“Are you telling me that if this thing gets to the people, there’s no limit to the damage that it will inflict on us all?”
Growled President The Rock as he slowly peaked his jutted-out dart chin over his bulky shoulder mountain as he let this statement hang in the air for what seemed like an eternity but what was probably no longer than a Quibi (hopefully you saw that YouTube ad and that company hasn’t dissolved by the time you read this.)
His Secretary of Whatever fumbled his enormous stack of papers like Leon Lett at the goal line (why hasn’t this guy gone green yet? C’mon, guy.)
“That’s what the scientists are saying - you don’t trust science?” The Secretary of Whatever chirped with a flaky facade of confidence.
“I fought Science once when I was younger...We went twelve rounds in the blazing Sun of the Australian Outback. It left me with a fistful of scars but Science...shit...Science left in a body bag, son. Science was never the same after that - now all the people can talk about is their cousin, technology. People have started to question Science like they never did before and they don’t know it but it’s because of what I did to that poor sonofabitch and I probably should have finished the dirty work. Science had a pet cat, Chester, one of them big cats that you’re not allowed to have in a place where you would want to live (you are, of course, allowed them to have them in a place where you wouldn’t want to live but that’s the tax you pay for not living there.) I took Chester home and he quickly became one of my most treasured possessions although I don’t think it’s possible to own such a beautiful, wild beast of the jungle. One day Chester asked me what ever happened to his father, Science. I told him I had to take out the trash and burst into tears while I barreled down the driveway in hopes of covering my shame, not wanting to admit that I, too, in a moment of weakness might be driven to actually being human. When I came back into the kitchen, Chester was nowhere to be found but there was a note with beautiful penmanship. It read, ‘Dearest President The Rock,
Thank you so much for your kindness and gentleness in raising me to be who I am today, valedictorian at the sanctuary and going to State on a full-ride scholarship for football. I would never change a thing, even if a genie magically leapt out of a TV screen and granted me three wishes, they would all be to spend more time with you. I miss my dad, though...my real dad. I miss Science. And I know that you told me a million times that I don’t need him, that he’s a garbage person with garbage values but sometimes I feel like I need to figure it out for myself and this is one of those times. I don’t want to do it but I just feel like it’s one of those things that I have to do or it’s gonna eat away at me my whole life until I’m 86 years old and an usher at a Major League Baseball stadium. So I’m gonna go now, I’m already gone. I can’t thank you enough for everything but I can’t bring myself to look you in the face and say goodbye so I hope this is good enough or worth something at least.
Love,
Chester”
When President The Rock looked up from this extended soliloquy, his Secretary of Whatever turned out to be a frozen yogurt machine and he turned out to be an aspiring Menchies manager.
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