The Conformist

"I'm sorry, but you must pick one line or the other. There are only two."

"I don't like either."

"Well, you must be one of the two. No one has ever not joined one of the two lines. Pick one. Conformist or radical. Hurry up, there are others waiting."

"I came to join the conformists like everyone else, but now I'm not sure. Look at them, thousands, all dressed exactly alike."

"Yes, and you are dressed exactly like them. Stop wasting my time. Here's your ticket. End of the line."

"Not just yet. How can I know I am ready? Yes, I'm wearing their clothes, but all these folks walk alike, talk alike, and even have the same haircut. How can I be certain I'm a good fit? They look so incredibly good at, well, conforming..."

"Not to worry, you have been conditioned to conform. They were once as you are now, and I suspect that very soon you will be indistinguishable from them. Look at all you have in common. You have read all the same books in school, you watch the same YouTube videos and movies, you cheer for the same sports teams, well, different actual teams, but nonetheless, you are an excellent candidate for conformity. I can tell."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I have been prepared for this...all my life. The conformist line does look very attractive and orderly. Everyone seems very agreeable."

"Yes, very stylish indeed, with many significant advantages. A good conformist will never be mocked, ridiculed, or ostracized. He will be able to enjoy a lifestyle joining the communal laughter directed at the smaller line of radicals that exist entirely for his amusement. This, along with his greater number of conformist companions, will sufficiently reinforce an illusion of superiority, and continue to do so convincingly until his death. It's really the better choice for you."

"Sounds like a pretty good deal. I enjoy being included and partaking in laughter at another's expense. I also prefer feeling superior to others rather than inferior. "

"Perfect fit then. Few worries, safe, neat, predictable."

"Hm, conforming, as if into a single organism. Does it have other advantages?"

"Certainly, conforming is a good way to avoid the anxiety and fear of rejection. You are also less accountable for your actions."

"Yes, I am already sensing the temptation to dismiss the possibility I could achieve more for myself any other way, and could certainly achieve much less as a crazy radical. I could blame other conformists and radicals for my faults and take all the credit for whatever successes I am able to rip-off from the radicals."

"Correctamundo! See, you've really got this conformist thing figured out already. You have almost nothing to lose and everything to gain. Look at all those silly radicals tap dancing and juggling and making fools of themselves. HA!"

"Almost nothing?"

"Well, there is one, minuscule advantage to stepping in line with the radicals, but it's hardly worth mentioning."

"Oooh, tell me, what is it?!"

"My my, your curiosity is not becoming for a budding conformist, which relates to that tiny incentive."

"Tell me, please, I am curious."

"As a radical, you are allowed to be curious and have new ideas, that's all."

"But something like that can't be stopped, can it? What if I first become a conformist and then have a new idea?"

"That's never happened. Conformists conform. They do not have new ideas."

"Never?"

"Never ever. The best conformists are excellent at conforming, and all conformists toil to conform the best. New ideas are always and forever the conformist's enemy, particularly good ones."

"Really? Do conformists ever think for themselves?"

"Yes, they find new and better ways to conform and cling to whatever is popular at the time. They never use new ideas in their race to the center, just old ones that the other conformists have long forgotten. It's a chess game with the same old pieces, and everyone's there to knock everyone else off the board, all the way to the unenviable radical line. They do this through perception, as fear of being perceived as a non-conformist is more than sufficient to adopt/reject any concept. Actual thinking is reserved for the radicals."

"So, are you saying I need to join the freaks just to think for myself and benefit from my own ideas?"

"That's right, of course. If truth is what you seek you have already drifted far from the conformists, and are way behind. They have different ways of operating that free them from many of the harsh burdens of reality."

"Free from what? What are these burdens of reality?"

"You know, things that may be true, but subtract from the incentive of conforming. You can't expect a conformist to acknowledge the value of something different."

"Well, even the most ardent conformist is still susceptible to empirical evidence, right?"

"Not at all. The conformist looks at the evidence for exactly two seconds. If the truth is not unquestionably obvious in that time, he does not worry about any other conformist seeing the truth either, and the evidence is deemed false and crazy. If he does see that the evidence obviously reveals a previously unknown truth in two seconds, this is still not good enough. He also must believe that most other conformists will be unable to deny its blatantly obvious nature without risks to reputation. The senior conformists are most impervious to truth and only observe the evidence for one second. If they do not believe, in one second, that the truth is absolutely undeniable to all other senior conformists, the truth is dismissed wholly. Yet, even if the evidence is undeniable to all in one second, the senior conformists must see how they can benefit from it directly, or it is instantly dismissed. So, a new truth must be obvious to all the conformists in one second, and of great, obvious practical benefit to the most senior conformists. Then, and only then, will any idea ever have the slightest chance of being stolen by the senior conformists for their own use, and even then, only for the benefit of those conformists."

"So, a curious radical who discovers an obvious, provable truth has virtually no chance of communicating it to any conformist? And, even if he does succeed, it will be stolen?"

"That's right. Not being curious in matters other than deception, conformists have a very limited capacity for understanding real things. Such a truth must be absolutely undeniable, blatantly obvious, and of great practical benefit for the most senior conformists personally."

"But wait. I thought the conformists wanted only to conform. If they have all the power to expose truth, why would they listen to any truth at all? What makes a truth of great practical benefit?"

"It is only of practical benefit if the conformist can use that particular truth to shift the balance of conformity so that the other conformists are conforming to him rather than him to other conformists. After all, a conformist who has conformed perfectly has no further reason to conform, and has succeeded...is perfectly conforming. Success is the only concern of a senior conformist, and a new truth can, very rarely, be used by a conformist to this end. This is how all new truths become exposed and widely known. To a conformist, truth is nothing more than a tool used to force a rival conformist to conform. After all, a truth that is easily observable by all will be conformed to by absolute necessity anyway, and the first conformist to identify this truth, and its observability, will be most prepared to conform to it."

"But, what about the radical who delivers the truth in the first place? Can he even take credit for it? Can he benefit from it at all?"

"Beyond what joy he gets from knowing the truth? Heavens no. The truth is usually only beneficial to anyone else if the senior conformist can use it to acquire the means to adequately suppress the radical, often violently, and discredit him. No outrageous radical could ever tarnish the sleek image the conformist has wrapped around whatever conformist-attracting truth he has plundered. The facade will be indistinguishable from the original radical's conception anyway, disguised from the prying eyes of competing conformists."

"But, what if this is an important idea. What if a radical has an idea that will save the planet from say, a comet impact. Can the radical take the credit then?"

"Hardly. The head conformist would probably use this knowledge to discredit and shame the radical, panic the world, collect tribute, then build a spacecraft to escape with his conformist friends. Every conscious thinking radical knows one cannot trust any senior conformist with such knowledge. A truth such as this could easily be suppressed until impact if conformists had acquired all means to stop it from the radicals."

"But, could a radical jump over to the conformist line for the sole purpose of exposing a truth? You know, to make it more observable? If many radicals all happen to know the same truth, he might see that it is easily observable. With this knowledge, he might become a successful conformist instantly by demonstrating the obvious truth to all the conformists?"

"Hm, clever. You will make a fine conformist indeed. Sure, a radical can jump over to the conformist line anytime, and he should if his real goal is to be loved by the conformists and earn Con Credits. If he really cares about actually saving the planet from a comet impact, he would probably simply submit his findings to a trusted conformist, if there is such a thing, and then go back to doing whatever it was that will allow him to continue saving the planet."

"Why can't the radical-turned-conformist just jump back in line with the radicals after diverting the comet?"

"He can, but he loses all his Con Credits and will never be trusted by the conformists again. Such an individual is either a traitor or "insane." Jumping to the conformist line is sort of a one-time, life-long deal. Any conformist that jumps over to the loony bin is there for good."

"So, if I really want to have new ideas, why couldn't I just start in the radical line and then jump to the conformist line when it suits me best?"

"You can, but you'll do so without any Con Credits and lose the best opportunities to steal ideas from the radicals. You will be much better off if you join the conformists from the start. I strongly recommend you stick with the winners, and not the losers."

"Well, say I wish to think, and join the "losers" and step to the back of the radical line. Is it possible that I would be disliked by them for dressing like a conformist?"

"HA! Of course, you will be made quite a fool by many of the radicals for dressing like that, you silly buffoon. Radicals are all very unique, but surprisingly alike in their devotion to novelty, vanity, and laughing at anyone who happens to look like a conformist. Most radicals are actually quite like conformists in this way, and don't even care about their single advantage. Rather than study and ask questions, many radicals will simply indulge in any opportunity to behave in the same, unseemly, conformist manner. The few radicals who do actually seek truth easily see all this, know that the conformists lump them together with the vain radical-for-the-sake-of-radical crowd, and eventually just become apathetic conformists. Beware of this fate."

"So, you are saying that I have the opportunity to truly think for myself, freely explore and comprehend real truths, but I must be completely discredited and made a mockery by all mankind to do so?"

"Basically, yes. Anyone can do it. Dress like a conformist in the radical line and you have the intellectual freedom to think yourself into the cross hairs of every droplet of saliva that shoots from the collective mouth of humanity enraged in an endless fit of hysterical laughter at your expense. To not conform at all means you are alone. Do you really think knowing the truth is worth all that? Do you really want to do this? I don't think so. There, now you know all the truth you need to go conform."

"I'm rather shocked to discover all this. I think you are right, and find it very disturbing. What else will I learn as a radical?"

"Don't ask me. I'm just giving you an account of what I have seen from my point of view. For all I know, the most outrageous radicals are acting rationally based on truths unavailable to me. For all I know, many conformists know all about this and don't talk about it. I just stand here and hand out tickets. I hand out tickets, show people how to get to line they want, and tell them what I know, that's all."

"Sounds like a good gig."

"It's hell. I've made my decision. When I find a replacement I'm outa here and right up there with the conformists before I lose my mind. Hey, you looking for a job?"

"You mean yours?"

"That's right. Just stand here. When someone approaches, hand them a ticket and tell them to stand at the back of the line with the conformists. If they have three eyes or flippers or wear white face paint and pretend they are trapped inside an invisible box, they are probably a radical. In that case, hand them one of these tickets and shovel them in that direction. You serious? You ready for this?"

"Do I have to pick a line otherwise?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm ready."

"Alright, congrats. I'll be at the center of the conformists before you know it. You take your time and think about it, but I'm sure you'll make the same decision. Whatever you do, don't get any big ideas."

Lars and Laura

Lars fell in love with Laura one day. Worse things had happened. He had been bitten by a garter snake the week before and lost his glasses. While he soon did recover his glasses, and his wound quickly healed, his unfortunate affliction with Laura was persistent. He saw her each morning at the bus stop, and each day he became ever more convinced of his unfortunate condition. He knew he needed to address this somehow, and considered a distraction. He tried shuffling away from her and minding his own business. He tried looking at cloud formations and whistling. But, it seemed that no matter how far away from her he stood, or how loud he whistled, his condition remained. Over the days and weeks he began to fear that this was a chronic debilitating disease, and one that he did not know how to remedy. A busy young man, he was certain that such diversions could not be tolerated. Finally, he made the decision that action was required to resolve it.

One morning as he waited for the bus, Lars turned to Laura. He looked at her plainly and said:

"Laura, I have some troubling news. I'm afraid I suffer the misfortune of loving you."

"My, that is troubling," Laura responded tersely. "Not to worry though, I'm sure it will pass."

Lars nodded, and they both waited silently for the bus. "Yes," thought Lars, "I am sure it will pass." Laura was a thoughtful and studious individual, capable of the kind of dispassionate reasoning that both delighted and comforted Lars. Yet, even though he was relieved and comforted by her confident assessment, he soon realized that the exact nature of his condition may not have been communicated precisely. For example, perhaps he could have explained that he had not just realized this moments before he said it. He might have also included the exact number of days he had been in love, and its escalating degree. Without this important information, she was scarcely in a position to offer an accurate and thorough diagnosis. Recognizing the embarrassing and dismal state of his incomplete explanation, he feared the slim possibility her assessment was erroneous.

The next morning, at around the same time, he looked at his watch and then turned to Laura.

"Laura, I have been in love with you for precisely 37 days, and, while I expect it to pass, I believe that over this period of time its intensity has increased. Can you offer council on how I might eliminate this persistent agitation?"

"I'm sorry, Lars, but I can be of no help," she said sternly.

Again, her advice was greatly appreciated, and Lars was reassured. But, as he deliberated with himself, he discovered that her response was actually not very helpful, and even bordered on having the opposite of the intended effect. Just the sound of her voice, regardless of the words, seemed only to hinder his endeavor. Even more, she continued to seem oblivious as to the reality of his disorder. He began to suspect that even the exact number of days and the general escalation of intensity was somehow lacking in clarity. Something told him he still hadn't captured the full breadth and severity of this debilitating disorder. He decided that even if he had informed her of the exact number of seconds, that even that may not be enough. This was very troublesome indeed. Now, not only did he suffer from this strange illness, but also one that could not even be adequately expressed, much less diagnosed. In fact, it could hardly be communicated at all, and there was reason to believe that just maybe words themselves were incapable of a complete and thorough explanation. If this was the case, his condition was indeed dreadful, and would require thought, even if it took time away from his studies.

So, the next morning at the bus stop he was completely silent. Instead of whistling, or attempting another vocal explanation, which by now seemed especially prohibitive, he would formulate a plan. His mission could be stated simply, yet it was very difficult indeed: To inform her of the exact nature of his strange disease, and to do so without opening his ill-equipped mouth.

He was not much of a writer, so a letter was out of the question. He was definitely not a musician, so singing to her was out. His drawings were painfully inadequate, so art would be a dismal compromise. And, touching was right out. After much consideration, and many silent mornings at the bus stop, Lars decided he only had one real option. The way to describe his conundrum would not be through her hears, eyes, or mouth, but through her nose. Olfaction! It was well known that this was the most acute of all the senses.

That evening Lars raided his father's medicine cabinet. He sniffed every bottle of cologne and after shave he could find, determined to wear the most suitable one...the one sure to communicate his sentiments precisely. When the chosen bottle approached his nose it was instant heaven. Right away, he knew it was the one. He looked at the bottle, "Old Spice." Hm. Well, she wouldn't know what it was called. She would only discover the exact truth of his condition as it penetrated her nasal passageways. This, as he continued to sniff, was inevitable.

The next morning he stood calmly beside her. He was a stoic gentleman, and handled himself with dignity as a gentle wind escorted his perfectly constructed message to her lovely nose. Out of the corner of his eye he wondered if she had noticed, rocking slightly in her billowy pink coat. He had spent the night before studying and had learned that he was actually targeting five or six million of her olfactory receptors, and did not even require all of them. He could see her breath pour in clouds through the scarf bundled tightly around her head. She could hardly see, and he wondered if the cologne was capable of penetrating the thick fleece. He became the slightest bit concerned that his plan was not working and shuddered at the thought it may go completely unnoticed - it was either that or the sub-zero temperature. The bus arrived and she bolted through the door and walked to her seat at the opposite end of the bus from his.

His former worry, that of being unnoticed, was proved to be ill-founded. His seat mate spared no time pointing it out, as well as those in the seat in front and behind him. The driver was not immune to it either, and did not hesitate before his robust beard turned to exclaim "is that old spice!?" Lars endured a chorus of laughter followed by the passing of his body from one seat to another as the other children struggled to deliver him to the opposite end of the bus. One young gentleman hurried from row to row, opening every window. There were many anxious to point out their discovery of his former decision, so dramatically misdirected and misinterpreted. In fact, his plan had the unfortunate effect of enlivening everyone on the bus except for Laura, who seemed strangely oblivious to the whole ordeal, casually gazing out her window.

Lars was beginning to realize the difficulty of his task, and he spent much time pondering it. He finally decided there was no easy shortcut, and that his objective would require some real, conscionable, effort. She would need to be impressed with him somehow. He would need to accomplish something exemplary or fantastic in her honor. But, this was a devastating discovery, as there was absolutely nothing exemplary or fantastic about him. He was perhaps the least talented individual in his class. He was neither athletic, nor especially charismatic, nor bright by any measure. All of this brought him to the inevitable comclusion that he had no choice but abandon this objective entirely. And, so he did.

For a little while. Then, he got to work. He decided to learn to play an instrument, and then decided he would listen to all the music he could find until he discovered the most beautiful piece ever. But, as much as he listened, he simply could not find any music beautiful enough. Dozens of CDs turned to hundreds, and then thousands of MP3s accumulated in his iTunes. Yet, nothing even came close. So, he resolved to take matters into his own hands. If no one else could write a piece of music beautiful enough for her ears, then he would do it himself. After that Lars sat down at a piano every day, and make little sketches on a piece of score paper. He found this very difficult, and, after several days, he noticed he was not making much progress. Yet, as he stood next to her each morning, he remembered that he simply could not give up. Soon spring came, and then summer, and he continued to poke away at the keys. He after several years, he had written the piece that he believed was beautiful enough for her ears.

But, by now he had quite a lot of time invested in all of this. His efforts had been quite agressive and perhaps even excessive, but necessary, as his condition had deteriorated into a desperate and unenvyable state. As he polished the notes and practiced its performance, a severe problem lingered in the back of his mind. He considered the possibility of her continued misunderstanding. That would be quite disturbing, and would certainly leave him more wanton of expressive revelation than ever. To take such a risk, it became obvious, would require far more courage than he posessed. Performing for her would be impossible. This was an unfortunate realization, but one that could not be avoided. Lars put his manuscript into storage and thought about how he could manufacture some courage.

About that time Lars and Laura parted for different corners of the country. Laura to the east coast and Lars to the rocky mountains. He decided a profession in extreme sports was required to acquire the desired amount of courage. He started with mountain biking, and then rock climbing, and finaly base jumping. When even this shook his nerves he engaged in daredevil motorcycle stunts. He figured if he could overcome his fear of jumping one hundred automobiles, he could overcome the fear of performing his masterpiece for Laura. He cleared the hundred cars with the unfortunate side effect of breaking nearly every bone in his body. After a year of rcovery it was apparent that his hands would never be in a state to play the piano again, which Lars found quite troubling.

The next decade was spent learning to paint. By this time in his life he was a bit more clever, and managed to place his very best painting in a gallery that Laura would go to. She saw the painting and disliked it, so Lars threw away his brushes. Over the years she saw, heard, and even tasted a few more of his creations without her knowledge. None of them were of particular interest to her.

The next decade, Lars accumulated a fortune. He figured he could buy her a nice gift, and that maybe this would be adequate to demonstrate his, by now, completely terminal illness. While Laura appreciated the large ocean-side estate, she also appreciated moving there with her husband and five children. Lars felt the slightest bit concerned that by this point she just may be too distracted to ever fully understand the peculiar nature of his illness. This did not distract him for long.

The remaining sixty years of his life Lars attacked his illness with a vengence. He became a world-renouned ice chisler, champion competitive eater, and minor-league baseball team owner. He produced movies, wrote novels, and caught a record sea bass. He started a multi-national corporation and became a multibillionaire, funding charitable organizations around the globe. He even bought an island and started his own republic. Is own personal worth exceeded that of almost every nation on earth. He dedicated everything he did to Laura although he knew the possibility of relieving his ailment was very slight.

He was in his 90s when he rang her doorbell one morning.

"Laura, I have been in love with you for precisely 75 years, 325 days, 1 hour and 37 minutes. While I expect it to pass, I believe that over this period of time its intensity has increased. Can you offer council on how I might eliminate this persistent agitation?"

She responded immediately.

"I'm sorry, Lars, but I can be of no help."

Lars nodded and turned away. He began to walk down the sidewalk, but turned back before Laura had closed the door.

"Laura, I never asked. Do you happen to suffer the same illness?"

Laura nodded her head. Lars continued...

"I have not been of much help, have I?"

Laura shook her head. "No, you haven't."

Lars nodded and turned away again as Laura closed the door. He walked slowly down the driveway on onto the sidewalk. He stopped and turned back for a moment. To his surprise, he saw Laura watching him, and smiled for a fraction of a second before the curtain closed in front of her. Lars lived in peace for the remainder of his long life.

Abuse

The nice thing about substance abuse is the sympathy. It's the hugs, the flowers I get in the treatment center, the greeting cards. It's why I drink, really, and shoot heroin. If you must know, it's why I smoke weed excessively and imbibe in pain killers. It's the compassion and the familiarity. It's quite breathtaking, actually. When I think of the care and militant empathy that showers me following a week-long brain-mangling gasoline huffing binge, my heart cannot deny its necessity. It reminds me why I was placed on this Earth. My calling: to experience the incredible love and support that comes from abusing my body with dangerous and addictive chemicals. Little brings me more joy than those soothing smiles on their faces, looking down with purity and innocence upon my anemic, emaciated body covered with IVs and wires. These are moments to live for.

As far as my preference, I judge narcotics mostly by their ability to incapacitate. I have found the degree of pity is somewhat proportional to my degree of helplessness, so the most addictive substances are preferred. There are exceptions. For example, most folks believed my cigarette smoking addiction was my own fault, which made it useless. This was unfortunate because they were very accessible. I discovered the perception of the drug's omnipotent power is absolutely critical. So, instead, I turned to large amounts of booze, contracting the disease of alcoholism. The difference was shocking, and completely incomparable to smokes. My deliberate destructive drinking had the uncanny ability to convince almost everyone that my infantile helplessness was complete, and my behavior, completely unintentional. It seemed to be working.

Yet, this was not enough by itself. I also had to demonstrate futility - that I was not accomplishing anything at all, lest I have purpose, and therefore, something to live for. This psychological game requires determination. But, futility, as it turned out, was not much of a problem. In fact, I really outdid myself, being scarcely able to navigate my apartment without cuts and bruises in my incoherent stupor. At least, I assume this was the case judging from my subsequent condition, and that of my apartment. I was surprisingly capable of unintentionally damaging both beyond repair. How, exactly, did I do it? Well, these were not memorable times, but I remember choking on my own vomit and flashes of the ambulance ride. Then, of course, the violent convulsions of withdrawal. But, what really sticks in my consciousness - what I cannot displace from my most vivid and irresistible fantasies, are the divine visitors tenderly stroking my forehead and wishing me well. With the memory of every caring word I feel like Pavlov's dog salivating for that precious burning sensation destined to scorch the full length of my throat.

There are important nuances to all this. Always the innocent victim, I must be overwhelmed by more than just the treachery of my own impulses, and gain unquestioned sympathy by being encouraged by a tyrannical enabler. Acquiring one of these is as easy as chatting him up at the bar; maybe buying him a double. This enabler is there to ensnare me in his pernicious tines of drunken camaraderie, as such an influence is essential to my innocence. Without his insistence I cannot have a clean case. I choose him carefully, knowing he must be naive and completely oblivious. In fact, I drink with him only a token number of times; just enough to ensure I am seen accepting his poison. Although I will be downing liters of brandy moments after last call, I must be noticed subtly rejecting the last round. While the enabler ambles home and falls comatose on the tile floor my evening of self-destruction begins. To start I like to pour a martini dryer than surface of the Mars. Done correctly, the enabler will assume the majority of the responsibility, maybe 80%. The booze takes the other 20. I, my friends, take none and urge you to spare my innocent enabler as I strain to uncurl corners of my mouth watching you berate him for his unconscionable behavior - driving me to engage in horrific activities I could never have done otherwise. The shower of scorn that falls upon this individual is almost as delightful as your gentle warmth, nursing me back to health. The combination is my little piece of heaven.

Call me a joker, a masochist, a psychopath. Call me whatever the hell you want. Recovery or gurgling up blood from my corroded stomach lining. That's the life for me. It's how I roll, and you suckers just can't help but love me for it, can you?

Cheers!

Change

The dollar went into the machine and delivered four tokens, which were immediately consumed by Mrs. Pac-Man, that voracious pebble-munching she-bitch. We were kids then, in the early 80s, and our parents worked multiple jobs so that we could navigate her insatiable appetite over thousands of little golden rounds over at Chuck-E-Cheese's place once a year on our birthday. Looking back I imagine the inventors of that God-forsaken game, giggling in some office park over the irony - that children will gleefully consume as many little gold pieces as possible while they are themselves being robbed of their own future prosperity for the sake of a few moments of futile bliss, gobbling down their inheritance with every pac. Yes, a smile for a dime is emotional extortion, but good for the economy as any leading economist will tell you. These days we need to think about what's best for the economy. If the most direct way to a parent's wallet is through their children's smile, it is in our shareholders best interest for us to be the source of that damn smile. After all, the law prohibits us from acting outside the interest of our shareholders. If only we could somehow all work together we could really make a difference. If only we could all just agree, then we could combine the industrial strength of all nations to our cause. But, we can't actually tell anyone we're in the brainwashing business. It's bad for PR, as everyone on the board of directors will tell you. So, let's find some global catastrophy to piggyback on...how about good 'ol global warming! Yes, and then we claim moral authority by scrorning parents for drinking from foam cups, and then pull out from the foam cup business. Delightful. Then, not only will we look like the good guys, but we'll have more of their money to invest in doping their kids with pseudo-medicine or special baby food or whatever the hell we need to do to swing their mood from one extreme to the other. How else are we going to turn these kids into profit machines? How else are we going to get any real change around here?

Review

I had the pleasure of sharing one of my stories with a friend the other day. It was one called The Triangle Republic. After he read it he looked at me and pondered the political message that was no doubt veiled within. I thought about it myself and figured I would be able to express a concise summary of its message. After all, I had spent many an hour outraged as my naive brain struggled to comprehend the difficult truth that all politics is nothing more than a battle to gain the power to steal the fruits of my labor for interests contrary to my own. I wrote it in the throws of outrage at government and, well, society as a whole. I must have had some sort of point. But, when I really thought about it, there is no specific political message to this tale. The pushers, although they look like elephants, are not Republicans. The screamers, although they have hooves like donkeys, are not Democrats. It's simply a story about a bunch of retarded monsters using all of their strength, ingenuity, and mental abilities to stop the whole damn herd from falling over a cliff to certain death. It's about cooperation, courage, ingenuity, compassion, and will. But, most of all, it's about plain old stupidity...most of all, my own. It is about my own willingness to blindly hobble along beside whoever is next to me and eat whatever falls in front of me. I will certainly continue to do so until I am dangling over the edge, and will then hang helplessly until some other monster freaks out and I fall into that salty sea below. I will splash and complain, trying to hear or feel until I happen upon my next yang. Who knows whether I will scream or push or just somehow bump into it. Maybe I'll drown, who knows. Perhaps what they say is true, and a lonely mute did jump over the side. If so, I certainly hope that mute is hungry.