“Who runs the world?” I ask because I have complaints. The little man tells me the box for such things is down the hall. I stumble, clutching my manifestos. If only the masses would read these typed blueprints for utopia then the world would work, because I am a mechanic for reality!
I get to the box, but it is closed. The sign reads—
SEE WEBSITE FOR DETAILS.
So, I tweet.
and I yelp.
I set my phone to vibrate text alert so if anyone comments their digital voice will trip the invisible wire I have set.
Ding– 1 Comment,
Ding— 2 Comments,
YES! They can join—
Ding, Ding, Ding— 3 Comments
— MY REVOLUTION!
I open the comments like a child tearing at wrapping paper…
“Who voted for this asshole!!!,” one comment reads. “BITCH PLEASSSSSSSEEEEEE! Sit yo fucking-turtle-looking ass down somewhere!,” another retorts. “You is lame!!! #SuckIt MOTHER FUCKER!!!” another says.
I chase those comments with my words. Chase in futility the vulgarity of worldwide mass expression. The little man behind the desk laughs. “What’s so funny?!” I shout. “Nothing, our complaint box is just finally working.” I look. There I am, reduced to a wooden statue taking complaints and handing out smoke.