that you must have imagined you could swallow it–like a bear steak I once ordered in a Russian restaurant in Helsinki. It seemed like a fine idea: exotic, manly, a break from dismal routine. But then the fact settles in. You can no longer whisper or murmur. You are reduced to helplessly rooting for your jaws to make progress, any progress, for the thing, which is actually growing in your mouth, is an insufferable industry.
Right now, my bolus is the presidential election, a thing so glutinous, scaly, and dank that I can hardly believe I’m chewing on it. And I’m chewing like I did with that bear steak–chewing until tears rise, until my toes curl in my moccasins, for this is the bolus of all bolii–it’s a circumstance of the desert, they’ve given you something to chew and you imagine there won’t be much else so you better get to work. But of course the thing about a bolus is that you shouldn’t have placed it in your mouth in the first place. You chew like a rodent inside a wall, you chew with your entire organism, but it doesn’t matter. The unconscious says, “You shouldn’t have put that in your pie hole–you don’t know where it’s been.”
Planet of the Blind 
Bolii.
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