“There was one time my friend got caught in the gears,” I say. “And it ripped up his torso, through the chest. And there was blood coming out of his mouth and he was screaming. And I plead with them to stop the machine, because my friend is dying, but no one listens to me, and my friend keeps howling until he is dead. And for years I see his face inside my dreams, with the blood coming out of his eyes and his mouth, begging for me to please save him.”which compares Simon the pickle worker's day to Simon the script doctor's day, and I'm not sure how to read it except as reactionary bullshit. Help me out?
“We’re Freegans,” one of them says.I'm enjoying this.
There is long pause.
“I do not know where that is,” I admit.
“It’s a political philosophy,” the long-beard man explains. “We only eat discarded food that’s cruelty-free.”
“Why?” I ask.
They all start speaking rapidly of books and essays they have read. Their words are so long I cannot understand how they have learned them. Eventually, though, I understand their point: their parents are millionaires and they live this way for sport. I am so impressed, I nearly drop my sausage.
You were wrong.Only in that the rest of the piece was both a lot more entertaining and somewhat more nuanced than it might have been, and was thus well worth reading. Neither the plot nor the politics were surprising.
Is fine.
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posted by paper chromatographologist at 7:10 AM on January 30 [2 favorites]