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populism, Truth

A Profile in Populism

Enter a stately coporate board room.

At the “helm” is a man, shirt sleeves rolled and tirelessly at-the-ready for any and every photo opportunity. He is known only as “Uncle Sammy” (some say “my perverted, old Uncle Sammy”).

The agenda on the table for today’s planning session includes:

  • “what-to-do, what-to-do, what-to-do”;
  • Banking on mammon – why it good for America;
  • The service economy is sick, and I ain’t feeling so good;
  • How to run a company like an international power-house in three, easy steps;
  • Tell us what problems you are encountering and how we can serve you better.

The board meeting takes on the shape of a town hall.

Sister Susie thinks that they should plant gladiolas around the flag poles of all the state-run manufacturing firms.  She iterates that there is simply “too much negativity in the world today” and there needs to be some ‘happiness’ spread around.

Arnold, the voice of reason on the committee, concurs.  He says that there would be a “peace dividend” that would pay off in deuces once everybody “gets all happy again”.

“Harumph !  I agree,” comes the call from the personnel director.  “Everyone is in a state of funk-deli-iciousness, and we would all benefit if everyone would just see the happy, happy colors in all the pretty flowers.  We need a mantra, and a flag with lots and lots of embroidery”.

The man with the sleeves rubs his chin.

“So, we are in agreement.  Flags and flowers.  Flags and flowers.  It will be our new mantra.  The banner will eventually fly over every corporation in America, and we can contract tatoo shops to emblazin it on everyone’s ass. What say you?”.

A mushroom cloud from the back of the board room finally speaks.  It’s Larry, the resident pot-head.

“Yeah man.  I think flowers are cool.  Their colors just seem to run together, man.  Thicker than thieves, dude.  Let’s go for it,” he says as he tokes another toke from his bong.

“Then it’s settled.  Flowers for everyone!”, saith roll-up sleeve dude.

“Next item.  What will we do about this whole banking crisis?

“Let’s give everybody some money, man.  Spread the weatlh,” toker-man states.  It sounds as if he is squeezing tooth paste out of a tube as he constricts his airway to blow out his dope-smoke along with his blather thinking somehow that in so-doing he will increase the “high” on which he is currently riding.

Sister Susie concurs, “yes, it will fit nicely with the whole “greening of America” concept”.

A big, black fella who looks like some sort of body guard or over-fed rap artist showed his sign of support for the effort with a simple and deep-voiced, emphatic “yeah”.

“So it’s settled,” says roll-up sleeve dude, “we will see to it that more money is printed and everybody gets a share.  That oughtta make those greedy Republicans happy.”

There is a cacaphony, a chorus that rises in the board room (for they all hate Republicans at this tabel) “Hip, hip, hooray.  Hip, hip…HOOray!”.

For a moment it would seem they would break in to “for he’s the jolly-good” for roll-up sleeve dude, but he beats them to it by dropping the gavel and moving on to the next item on the agenda.

The smoke, wafting through the room seems to have an effect, and roll-up sleeve dude squints his eye and tries to read the next item.  He sways a bit amongst the smoke and mutters something about “service” and “ain’t feeling too good”.

He then makes an executive decision – at long last, movement!

“Ahh hell.  Let’s punt the agenda, shall we?  Bong boy, got any more “weed” to go around?”.

And thus ends the first meeting of “Populus Enterprises”.

They all stand and salute the banner at the back of the room that reads simply “At PE, High Times are bound to happen”.

Outside the sky scraper, a boy and his dad stand in rags, looking up at the pot smoke rising from the top of the tower.

“You think it’s on fire, dad?”.

“Naw, son, I think it’s just smoldering.  Real fire won’t catch until everyone else catches on,” and with that they turn and take a stroll up Wall Street, looking for morsels of food or coin dropped by drugged and droopy,  government-appointed, dope-smokin’ execs.

About precipii

An aged anti-hippie, ...


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