The Thumper Amendment

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Alan and I cautiously approached the man. “You wouldn’t mind answering a few questions first, would you?” asked Alan. “Like, who are you?”

  “Ward Dempsey’s the name,” said the man. “I’m the caretaker of this place.”

  “And what is this place.”

  Ward Dempsey stretched out his arms proudly. “This is my land: a world of fun, fantasy, and disgraceful behavior.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but you’ll have to explain that last part.”

  “Most theme park rides do little more than entertain the kiddies, but these attractions were designed to show the absurdities in human nature. They reveal our flaws, in hopes that those who ride them will come away with a better understanding of themselves.”

  Alan and I just shrugged our shoulders and got into the cart. Whatever came next couldn’t be any crazier than what we had seen so far, and the old man seemed harmless enough.

  The golf cart rolled over the weeds sprouting up through the cracks of a central parkway. The old caretaker drove us past classic, mid-century-style buildings, all of them in severe disrepair.

  Mr. Dempsey pulled up to a hospital building. “Avast!" he said. "That’s the Pirates of Health Care ride. You journey through a sick bay, aboard a galleon flying the Jolly Roger. You're diagnosed with scurvy, but after being cleaved to the brisket by scallywags with scalpels, you learn there was nothing wrong with you in the first place. Then you're hornswoggled by your health insurance provider, who declines to pay a penny of the cost. The bilge rats then drain you of all your doubloons, scuttling your financial future. Argh! Now that’s absurd.”

  We passed the derelict roller coaster. “That’s Wall Streak,” said Dempsey, “a thrill ride that mimics the ups-and-downs of the Stock Market. It's the opening bell, and you bullishly ascend into the blue skies of easy money. Suddenly, the economy implodes, the Dow plummets, your hedge fund manager gets arrested, and you lose everything! You descend into ruin, while the financial institutions get government bailouts. Ludicrous, don’t you think?”

  Mr. Dempsey pointed out other bizarre attractions that exposed humankind’s outrageous conduct: The Sweet Revenge Bakery, featuring the Pie-in-the-face Arcade; Dumb-down TV, where cruelty is exploited for your entertainment; and The Consumer Rage Mall, a tribute to shopaholics and credit card debt.

  What I saw was disturbing, and yet intriguing at the same time. On the one hand, I was amused by the tongue-in-cheek nature of it all, and on the other, its truthfulness was kind of scary.

  “Who built this place?” I asked Mr. Dempsey. “You?”

  “I sort of inherited it,” he replied. “No one really knows who did the actual construction, but legend has it that it was built by farm animals!”

  “How’s that, again?” said Alan.

  Our tour guide stopped the cart in front of an old windmill. “Here’s the whole story,” said Dempsey. “Many swear it’s true.”

  At the base of the windmill was a bronze plaque. This was engraved on it:

  The Theme Farm Story

  (As told by an illiterate farmhand)

  Across the green valley, down an old country road,

  Where the sky was blue and the fields was gold.

  On an old family farm, by a tall windmill,

  Stood a little red barn at the top of a hill.

  And you’d see the farm critters if you looked real hard,

  But you wouldn’t find them out-and-about in the yard.

  Instead of grazin’, inside they’d be,

  A-surfin’ the web or a-watchin’ TV.

  And they did not like what they saw!

  And they did not like what they heard!

  And the sheep and the cows, and the goats and the hogs,

  All agreed that the humans was a-goin’ to the dogs.

  Then one stormy night came news of their fate,

  The family farm had been seized by the State!

  The old farmer had died behind the red barn,

  And there weren’t no kin left to inherit the farm.

  “That just ain’t right!” said the goat in disgust,

  “We all know the farm should’ve been left to us.

  We’ll take ’em to court, that’s what we’ll do,”

  So the livestock united and decided to sue.

  Well, the battle was fierce, I must admit,

  And the critters grew weary and were ready to quit.

  But just as they vowed to withdraw their demand,

  In walked a cow with the deed in her hand.

  “We’ve won! We’ve won!” she said with delight,

  “The farm is all ours as of midnight tonight!”

  “Wait!” said the horse. “Please don’t be alarmed,

  But we don’t know nothin’ ‘bout runnin’ a farm.”

  Bein’ so smug, what with all they’d been through,

  They forgot that farmin’, only people can do.

  “Who needs the farm,” the woolly sheep said,

  “We’ll turn it into a theme park instead.”

  “And folks’ll come, and all them that do,

  Will see the World from our point-of-view.

  And escape from what’s been feedin’ their brains,

  They’ll stop and think, and maybe they’ll change.”

  Well, a theme park rose where the old farm had been,

  Theme Farm was ready for folks to come on in.

  And all were invited, from young’uns to old,

  to come fix their world . . .

  Or, so I’ve been told.

  “Really?” I said. “How could common animals build something this elaborate.”

  “As I said . . . legend,” Dempsey reminded us.

  “But, why are we the only ones here?”

  “Because Theme Farm never opened.”

  “Maybe your admission price was too high,” I said.

  “Or, maybe people thought your rides were too insulting to their intelligence,” added Alan.

  “Neither,” said Dempsey. “It was from the public’s lack of free will.”

  “That’s the lamest excuse I ever heard,” said Alan. “All people have free will. They stayed away because they wanted to.”

  “Not true. Theme Farm was created to show how easily people can be manipulated, and the “manipulators” didn’t want anyone to learn that.”

  Dempsey explained that, to corporate America, having so many free-thinking, do-gooders around would cut into company profits. So, the country’s most powerful corporations, with the blessing of Washington lobbyists, joined forces to launch a nationwide advertising campaign, warning people to avoid Theme Farm at all costs—and it worked! While huge numbers were expected to pass through its gates on opening day, not a single soul showed up!

  We were leisurely cruising through the park during Dempsey’s history lesson, when he suddenly slammed on the brakes! We were all thrown forward.

  “What was that?” cried Dempsey, breaking out in a cold sweat.

  “What was what?” I said. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Dempsey looked all around him in a panic. “Someone’s following me.”

  “Who?”

  Dempsey regained his composure, “I’d rather not say.” Then he sighed. “But I’m going to tell you, anyway. It’s Death!”

  “That can’t be,” said Alan.

  “But it is,” said Dempsey. “He’s been on my tail for some time. I cheated him, and he’s pissed. I survived a heart attack behind the red barn years ago, and he’s been after me ever since.”

  “Behind the barn?” I said, remembering the story on the plaque. “You’re the old farmer in the rhyme, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, with some regret. “A weighted coffin lies at the bottom of my grave. Everyone thought I was dead. I was looking to get out of some old debts, so I decided to keep it that way. Years later, after Theme Farm went broke, the state was going to tear it down. So, I changed my name and bought it back, and have been carin
g for it all these years.”

  “Then, what about the rest of the story? Did farm animals actually build this place?”

  “I doubt that. It’s a nice piece of folk lore, but how would they have managed it? A cow can’t pick up a shovel, and a chicken can’t wield a hammer.”

  The cart moved forward again. We continued on to the end of the street, arriving at a scaled-down replica of the White House in Washington, D.C.

  “I’ve saved the best for last,” said Dempsey. “I want you to ride this attraction. There’s something in there you need to see, and it’ll be an adventure you’ll never forget.”

  Alan and I got out of the cart. “Thanks for the tour,” I said. “Will we see you afterwards?”

  “Don’t think so,” said Dempsey. “You see, I’m going to die today.”

  “You can’t know that,” said Alan. “It’s impossible to foretell when your time’s up.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve dodged Death long enough. Delivering you here was my final chore.”

  “But, what about Theme Farm?” I asked.

  Ward Dempsey smiled and said, “Theme Farm will live on, so long as there is absurd human behavior left in the World.” Then he drove off.

  What a crazy, old coot—but a lovable one, nonetheless.

  We later learned that Ward Dempsey had indeed died that day, just as he predicted. He was found by some local folks, and his body was placed in a walk-in freezer while they decided what to do with him.

  And he is still there to this day . . .

  Or, so I’ve been told.

  Chapter 10

  Prefab Presidents

  The sign read This way, please, with a big red arrow pointing toward the entrance to the make-believe White House. Beyond the marble columns, and above the stately front door read another sign:

  THE HALL OF WARTIME PRESIDENTS

  The turnstile ratcheted down as Alan and I entered a grand foyer. A red carpet stretched to the end of a huge, narrow hall. Historic flags from America’s past hung from the high, vaulted ceiling.

  Just inside was a video kiosk. Touch The Screen To Begin Your Adventure, read the graphic. I did as it commanded.

  A perky rendition of “Yankee Doodle” played as an animated cartoon character bounded onto the screen. It was a little man with a three-cornered hat, dressed in an outfit befitting Ben Franklin.

  “Hello, boys and girls,” said the character in a high-pitched voice. “Welcome to The Hall of Wartime Presidents. I’m Little George W.”

  “George W. Bush?” I asked.

  “George Washington, if you please,” he replied.

  “Hey! You talked back to me.”

  “Of course I did. I’m interactive. Ask me anything you want and I’ll answer you back.”

  Alan couldn’t resist some interaction himself. “Here’s a question, Mr. W.,” he said to the screen. “Why are we here? Did that butthead Chester have anything to do with this?”

  “Tsk-tsk,” said Little George. “Such language! If you want to be president, you’re going to have to watch that mouth of yours.”

  “Just answer the question!” I said. “And don’t lie to us. You’re supposed to be the one who never tells a lie.”

  “I don’t,” said George, “about cherry trees, that is.”

  “Whatever.”

  Alan put his finger in the cartoon man’s face. “Dempsey said there was something we had to see in here,” he said. “What does it have to do with war?”

  “You’re going to learn how to prevent it,” said George. “It’s a little trick that all presidents know, but seldom use.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Something you’ll have to discover for yourself, but here’s a hint to get you started. Solve this riddle and you’ll have your answer:

  I’m delicious and sweet, and I grow on a vine,

  I’m green and round, no bigger than a dime.

  I’m everyone’s wish at Christmastime,

  What am I?”

  Little George whirled his finger in the air like a wizard, conjuring up a spell. “Your destiny awaits you.” He pointed down the long hall behind him. “Good luck, adventurers!”

  A splash of glitter filled the screen, then it went blank.

  “What was that all about?” I asked Alan.

  Alan rubbed his chin and tilted his head back. “Let’s see. Small, edible, and everyone wants it for Christmas.”

  “Grapes!” I said.

  “Whoever heard of wishing for grapes on Christmas?”

  Alan and I started down the long hall. War photos and paintings of famous battles lined the walls. The American Civil War, World War II, Viet Nam, Iraq, and other wars were depicted. Sculptures of famous war heroes posed proudly on pedestals. Video tributes honored their bravery, on the field of battle.

  The eyes of the statues followed us—a creepy effect—as we moved on to the next exhibit: the hideous machines of war.

  Nightmarish weaponry that had caused unimaginable suffering and death, now lay silent, in climate-controlled display cases. Armored tanks and field artillery stood like symbolic monuments to man’s inherent barbarism. I did not linger too long in this section, choosing to look for something a little less depressing.

  The walk-through ended at a row of doors on the back wall, that swung open in unison. Stepping inside, I looked up to see a night sky—or at least a simulated one. Alan and I waited for our eyes to adjust to the darkness, then ventured on.

  The scene was a tranquil, cricket-chirping, summer’s evening. A peaceful river gently flowed through a cross-section of the Land of the Free: the blue Atlantic; the amber Plains; the green of the Pacific Northwest. Over the hills, distant lights shimmered from city skyscraper windows.

  Suddenly, a video monitor dropped down right in front of our faces. It was Little George again.

  “Hee-hee!” laughed the little cartoon. “Solved the riddle yet?”

  “Not yet, little general,” said Alan.

  “Here’s another hint:

  It’s the only thing that can save mankind from extinction.”

  “Oh, that’s a big help.”

  “Listen and learn, adventurers. Enjoy the next part of your journey.”

  Then the monitor zoomed back up from where it came.

  On a platform by the edge of the river was anchored a wooden row boat, with room for eight passengers. The boat was old, and didn’t look very sea-worthy. The chipped wood on the side showed wide cracks in spots. There were no oars that I could see, nor any motors mounted to the stern. Basically, in the event of a breakdown, we were screwed.

  Before boarding I posed in front of the height-restriction sign. These are commonly used in theme parks, on rides that might be unsafe for small children, but this one was something different. It read:

  Must Be This Important To Ride!

  Horizontal lines at varying heights gauged how you measured up. The lines indicated whether you were:

  Potentially Important

  Marginally Significant, or

  Of No Use To Anyone.

  The top of my head lined up with:

  Acceptable, For Now.

  Alan bypassed the sign and climbed aboard the floating crate. I stepped in beside him in the front row, as we were cast off down the lazy river.

  On the river banks were re-creations of historical sites in American history: Mount Vernon, Boston Harbor, Independence Hall. A choir softly hummed “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” in the background.

  Passing through the gates of the Alamo, we entered an old-time theater. Our boat stopped in front of a stage with kerosene footlights. The Presidential Seal was centered high up in the proscenium arch.

  The lights dimmed, and the curtain rose to the roll of military field drums. Seated on-stage were three American presidents who served our country during time of war: Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt, and Richard Nixon.

  The presidents looked like wax reproductions, their likenesses extraordinarily acc
urate. But when I saw Mr. Lincoln’s eyes blink, I knew they were really animatronic robots.

  Ward Dempsey had asked us to please remember, that Theme Farm hadn’t been professionally maintained for some years. The neglected robotics made that painfully obvious. Lincoln’s right hand would flick at the wrist every few seconds. Roosevelt’s mouth hung open. Nixon’s head twitched like he suffered from muscle spasms.

  As the musical overture concluded, Lincoln began to stand up. His stovepipe hat fell off his head, and onto the stage as he leaned forward. His rickety frame wobbled and swayed, before finally standing fully upright.

  Soft music accompanied Lincoln as he spoke one of his famous quotes:

  “There are but two types of men who desire war: those who haven’t the slightest intention of fighting it themselves, and those who haven’t the slightest idea what it is.”

  Lincoln remained standing. Roosevelt rose to his feet, the gears in his mouth now functioning properly, as he spoke:

  “I have seen war. I have seen the dead in the mud. I have seen the agony of mothers and wives. I hate war!”

  Robot Richard Nixon then stood up and recited:

  “The greatest honor history can bestow is the title of peacemaker.”

  But just as Nixon finished, the pitch of the music dropped a few octaves, and finally slowed to a stop. All movement on the stage ceased. The presidents stood frozen, like a row of assembly line robots that had lost power.