I’m young, white, college educated, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not planning on doing anything wrong, neither now nor at any time in the future. I would, however, very much like to get this out in the open: Monsanto does not condone cannibalism, neither endorses the systematic harvesting of mortal flesh for mass consumption nor drools at the thought of rendering a bountiful population of citizens into edible chunks of protein. None of the fine folks employed by Monsanto fantasize about a future in which farming of their fellow man is a viable practice. You might be wondering how I can be so sure, and to that I can only reveal that I have extremely credible evidence as well as trustworthy informants on the inside.
Usually when I take long bus journeys, I like to pass the time counting dead dogs on the side of the road. Once when I was busy calculating the quantity of deceased canines I had seen whiz past the window, from behind my head I hear a soft voice say, “Maybe they’re just sleeping.” I turned my head to discover that it was the voice of a very old man slowly licking the paper of his rolled cigarette. The bus continued to hurtle south, as the withered palm trees and collapsing shacks all blended together into an infinite gray and green blur.
“No, no, no.” I shake my head becoming increasingly agitated. “They aren’t asleep.” I scream at the tops of my lungs, “I know roadkill when I see it. I’ve counted thirty-eight in the last two hours.”
The unlit cigarette pressed between his lips, the last match from his ratty old matchbox poised to scratch the rough sandpaper surface, the gentleman pauses and slowly turns his head to stare straight into my darting, manic eyeballs. It was exactly in that very moment that I remembered how right after my ninth birthday, Daddy threw a tantrum that made him punch a hole in the wall, break his right hand, and cause his secretary to walk out. That made him punch the wall with his left hand breaking that one too. That is how I ended up being Daddy’s secretary during the summer before fourth grade. We worked from home in an office that Little Steve the Child Molester built in 1964.
Every Christmas Daddy throws a “Taking the Christ Out of Christmas” party and invites everybody. Everybody loves my Daddy except for a small percentage. We leave out Jesus because he makes Daddy angry, and both of his hands are already broken. We don’t believe in singing Christmas carols. The only music we are allowed to hear is “The Very Best of Peter Paul and Mary”.
Today, we’re making our annual “Taking the Christ Out of Christmas” dinner. Mamma soaks a ham in Dr. Pepper while Daddy kicks out the cats and organizes all of his stray bullets into one singular kitchen drawer. My little brother who everyone calls “The Son Of Jasper” is wandering around with his guinea pig appropriately named Yo-Yo Ma.
Mamma says, “Just be sure you put Yo-Yo Ma back in that cage when the company comes. I don’t want us to look like trash.”