Open Letter From Chicken Little
As found in the notebooks of Geoffrey Crayon as stolen and reproduced by James L. Secor
13 October, 2011
Countercurrents.org
Hi,
My name's Chicken Little. And I am still a pain in the ass.
Most of you have heard of me, though those stories were planted in an attempt to discredit me. Unfortunately, they worked. This is easy to do for the yarn-spinner when the victim is not around to counter the slander. But that's the way of cheaters, losers and second-raters--conmen who would not otherwise stand a chance in hell.
Perhaps the proof of the pudding is that I am writing this and you are reading it. Obviously, Foxy Loxy did not take me into his hole and eat me. In fact, I was never interested in Foxy Loxy's hole.
I told you the sky was falling. I have been proven right, though not of course in the aggregate. Though it has been made to appear that I gained followers who were silly and mindless who would believe anything, this is not true. But as Foxy Loxy and his family now run the show, as it were, there is little possibility that the disrespect doled out to those people will be overcome, despite the Ugly Ducklings' song.
There are many ways for the sky to fall. One of them is through heaviness, that is, what is now called pollution. You can see this from a distance, though rarely close-up. Like forests and trees, if I may inject a cliché here. And you can see it riding on Big Birds flying far above it all. Another way for the sky to fall, a recent development over my original thesis, is via holes. Like holes in a balloon that disallows its being kept aloft.
When it all falls down, what will you breathe? Hell, what will Foxy Loxy breathe!
But that is no concern of his and his family's. They are hunter gatherers and only interested in the here and how. Besides, the Foxy Loxies never look up. Nose to the ground. Unlike Coyote who looks up and howls sharply. He's not joking around this time. Or Wolf, whose mourning is a tad more frightening but, still, passed off as a passing fancy. A momentary blip on the screen. Like the night. Somehow or other, Foxy Loxy has enlisted the Turkey Vultures, obvious by their garbling of the language and their red necks, to dive bomb the wolves. Also, Piggly Wigglies, my favorite rooters.
Thus, complainers, as they are called--whiners--are silenced.
It has been rumored that Foxy Loxy has lately enlisted the aid of the Army Ants, presently holed up in the Dakotas . Eventually, though, the Army Ants will break free: they need to eat. Foxy Loxy here walks a knife edge and must play his cards right. The Army Ants, therefore, are allowed occasional skirmishes to help with control, more often than not by their kith'n kin, Mercy Nary.
Lately, a bunch of cocaine freaks, the 99%ers, have been running amuck. This may be the Foxy Loxies' out. The cocaine freaks are swarming over the country shouting about the sky falling, though they are more focused on what's on the ground and what's here but not here. Perhaps no more than their 99% habit: delusion. How can you shout about something that is not here and then expect to be taken seriously? (Like mind, money and munificence.) That is to say, Army Ants enjoy irritants and, as the cocaine 99%ers are an irritant to the Foxy Loxy Family and the Foxy Loxy Family run the show and hold the key, this 99%er rebellion might just be what's needed to satisfy the Army Ants' lust for consumption.
Aside from the Turkey Vultures, the Foxy Loxies have also formed an alliance with the Cock Brows who run around like chickens with their heads cut off--sorry about that --crowing madly about this, that and the other thing--just what comes into their mindless little heads. So loud and far do they splatter the country with their drops of wisdom that no one has a chance to rebut them. Kicking them in their waggling asses would accomplish only an increase in their spuming. Eventually though, like a child holding its breath in a temper tantrum, they will eventually run out of air and fall senseless to the ground. We can only hope there are hungry Pot Herds around to harvest the windfall and cook the Cock Brows' assess in order to appropriately feed the Munchkins. But somehow I doubt it. The Pot Herds are more than not lost in weeds. So the little people will go without.
The sky is falling, falling in so many ways.
So. What are we to do?
You can either believe me, Chicken Little, despite the bad press, or you can write me and mine off as a fairy tale. You must remember, though, that fairy tales can come true. Cinderella being the most famous. Bush and Obama being the last Cinderellas.
James L. Secor is a writer and teacher and dramatist
Comments are not moderated. Please be responsible and civil in your postings and stay within the topic discussed in the article too. If you find inappropriate comments, just Flag (Report) them and they will move into moderation que.
