Scenes From the Class Struggle

Kathy said to smash the patriarchy as she spilled olive oil on her sundress. Brunch was mediocre at best, but the avocado-brie omelet was above average, though the champagne in the mimosas was less than stellar. The orange juice was organic and hand-pressed. Carl made some room for blue-collar workers on his plate. Everyone cheered the proletariat as a jogger made small talk with a curbed dog. The ketchup was made by plutocrats. The coffee was from a small village in Kenya, the beans grown in banana-tree shade. Disney owned the surroundings, as they had purchased all rights to most major cities along with 21st-Centry Fox’s territories and subsidiaries. Mickey Mouse ears became a status symbol.

A wild elephant was executed by the National Guard on a freeway overpass. Some state-sponsored prayers came on over everyone’s earbuds. A cat chased a robotic mouse over hardwood floors until it gave up and nosed the button for the automatic feeding machine. Claire yawned mid-text while discreetly picking her nose, hoping no one else would notice. The sun was sponsored by Apple Music. Nobody was paying attention to the news that was constantly scrolling beneath their vision, as it was always there, ticking by in a rapid succession of white-lettered statements. Abel sexually harassed Cain behind a paywall. In a surprise move by the ruling elite, the masses were allowed to purchase their own information that told them how to feel about their lives, which was how they wanted to feel: not hopeful, but content. Top political-donors mismanaged the time zones.

“I want garbage. There. That’s the face. Keep it. Just like that.”


“In the waste of worth, passengers in stranger’s cars, getting rides for a few blocks they should’ve walked. Something lurid and stale about it. Confinement to a certain way of life. We are creatures of fleecy suppositions.”

“An impromptu funeral for your common sense. Yes. Let’s ride bicycles outside of the bike lanes!”

Harvey claimed he was out of the public’s eye and opened a bottle of Michelob Ultra. He traded some bitcoin for a new bathrobe. Dancing was optional. Sleep was still an alternative to being involved in the more nuanced realms of seeking reelection. The sexual-predator wings of both major political parties rejoiced in a preconceived plan of attack, duping recreational voters into not seeing themselves as pawns for the candidates to toy with. Janice had mixed emotions about the tuna melt.

“You pick your side; I’ll choose mine. Then we’ll slice it up like pie. The wreck’s dents covered in mildew now. Poor me. Poor you. We’ll dissent and be useless. Discount the vote. Rock in broken stride with the powers that dish out your discontent. Excuse me; I’m laughing on the outside again.”

A polar bear cut its wrists. The mayor expired. No more costs to cut except that last final one, unwound and carried under. The stock market fluctuated, as is its nature. All the salad dressing was dispersed to needy catcallers. Women told their stories of being mistreated; the men pretended to care, calling for resignations in righteous and pious overtones, and then went on about their business of governing for money. Playlists disappeared just as easy as they’d been made. Rents rose. Jails swelled. The moon got a nose job.

Running down a loosie seller, a cop lost touch with his inner child, and soon was holding the poor sap up by his jacket.

“Who are you to tell me?”



Then Eric claimed all was poppycock. God took a nap. Simone gave Bolivia the clap. Russia went on a house call. The waitress brought a warmup for the coffee drinkers, none of whom even looked up from their phone-staring hedonism to thank her.

“The clouds, they’ve got a better perspective. Sponsored by Pepsi.”

“Who’s got the news on?”

“Chico. He’s drooling through it. There’s the president’s daughter. What a waif.”

“Waste of a good haircut. Let’s peel. I’m feeling zesty.”

“We could drive over to the machine-gun factory. We could raise our fists. We could collude and not pollute. Maybe there are free French fries today at the polling station?”

“Air raids for morons to dance to. Let’s celebrate another successful protest. Chant something inane and overdone. Clichés for the oppressed to march to. Only the unlucky survive to tell it like they wish it were. I think we’re just moping by the TV’s first light.”

“A few angels left to call us names. I think I’ll go by Pancho Sanza. Heinous regard held less than low. After dinner we’ll throw couch cushions at the walls.”

“Fuck it. I’m sapped.”

“Tilt. Tilt. Tilt.”

“Aye. Aye.”

A small tip was left underneath the weight of capitalism’s grueling grind. Birdsong was declared illegal.

“With friends unlike those…”

“You sure can breakdown, can’t you, sugar?”

The salt shaker balanced itself on the scales of justice, which were tipped at just the right angle to produce no results. A shy and nervous individual wriggled her way out of a traffic altercation, sat down at the now unoccupied table, and, bleeding mildly from her neckline, made herself at home with a cold mug of kava-infused tea. There was coal ash and Burger King on the breeze. Everything was illicit and appealing about the upcoming elections, and bystanders were made, and pushy advertisements were unleashed, and, finally, the leader of the resistance released a new statement: “I just wish that I could luxuriate, really relax and enjoy something without ruining it by thinking about it too much.”

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