Entrenched deep in the disintegrating topsoil of the midwest, the foundation of America’s Food Pyramid has lately been taking a round-the-clock beating at the behest of various legions of groundhogs, jackhammers, poorly informed telephone line representatives, corrosive secretions detected in tiny sacs housed within the mouths of cave-dwelling troglodytes, et cetera.
Meanwhile, throngs of juiced-up ecstatic cyberkids in 3D glasses and fashion antennae pile into coastal multiplexes to dump their weekly allowance down the gullets of the producers and financiers of “Assault on the Basalt Bedrock Part XVI: Homecoming.” But there are some things that money can’t buy. All the memes in China amount to little more than a gnat’s knickers when weighed against that basic hunger that gnaws at your bedframe and cuts your hair while you sleep: that special kind of hunger you get from not eating enough food.
While it grows increasingly difficult to track down anyone with the appropriate gumption to scale to the zenith of this necessary ziggurat, some choose to take the low road. All around the base, a defiant undernation of rude spelunkers burbles and clucks, pleased to take up arms alongside those amoral species longing to run through the streets of our cities and bloody the steps of our institutions of culture. This is the duty of the next President: s/he must find the fulcrum, conceive the appropriate point of happy medium to physically nourish one or both branches of this hideous divergence of youth. Cellular automata or mutant luddites. Androids or axe-murderers, take your pick.
