What child doesn't dream of a pet elephant?
Probably the kind that grew up on a one way street and wasn't allowed to touch balloons until later in life.
We all try to make the best choices. Renaming all the crayon colors to either “Red” or “Not Red” had the intended effect: A generation allergic to compromise. Letting them watch you kick the dog has given us a nation of people immune to raccoon bites. And now that we need them, now that we are weak, now that the empire is crumbling and the sewers won't respond – these creatures have gotten their collective arm stuck in the cigarette machine, desperate for just one more thrill, preoccupied with someday getting their or their motorcycle's picture on a stamp.
Nothing is more worthless than a nation of desperate model railroaders.
“Where will we get our track?!”
The same place we got ours: the mines.
“Who will look at our displays?”
You will. You'll stare at it all day hoping to see a miniature version of yourself getting eaten by little plastic wolves. Only then will you find meaning.
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