Economics 101
Page 4
The Blogger's Guild.
"Aye! We didn't expect an American Exposition!" parroted his men.
"Nobody expects an American Exposition! Yet an American Exposition you have recieved, and a good one at that! Be content! Do not question! An American Exposition it shall remain. Carry on, Master Blogger!"
"Have you launched your assault?" Inquired the Leader of the Blogger's Guild, the timbre in his voice rising.
"We have sent The Truth over yonder wall, good sir."
"Times New Roman?" Inquired the Leader of the Blogger's Guild.
"Yes. An agreeable font, sensible and true, and sent plain. The Truth needs no enhancement nor embellishment, good sir, and we stand behind it, to a man."
The Blogger's Guild resumed their work, and launched their words over the wall, but after a short silence, which included listening with cupped ears, the small band realized that nothing had happened.
Both bands then stood quietly in the field, both bands filled with both expectation and disappointment, both bands completely at a loss as to what should be done next.
"Should we send money?" cried one ragamuffin.
A quick search revealed that they had no money.
"Did anyone hear from the President today?" one asked.
"Aye! He told the Republicans to go fuck off!" spat another.
"Eh, heh, heh, heh."
Weary laughter, grim and hard, shot through the ranks but quickly died away, as that old familiar unsettling something, which seems to live close to the bottom of their guts, near their fear, rose back again, like a tempering bile, like acid reflux, and they all felt, to a man, that at any moment, their acidic digestive juices would be launched up involuntarily, and copiously cover the very last of the cakes of their hungry party.
This uneasy feeling caused them to turn upon each other, to criticize and second guess their causes and their sincerity, their convictions and their legitimacy. Then they began to suspect that not every man was true, nor right, nor worthy of respect. They turned into uncomprehending knee-jerk Reactionary Assholes. And the criticisms that they mustered against each other in their minds were nonconstructive, destructive and toxic, designed neither to teach, nor show empathy nor understanding, but rather, to disgrace and embarrass and give cheap chuckles to their conventional friends.
This chemical imbalance grew, and soon, without medication, they all became defensive and neurotic, and retreated to their computer desks, where they began typing wildly...
-{Meanwhile}-
Rod Serling, alive and well and sporting sensible black and white, stood on a smokey basement Jazz Club stage with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. He wore a tight and pained look on his face, and narrated at the subconscious level while a bongo player sat behind him, cross legged and wearing Ray Bans, tapping out the beat:
"Distractions...
Misinformation...
Disinformation...
Misdirection...
The Unreal...