10/20/2009, 10:24 pm
Comrades, I never thought that I would be with you again. I was out, minding my own business on the streets of Culo de Pecos, checking the doors of the cars to make sure that they were locked, and if they weren't I was holding the interesting things in the car for safekeeping. I was going to return them later. I promise.
I heard a noise and felt something cold at the back of my neck. "Freeze, prog! Don't move or I'll blow your head off!"
I froze, or nearly. The man he was with started laughing.
"What!?" I asked with a good deal of heat. "What's the matter?"
"This pansy prog just pissed his pants!"
"I'll have you know," I said, my head perkily cocked to the side, just like Jodin Morey, "I have every right on earth to determine when I shall micturate." I knew I was on good ground because every time that dear Jodin came to the Rancho I'd have to repaint the bottom foot of the walls and replace the carpets. Once I accidentally dropped a glass and he peed on the ceiling. So if it's good enough for Jodin, it's good enough for me.
"Jeez," the first man, and I'll call him Milton, said. "I scared the piss out of him. Not much of a man."
"I'll have you know," I sniffed, my nose as high in the air as dear Barack's, "that I'm an Uberprog. I'm so filled with compassion and equality that there's absolutely nothing on earth that I don't feel qualified to order about, take over, direct, and ultimately destroy. Why, Michael Moore sometimes asks me for advice.
"'Theocritus,' Michael has often said, 'I've bitten every single hand that has fed me. What next'? And I tell him what to do. So don't tell me that I'm not much of man. Why, even Jodin Morey is scared of me."
"Jodin Morey is scared of crippled blind man with a cup full of pencils."
"Enough!" shouted the second man, whom I'll call Bill. "It's time for his reparative therapy."
And with that they hustled me into the back of Suburban.
Milton said, "Goddamn it! I don't want pee all over my SUV!"
"What?" I screamed. "I learned how to pee like that from Jodin Morey. Would you reject a meal from a man who learned to cook from Julia Child? Would you not listen to a Mozart concerto from a pianist who learned at Julliard? I tell you, Jodin Morey taught me to piss myself. Get it? If you can't appreciate honest prog pee, I pity you."
"Shut up and get in, pussyboy."
With that they put a bag over my head and shoved me in the car. We rode for what seemed forever, and at some point turned off the road onto a dirt one. After another long time, the car stopped. Milton and Bill got out and opened the door and dragged me out, and with the hood still on, I stumbled between them into a building.
They lifted me onto a table and I felt myself being strapped down. I couldn't move. Suddenly the hood was removed, and I blinked against the sudden light.
"You'd better watch it," I said. "I've been on all sorts of marches. I've thrown bricks through all sorts of windows. Why, once I didn't even yell, 'I am nonviolent!'" before I threw a brick through the window of a Korean grocery store. I just wish that the old Koreans who owned it had been there to hear me yell, 'I am nonviolent!' before I put a brick through their window.
"I'm a Numbnuts Progressive, boys, and you'd better watch it!"
"Shut up, pussyboy. You're going to get reparative therapy."
And with that Bill asked Milton, "Are you ready?"
"Yes. You?"
"Yes. Don't get spooked. Remember the last time that we did this. It wasn't pretty."
"Okay. Let's go." Then Milton looked at me and started to say, quietly but firmly,
"1 and 1 are 2. 1 and 2 are 3. 1 and 3 are 4..."
I started squirming and screamed, "Stop it! Stop it! This is cruel and unusual punishment! The Geneva Convention prohibits..."
Bill put his hand over my mouth as Milton continued. "1 and 4 are 5."
I started squirming harder and my eyes bugged out. Bill said, "I think he's ready for the hard stuff, Milton. Try it."
"Okay." Milton looked at me and said, firmly and quietly: "2 times 2 are 4. 3 times 3 are 9. 4 times 4 are 16..."
That was it. The pressure got to me. I screamed, "No! No! No! I refuse to listen to logic. I am a Made Progressive! Don't you get it? It's my will, all the time. Ask Barry O. He'll tell you how that goes. We don't think! We just demand! I don't have to pay attention to reality, because someone else will do it for me! I'm a Made Progressive! Someone else cleans up the mess and picks up the pieces. Because I'm a Progressive! I don't think! I calculate and scheme and lie but I don't think! I just want and whine and demand!"
With the superprog strength that I have as an upper-level Made Progressive, I snapped the bonds on my wrists and undid my ankles. Milton and Bill were terrified and fell back against the wall.
"Torture me with logic, will you?" I sneered. I know how to handle you. Why, none of my friends has ever bothered with logic, and we're all the better for it. I'll show you what to do, you damned... damned... damned...Rethuglicans."
With that I projectile vomited green sick all over both of them, and while they were cleaning it out of their eyes, I ran out, shouting, "One trillion and one trillion is one hundred billion, you sick dumbasses. Because I say it is."
They had left the keys in the car and I got in and roared away.
It's a miracle that I'm with you today, having survived an attack of the Logic Nazis.
I heard a noise and felt something cold at the back of my neck. "Freeze, prog! Don't move or I'll blow your head off!"
I froze, or nearly. The man he was with started laughing.
"What!?" I asked with a good deal of heat. "What's the matter?"
"This pansy prog just pissed his pants!"
"I'll have you know," I said, my head perkily cocked to the side, just like Jodin Morey, "I have every right on earth to determine when I shall micturate." I knew I was on good ground because every time that dear Jodin came to the Rancho I'd have to repaint the bottom foot of the walls and replace the carpets. Once I accidentally dropped a glass and he peed on the ceiling. So if it's good enough for Jodin, it's good enough for me.
"Jeez," the first man, and I'll call him Milton, said. "I scared the piss out of him. Not much of a man."
"I'll have you know," I sniffed, my nose as high in the air as dear Barack's, "that I'm an Uberprog. I'm so filled with compassion and equality that there's absolutely nothing on earth that I don't feel qualified to order about, take over, direct, and ultimately destroy. Why, Michael Moore sometimes asks me for advice.
"'Theocritus,' Michael has often said, 'I've bitten every single hand that has fed me. What next'? And I tell him what to do. So don't tell me that I'm not much of man. Why, even Jodin Morey is scared of me."
"Jodin Morey is scared of crippled blind man with a cup full of pencils."
"Enough!" shouted the second man, whom I'll call Bill. "It's time for his reparative therapy."
And with that they hustled me into the back of Suburban.
Milton said, "Goddamn it! I don't want pee all over my SUV!"
"What?" I screamed. "I learned how to pee like that from Jodin Morey. Would you reject a meal from a man who learned to cook from Julia Child? Would you not listen to a Mozart concerto from a pianist who learned at Julliard? I tell you, Jodin Morey taught me to piss myself. Get it? If you can't appreciate honest prog pee, I pity you."
"Shut up and get in, pussyboy."
With that they put a bag over my head and shoved me in the car. We rode for what seemed forever, and at some point turned off the road onto a dirt one. After another long time, the car stopped. Milton and Bill got out and opened the door and dragged me out, and with the hood still on, I stumbled between them into a building.
They lifted me onto a table and I felt myself being strapped down. I couldn't move. Suddenly the hood was removed, and I blinked against the sudden light.
"You'd better watch it," I said. "I've been on all sorts of marches. I've thrown bricks through all sorts of windows. Why, once I didn't even yell, 'I am nonviolent!'" before I threw a brick through the window of a Korean grocery store. I just wish that the old Koreans who owned it had been there to hear me yell, 'I am nonviolent!' before I put a brick through their window.
"I'm a Numbnuts Progressive, boys, and you'd better watch it!"
"Shut up, pussyboy. You're going to get reparative therapy."
And with that Bill asked Milton, "Are you ready?"
"Yes. You?"
"Yes. Don't get spooked. Remember the last time that we did this. It wasn't pretty."
"Okay. Let's go." Then Milton looked at me and started to say, quietly but firmly,
"1 and 1 are 2. 1 and 2 are 3. 1 and 3 are 4..."
I started squirming and screamed, "Stop it! Stop it! This is cruel and unusual punishment! The Geneva Convention prohibits..."
Bill put his hand over my mouth as Milton continued. "1 and 4 are 5."
I started squirming harder and my eyes bugged out. Bill said, "I think he's ready for the hard stuff, Milton. Try it."
"Okay." Milton looked at me and said, firmly and quietly: "2 times 2 are 4. 3 times 3 are 9. 4 times 4 are 16..."
That was it. The pressure got to me. I screamed, "No! No! No! I refuse to listen to logic. I am a Made Progressive! Don't you get it? It's my will, all the time. Ask Barry O. He'll tell you how that goes. We don't think! We just demand! I don't have to pay attention to reality, because someone else will do it for me! I'm a Made Progressive! Someone else cleans up the mess and picks up the pieces. Because I'm a Progressive! I don't think! I calculate and scheme and lie but I don't think! I just want and whine and demand!"
With the superprog strength that I have as an upper-level Made Progressive, I snapped the bonds on my wrists and undid my ankles. Milton and Bill were terrified and fell back against the wall.
"Torture me with logic, will you?" I sneered. I know how to handle you. Why, none of my friends has ever bothered with logic, and we're all the better for it. I'll show you what to do, you damned... damned... damned...Rethuglicans."
With that I projectile vomited green sick all over both of them, and while they were cleaning it out of their eyes, I ran out, shouting, "One trillion and one trillion is one hundred billion, you sick dumbasses. Because I say it is."
They had left the keys in the car and I got in and roared away.
It's a miracle that I'm with you today, having survived an attack of the Logic Nazis.
