Run for the hills

In an orderly fashion, please, there is no need to panic.

The Wisdom of the Universe: Part 1 : Poverty

This is part 1 of "The Wisdom of the Universe", translated to the tongue of men, as told by M--also known as Dr. T--praise be to him and his immortal soul, to his Insignificant Aide (wretched curses from the depths of burning hell unto her and her inbred lot).

M looks out into the brilliant blue California sky.

M: "Poverty."

I: "Pardon me, sire?"

M: "Poverty, you deaf sloth! Poverty!"

I: " Yes sire, poverty. What about poverty, sire?"

M: " Have you ever pondered the source of poverty, you worm?"

I: "No, exalted one. Such intellectual pursuits are beyond my reach."

M: "As I suspected. Anyway, I have."

I: "You have what, sire?"

M: "Pondered about poverty, pea-brain!"

I: "Oh. I see!"

M: " It is the lifestyle of choice of all poor people. They seem to love it. "

I: " Yes, sire, quite strange that they do."

M: " We must outlaw it. At once!"

I: "I think that might be a tad harsh, my master. Poverty might not be a choice that people make"

M: "Where did you learn to speak so many words at once, you two-pence whore!. Shut up and outlaw it. At once!"

I: "As you wish, sire."

M: "It is hereby declared that choosing to be poor is illegal in this land. So is choosing to be a homosexual, a polygamist, a left-handed person, or a sqat-pooper. Furthermore, no Mustard on Tuesdays. I've had enough."

I: "It is done, sire"

All hail M. His will be done.

Life imitating life

M, also known as Dr. T--may the light of a hundred thousand suns shine upon his countenance-- stares an empty stare down the endless corridor. Towards its furthest reaches, where the light gives up its very soul to the death-grip of eternal darkness, lies salvation. So near, yet so far. He can sense it: a dark, warm nothingness washing the universe all the way to its very end.

As M reaches deep within himself to draw from the strengths of his primeval, a shadow slithers across te corridor. It is Ia, his Insignificant Aide.

Before M can react, Ia closes her eyes and dives into the warm nothingness.

All your octuplet are belong to us.

M, also know as Dr. T, the praise of a billion taxpayers shower upon him, is awoken from his sleep.

Insignificant Aide (Ia) is staring at him expectantly.

Ia: "Ah sire, you awaken. The radiance of your handsome face has kept me warm this evening."

M: "Quick, you overgrown bag of filth, what is it you want now?"

Ia: "O divine brother, I would be blessed to be the mother of little ones."

M: "All right, Here you go."

A flick of M's regal wrist, a wave of his exalted finger; an imperceptible feeling of fulfillment in Ia's heart. M slumps back to sleep, and Ia goes about her wretched ways.

Ia soon drops a litter of 8. Tax payers are enraged.

Thou shalt not spend public funds for rearing of the fruits of immaculate conception.

Ia is summoned to a public town-hall style meeting. With a thousand eyes as witnesses, M hands down her punishment:

Death.

Ia languishes in max-security prison, as the seasons pass, each one bringing new hope via the endless cycles of the appeals process, and each new Governor and Commander-in-chief holding out the promise of an executive pardon.

As Ia's hopes grow dimmer and promises from the capital fade into the fog, taxpayers money too slows down to a trickle. Prison guards are underpaid and overworked. Prison doctors work one day a quarter. Heaters are on only on Wednesdays.

D-day approaches for Ia.

Will taxpayers have enough money left to gas her? Will they finally be able to bring to fruition the tying down and poisoning of the witch? Will faint-hearted weasels pardon her for their lack of balls to watch a life snuffed by a magical gas? Will we be denied a tailgating party before the execution? Are the commies plotting her escape? Will they take her away to flood our lands with litters larger and larger?

Only time will tell...

Re-roll

Soft clouds pummel the mountainside. Thunder. Rain. More thunder. More rain. Repetitive writing. Short sentences. Headache.

Just as your head feels like it will split open, M, also known as Dr. T (Praise be unto his name and his ten-headed virgin father who shall not be named) bursts into the room, guns blazing.

M: "I have burst into the room, and my guns are blazing."

M's Insignificant Aide (curses unto her and her wretched lot) slithers in behind M.