A Voice from the Crowd
A protester shouted “F**k you America!” As he lobbed a grenade comprised of sawdust and beavers into the crowd. Before you know it, the beavers were madly attacking people, gnawing at their privates, while panhandling for spare change. “That’s illegal” cried a police officer, who then pulled out a 9 millimeter and began blasting in retaliation. Everyone was fair game. No one would be spared the wrath of the dispossessed. And, since everyone was dispossessed, no one was spared. If this seemed like circular logic, it only seemed that way if you thought about it. If not, you were OK.
Meanwhile, the press watched and tried to stay out of reach of the beavers, just in case things got out of hand. A reporter, standing a safe distance from the melee screamed “What happened to Taco Viva. Are you trying to tell me that we can have only one fast food joint dedicated to fictional Hispanic cuisine? If that ain’t racism, I don’t know what would be?”
At that moment a voice from the crowd shouted back “What about Pollo Tropical? Aren’t they Spanish-style fast food?” When the reporter realized the mistake he’d made, he pulled out a snub-nose revolver and shot the kid for asking such a subversive question. “Don’t ever mess with my ideological assumptions again, you got that!” Proclaimed the reporter with a righteous indignation fit for a king. Then he reloaded. “You never know when someone else will question your beliefs.” He thought to himself. “So you’d better be ready.”
Yes. Madness of a kind seldom seen was infiltrating America. Nay. The world—and it could only be detected with a very powerful microscope, then the disease was visible. But only then. Scientists peered long and hard at the virulent strain of ideology, hoping against hope for another infusion of corporate cash. Big, freaking, piles, of corporate cash. “That would solve the problem.” said the one giant brain known as science. “That is when you shall know the truth, and truth shall set you free.” At which point the camera pulled back in one long dolly shot, worthy of Orson Wells’ lesser known cousin Nelson “The Beaver” Wells.
And then the onslaught began again, as a cadre of large, aquatic rodents descended on Washington, gnawing at the great underbelly of society, building damns, without permits, even.
“Perhaps the bureaucrats will save us?” Said a member of the press, as a rabid beaver bit into his jugular, which brought a deafening silence, for a moment.
But only, for a moment.
Sir Isaac Newton
Meanwhile, the press watched and tried to stay out of reach of the beavers, just in case things got out of hand. A reporter, standing a safe distance from the melee screamed “What happened to Taco Viva. Are you trying to tell me that we can have only one fast food joint dedicated to fictional Hispanic cuisine? If that ain’t racism, I don’t know what would be?”
At that moment a voice from the crowd shouted back “What about Pollo Tropical? Aren’t they Spanish-style fast food?” When the reporter realized the mistake he’d made, he pulled out a snub-nose revolver and shot the kid for asking such a subversive question. “Don’t ever mess with my ideological assumptions again, you got that!” Proclaimed the reporter with a righteous indignation fit for a king. Then he reloaded. “You never know when someone else will question your beliefs.” He thought to himself. “So you’d better be ready.”
Yes. Madness of a kind seldom seen was infiltrating America. Nay. The world—and it could only be detected with a very powerful microscope, then the disease was visible. But only then. Scientists peered long and hard at the virulent strain of ideology, hoping against hope for another infusion of corporate cash. Big, freaking, piles, of corporate cash. “That would solve the problem.” said the one giant brain known as science. “That is when you shall know the truth, and truth shall set you free.” At which point the camera pulled back in one long dolly shot, worthy of Orson Wells’ lesser known cousin Nelson “The Beaver” Wells.
And then the onslaught began again, as a cadre of large, aquatic rodents descended on Washington, gnawing at the great underbelly of society, building damns, without permits, even.
“Perhaps the bureaucrats will save us?” Said a member of the press, as a rabid beaver bit into his jugular, which brought a deafening silence, for a moment.
But only, for a moment.
Sir Isaac Newton