The More You Know

I made eye contact with the mouse this morning. He or she or it wanted a look at me as much as I wanted a look at it. It looked very destitute and poor. Ragged. I now understand that this struggle that the mouse and I have engaged in is in fact an inter-species class war. It is the classic case of the poor basement mouse versus the lower-middle class starving actor. While we are both victims of an oligarchical market which once was called capitalism (now replaced with a few monopolies and alliances between the super-rich), we both fight for the same piece of Manhattan real estate. My apartment.

Well, mouse, I wish we could unite and fight the larger fight of anti-trust laws, an equal-playing-field-marketplace, and convincing the public that our incilinations towards the purchasing of cheaply made goods and foods is destroying us economically as well as taking a piece out of our physical health and environment, but you choose to fight me, Jeremiah. You choose to poop all over my apartment. Well, mouse, this ain't Disneyland, and Micheal Eisner isn't here to protect you. You think you're cool. You think you know the game. But I own the game, Mouse. I've bought and old the game on Ebay and taught others how to play. There's no turning back now, mouse. We could have worked together to reverse the Reagan-W-Bush "corporate socialism," but you choose to dance, mouse. Well, dance we shall. DJ, put on something with a fast beat, because this is going to be fierce.

Howard Dean for president!