A bunch of European leaders sitting around having a secret summit, a picnic under a cluster of trees in a lush green meadow near the apex of an Alpine mountain. They’re eating cold chicken, ripping apart the carcasses and playfighting each other for the white meat. One of the guys — no women at this here summit — says, “You know, the other day I captured a whole bunch of ants and put them in a glass jar and watched them wander around in there, slower and slower, until they all died. Watching that sure was neat.”
“Heh heh,” everyone chuckles. A few add, “I did that when I was a kid.” A single cloud drifts across a sky so blue and vast and breathtaking that one of the picnickers idly contemplates imposing a sky tax.
“Can you do that?”
“I don’t think you can do that.”
“How would you enforce it?”
“Simple. Every day there’s a beautiful blue sky, collect a dollar from each taxpayer.”
The chicken is gone, lunch ends, greasy fingers wiped on groundsoil and groundsoil on pantlegs.
“So, you guys, what do you feel like doing this aft?”
Frowns and grunts, hems and haws.
“I dunno.”
“Me neither.”
“What about you?”
“Well actually I’ve been kind of thinking lately about — well it’s kind of silly actually.”
“Just say it!”
“Yeah! Out with it you master of suspense!”
“Oh all right. Outlawing freedom of sexual preference.”
Silence from the others.
Hopeful smile. “Heh heh. Silly, eh? Any of you guys ever have silly thoughts like uh, like that?”
“Brilliant!”
“Can you do that?”
“I don’t think you can do that.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Don’t you think it would be nice to be remembered for something?”
A one-and-one-quarter-second pause; then, “I wouldn’t want to be remembered as the guy who outlawed freedom of sexual preference.”
A bunch of American leaders in cowboy hats sitting around a mahogany table in a secret meeting room with smouldering coils of cowpatty incense and high sooty ceilings.
“What do you wanna do today boys?”
“I dunno sir, what about you?”
Mr President chews his chocolate with mouth open and brown drool squirting from the upturned corners of his retard grin. He swallows, twice gulping like a retard kid trying hard to get that big bite of hotdog down. Then he looks up and to his right, the tip of his tongue protruding from pursed lips. Presently he snaps a look straight ahead, at no one.
“Let’s gather up a whole bunch of people,” he says, “and put them in a giant Texas-sized glass jar and watch them wander around in there, slower and slower, until they all die. Wow!” He shakes his head, grinning and panting like a mangy dog. “Watching that sure would be neat.”
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