Okay, so let me get this straight. We go to court and plead our case. The judge motions to the guy in the hood, and they take us away in chains. Got it. Any other options?
Oh, hi. Yeah, we’re working with our legal advisor – a mouthpiece named Anti-Lincoln, esq. And as you can see, he’s helping us out with our recent eviction notice. Not the first time, you understand, that we’ve been asked to vacate the premises. More than once the folks down at city hall have reminded us that this building is SUPPOSED to be vacant. Seems a waste to us, but what do we know? The abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill is abandoned for a reason, even if we don’t know what that reason is. Freaks! They didn’t even sweeten the deal with a grace period; just “Out, already!”
I know what you’re probably saying right now. You’re saying, “That Big Green,” says you, “they are totally out of their tiny minds.” And that’s where you make the big mistake: referring to our tiny minds as more than one thing. In actuality, together our brains make up one mind. That’s why we know what the other person is going to do wrong before he goes and does it wrong. We are the collective mind of Big Green. Or at least that’s what I tell the tax assessor when she comes a-knocking. Try it sometime – it totally freaks them out.
Trouble is, we are also a collective wallet. And if I were to choose with whom to share a wallet, it would not be this troop of losers and miscreants. God knows, every time I get my hands on some legal tender it evaporates into thin air, snatched up by the claw of a Marvin (my personal robot assistant) or the twig of a man-sized tuber or the spotted hand of a man named Lincoln. It’s a kleptocracy here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, or at least effectively so. No one subscribes to the notion of private property. I’m surrounded by collectivists! What’s mine is mine, what’s yours is mine – that’s their motto. And me, a mere anarcho-syndicalist. What defense hath the likes of I?
Okay, well…. I’ve run off at the mouth a bit, not even getting around to mention Big Green’s upcoming [INSERT NAME HERE] Interstellar Tour 2011. Some publicist I turned out to be. Got to stop typing so I can motion to my counsel.
Okay, there’s this parchment scroll tacked to our door with a dime-store knife. And it’s got some rubbish scribbled across it about how we need to vacate the premises of our adopted home, the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, by the end of July… “or else”. No signature. But a very distinctive style of penmanship, I must say. South paw. (You can tell by the smudging of the India ink. ) Can just barely read the thing, frankly. (Or even dishonestly.) Clearest thing is the illustration of a shaking fist – kind of threatening.
That’s the song we’re singing here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, now that Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been plying his new trade as preacher, flock-leader, and chief financial officer of the local diocese of the Space Hippie Sect. Yes, it’s a religion he made up using bits and pieces from Hulu reruns he watches in his ample spare time (contrary to common belief, robots are slothful creatures generally, their servos idle nearly 65% of the time). Turns out it was time well wasted, as the converts have been trudging in, eyes glazed, arms extended in front of them, hungry for spiritual guidance. Didn’t know Marvin was so good at getting money out of people. Must be new programming… for somebody.
constitutionally protected speech, not a Web-based confession of ill deeds. Nor is this claim a lame effort to keep you from breaking up this great little scam we’ve got going….. um… in the satire.)