BRANDOLAND: Talking to God...For You!

Sunday, May 25, 2003

THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, PART I: And on the eighth day…someone created the job.

Mumble-mumble, bells and whistles, chant-chant, rumble-rumble, crescendo. The drumbling drums come to a stop. Loads of cheers, then…

“Bless you, music people, your skills with the sound things bring us great joy. Okay, everybody, gather ‘round, it’s that time again. The rains have stopped, the grass is green, the beasties have returned to the plains, so…Bob…it’s your turn to go out and grab a couple of, you know, a couple of big ones for the village. Here you go. The sacred spear and the sacred shield. Good luck!”

Wild cheering, then…

“Not going.”

Silence followed by mumbles.

“Come again?”

“I said…not going.”

More mumbles followed by some rumbling.

“I…uh…it’s…uh…your turn to…you know…it’s your turn. It’s food time.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m sending the Larrys to do it for me.”

“But. They’ve already gone. They’ve already…Larry did it, you know, during the half moon, and Larry did it, uh, right before that. It’s your turn.”

“I’m sending the Larrys to do it for me.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m sending the Larrys?’ That’s not how we do it.”

“You mean, that’s not how you do it. I do it this way; the Larrys are hunting the beasties on my behalf. They work for me now.” .

“The Larrys what for you? Work? What is work?”

“Work is chasing a bunch of fucking wildebeests around the flatlands all afternoon. Something I don’t want to do. That’s why I’m paying the Larrys to do it for me.”

“Paying? These…these…these are new words to me. To all of us. Right?”

Nodding and mumbling all around.

(Aside) “Jesus H. Christ. This is gonna be easier than I thought.”

“Bob?”

“The Larrys work for me…ie…they are my employees. I tell them what to do. They do it. Then…I pay them. I give them things in exchange for their services…ie…I compensate them. In fact, I’m giving them a chicken each for their efforts.”

“Chickens? What chickens?”

“Those chickens.”

“Those chickens are for the village.”

“No. They belong to me.”

“Wait…what?”

“They are my chickens. The chickens belong to me. I own them.”

“The chickens…they…belong…to all of us. We…we…we’re all in this together. They…the chickens are for all of us.”

“Not anymore. From now on, if someone wants a chicken, they have to buy it from me.”

“Bob, once again, you speak words that are very confusing.”

“Are you retarded? If someone wants a chicken, they have to give me something in return for the fucking thing. Like, they have to paint my hut or they have to give me a pair of new sandals or a keg of beer or something.”

An incredible amount of rumbling and mumbling.

“But, we…we…we do that already. I make bread. Jim takes care of the chickens. If I need a chicken, I give Jim a loaf of bread.”

“You’re right. That system is totally fucked. From now on, if someone wants a chicken, they have to give me one of these.”

An object is held aloft.

Ooohs and ahhhs followed by light applause.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

“The purple shiny thing?”

“The coin. The purple shiny thing is called a COIN.”

“But, the coin is just a small thing. You can’t do anything with it.”

“Bullshit. You can do LOTS of things with it. The coin might be small, but, use your head; it’s easier to carry a coin than a chicken. You see, this coin has value. One coin equals one chicken. One coin equals a pair of sandals. 100 coins equals a down payment on a new hut in the subdivision I’m developing.”

“I’m…completely lost.”

“Instead of spending an entire day making a loaf of sourdough just to get a chicken, you can give me a coin. You give me a coin, I give you a chicken.”

“I don’t have any coins.”

“Then you gotta get some.”

“How?”

“You can work for me.”

“I thought the Larrys worked for you?”

“What can I say? This company is growing by the minute, my man. I’m sure we can find a place for you. And get this: the harder you work, the more coins you get. The more coins you get, the happier you will be.”

“But…I am happy.”

“No you’re not. Look at you. You’re a trainwreck. You’re losing your hair, you smell, and your teeth are really, really bad.”

Some nodding and mumbling.

“Really?”

“Yes. What do you do again?”

“I make bread and I dance.”

“Great. If I liked bread, I might buy some from ‘ya. Unfortunately, I don’t, so you might want to think about doing something else. And forget about the dancing. That’s ‘art.’ You’ll never get coins doing art. You might be able to make people smile at a party or something, but you’ll never be able to support a family as a dancer.”

“Okay, wait. Let me get this straight. The Larrys are gonna kill a sacred beast or two on your behalf, and then you’re gonna pay them with chickens? Or these coin things?”

“I’m gonna pay them in coins. If they want the chickens, they can buy them from me. Chickens are a coin each.”

“Hold on. You’re gonna give them some coins --”

“In exchange for their services –“

“But then…they’re gonna turn around and give you the same coins for the chickens?”

“It’s a beautiful system, isn’t it?”

“It’s not…it’s not…right. This all feels…not right. That’s not how we do things.”

“It is NOW.”

“You keep saying that. How can you say that?”

“Because. I’m the king.”

Rumbles and mumbles and rumbles and mumbles and rumbles and mumbles.

“The what?”

“The king.”


TO BE CONTINUED










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