ONE MORNING, D awoke to find himself transformed into the president. Also, he had turned into a cockroach.
When he tried to speak, all that came out was a peculiar noise. Not a word, exactly but, it sounded like "Morf".
His family was shocked and horrified. Nonetheless, when he headed to the presidential palace, they followed along.
Crowds lined the streets as D walked by. On one side were cheering throngs, many of whom wore deely bobber headgear that resembled cockroachy antannea, and some of whom were actual cockroaches. On the other side were people booing and throwing things at him.
D fumed as organic fruit and recyclable bottles of artisanal water zipped past his head. Finally he turned to the cheering side, swept his foreleg toward the booing side and cried, "Morf!"
As if commanded, the cheering side rushed across the street and begin pummeling the booers, who'd been too busy debating what, if anything, 'Morf' meant to notice the impending assault.
A few fought back but most responded with poetry and interpretive dance. They were beaten senseless.
At the presidential palace, D strode down the main corridor barking out “Morf!” at everyone he saw. Some of them immediately began doing things he wanted done but most just stood there looking puzzled. Soon, those who didn’t understand him were being escorted out of the building by those who did.
After the hugest, most spectacular, and longest-lasting installation ceremony of anyone to the presidency of anything, anywhere, before or since, D stepped onto a balcony to address his public. Most of the adoring crowd wore deely bobber antennae or were dressed as cockroaches, along with actual cockroaches, and all of them were chanting, “Morf! Morf! Morf!”
D hardly needed to say anything, which was good since he only said one thing. And, whenever he said it, it was exactly what they wanted to hear.
While opposition to the president and his all-cockroach cabinet struggled to make sense of it all and scrambled for more of a response than, “HE’S A COCKROACH!”, the roaches consolidated their power.
Non-roach supporters, who wore deely bobbers to show solidarity, became known as “fauxches”.
Roaches and fauxches were quickly appointed to government positions and sent abroad as emissaries. They weren’t always welcomed warmly and sometimes not welcome at all.
Opponents of the president continued to emphasize that, “HE’S A COCKROACH!” To which D’s spokesfauxches responded snippily, “Dressing like, acting like and agreeing with cockroaches doesn’t necessarily make somebody a cockroach,” adding, “Besides, cockroaches are cunning survivors who do whatever they have to stay alive and will outlast everybody else on earth. What’s wrong with that?”
Pundits and journalists sprang into inaction, cranking out heavily footnoted essays, strongly worded editorials and thought-provoking TED Talks. Still, along with any criticism, their commentary always included admiration — even praise — for the administration’s tenacity, resolute single-mindedness and successful messaging.
Meanwhile, D — through his advisors — outlawed bug spray, roach traps, exterminators and the entire pest control industry. It was also decreed stepping on a cockroach or anything previously categorized — so unfairly! — as “vermin” to be a hate crime.
As more laws were passed, amended or repealed to the benefit of roaches, it seemed obvious that D’s programs and policies were pro-roach at the expense of everyone else. However, what with everyone else so busy trying to not step on any — and they were now everywhere — there was hardly time to do anything about it.
Presidential spokesfauxches expressed outrage at the suggestion he was helping only the cockroach population. Arguments broke out on TV.
“Oh, yeah, well, what about when a person was president, he only cared about people! So, now you know how it feels! Get used to it.”
“But, you’re not really a . . . you’re just wearing deely bobber antennae.”
“You’re just jealous because you’re not a cockroach. Cockroaches are awesome. Cockroaches RULE!”
“Nothing he’s doing actually helps you, though.”
“He's making the world better for cockroaches and,” [winking at camera] “That's good for everybody!”
“Uh, no. Not really.”
“Why do you hate cockroaches so much? There are very fine cockroaches!”
"No, there aren’t. They're all terrible . . ."
Moderator: “Well, there you have it, both sides of this complicated debate . . .”
"It's not complicated, cockroaches are bad and pretending to be one is just . . . weird."
Moderator: “Sorry, we’re out of time.”
About the only thing everybody could agree on was that since D had become president, there were a lot more roaches around. But where had they come from? Had they been here all along? Were people turning into roaches? How did that happen?
Had D always been a cockroach? Maybe? Probably? No one could remember. Somebody would have noticed, right? And, what did Morf mean and did it even matter at this point?
SPOKESFAUXCHES WENT ON and on about how much D had accomplished and how much better things were. And, for cockroaches, things were better. Sanitation regulations were rolled back and garbage pickup severely limited (too costly!) and cockroaches were eating more and better than ever, living and swarming wherever they liked and no one could stop them.
Every time it seemed as if life couldn't get any worse for non-roaches, it did.
When even fauxches complained about the spreading mess, the cockroaches in charge waved them away, insisting, “It’s not a problem if you’re a roach so, bug off.” They pointed to infestations of mice, rats, raccoons and coyotes in the piles of trash, insisting that was real problem, asking, “What about them, huh?“ and “What smell?”
And just like that, everyone was talking about mice, rats, raccoons and coyotes. Anyone who mentioned that cockroaches had created the conditions that attracted them in the first place was denounced as an enemy of cockroaches and, therefore, the president.
This sort of thing happened all the time. Every day. Several times a day. It was hard to keep track.
Time felt different. Days went by both faster and slower than before. It was hard to know if it was today or yesterday or the day before that. Few people could even remember for how long D had been president.
The opposition, exhausted by shouting “BUT HE’S A COCKROACH!” for however long they’d been doing that, now just shrugged dejectedly.
THE FIRE STARTED in a trash pile and, since trash was strewn all over, quickly spread to the other trash piles and was soon burning everywhere and out of control.
Spokesfauxches rushed on television to say things.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It must have been started by mice, rats, raccoons and coyotes to make roaches look bad.”
“Fires happen all the time. Why the big deal about this one?”
“It’s only hurting mice, rats, raccoons and coyotes so it isn’t a problem.”
“Are you sure it’s really a fire?”
“The president is doing everything he can to protect roaches from this not-as-bad-as-it-looks-and-maybe-not-even-a-fire.”
But the fire, being a fire, also burned roaches, fauxches and other people, and caused lots of property damage.
Now when D shouted “Morf, Morf, Morf!” from the balcony some of the crowd still cheered and chanted, “Morf, Morf, Morf!” back at him, but many just stood there, more puzzled than ever.
Once the fire was mostly out, even while people were still sorting through burnt debris, spokesfauxches went on TV again and said more things.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Thanks to the president, not too many roaches were harmed or inconvenienced.”
“Who knew piles of trash could catch fire. The president was never warned.”
“The loss of life and property is terrible, I guess but, luckily, it was mostly mice, rats, raccoons and coyotes, who shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”
“The president was prevented from preventing the fire by his roach-hating enemies.”
“What fire?”
After the fire, a lot of fauxches stopped stopped wearing their deely bobber antennae.
The cockroaches went on making their lives better in every way they could think of and then some. Presidential spokesfauxches continued to say things on TV.
Everybody who wasn’t a roach was very, very tired.
THEN, ONE MORNING, D woke up and was no longer president. He was still a cockroach.
He didn’t leave the presidential palace right away. For how long he lingered there and what it took to finally remove him is a story that almost no one agrees upon.
By the time D was gone and fumigation tents covered the building, the cockroaches had grabbed everything they could and scurried out of sight.
The streets were soon littered with discarded deely bobber antennae. Only a few die-hard fauxches still wear theirs and you might see the occasional fading "MORF!" bumper sticker but, in less time than you'd think, people were debating whether cockroaches even exist and if D had ever been president at all.
One upon a time in the Woodland there was a fellow named Chester who dreamed of creating artisanal cheeses. But for cheese he needed milk. And for milk he needed a cow. And he didn't have one.
Chester's wife wanted him to grow bean sprouts they could sell to health food restaurants and, with only enough money for seeds, that seemed to be that.
So Chester went to the weekly organic farmers market and bought a handful of bean sprout seeds from a crate with some weird-looking mushrooms that the spaced-out hippie selling them claimed were, "Like, magic, man.”
On his way home, he came upon a boy leading a cow toward the market. In a flash of inspiration Chester convinced the boy – his name was Jack-something and he didn't seem all that bright – to trade the cow for the "magic" seeds.
Of course, Chester's wife was furious when he came home with a cow instead of seeds but he ignored her and got to work.
As it happens, Chester really was good at making artisanal cheeses and soon his were selling like gluten-free hot cakes in gourmet shops and snazzy restaurants across the Woodland.
Emboldened by his success, Chester decided to open a drive-thru cheese stand at the beach and found the perfect location in a boarded-up burger joint near the pier, right under the gigantic beanstalk that had recently sprouted up across the highway.
His wife thought he was nuts.
"Who eats cheese at the beach?" she scoffed, while counting up the day's receipts, "Nobody!"
On the day of the drive-thru's grand opening, a long line of customers eagerly waited in their cars as the local morning show's wacky weatherman did his forecast while standing by the cow.
Just as Chester was cutting the ceremonial ribbon, there appeared a rapidly spreading darkness that turned out to be the shadow of a plus-size giant plummeting earthward from the top of the adjacent beanstalk.
Everybody managed to scatter before the giant landed with a 4.2 Richter scale-belly flop right on top of the place, smashing it flatter than an individually wrapped American single.
Moral: Seriously, who eats cheese at the beach?
IN A POND at the center of the
Woodland lived a flock of beautiful swans.
One of these swans, however, was so much more beautiful than the others that creatures came from all over just to watch her glide gracefully across the water.
The other swans were terribly jealous of the extra attention she got.
"Hmph!" said one, "Everyone says they like the way she glides, but it's really because of her looks!"
"That's right," said another, "I've seen ducks and geese every bit as graceful as her but you don't see anyone lining up to watch them!"
"Well, you know," said the third, "I have it on good authority that she doesn't even do her own gliding."
The especially beautiful swan overheard this and was hurt and confused. She knew she was beautiful (she'd seen her reflection after all) but truly believed that her gliding was as graceful as gliding got and that her popularity had nothing at all to do with her appearance. And she had never, ever used a gliding double.
To find out once and for all whether she was really admired for her grace or if she was just getting by on her looks, she decided to pretend to be some other type of waterfowl.
To research her ruse, she took several lunch meetings with a duck, and lived with a family of geese for a week.
When the beautiful swan returned to the pond, she was cleverly disguised as the silliest goose you ever saw.
She spent a couple of days gliding back and forth as gracefully as ever, all the while keeping a sharp eye out to see if anyone was watching.
Some Woodland creatures standing on the shoreline (not so many as usual, but respectable for an opening weekend) commented that the silly goose out there sure could glide gracefully.
Even the swans, who normally didn't give geese a second glance, noticed her.
"She can glide well, said one, "I'll give her that."
"Pity she's not a swan," said another, "Then she'd really have something."
"Yes," said the third, "It isn't fair, I suppose, but a goose that silly looking doesn't stand a chance in this pond."
Upon hearing that last remark, the beautiful swan threw off the disguise, revealing herself to be one of them, albeit way more beautiful.
The other swans honked wildly, first in shock and surprise, then with praise for her remarkable performance.
"A tour-de-force!" said one, "If you watch only one swan pretending to be a goose this year, make it her!"
"How brave of you, darling" said another, "What was it like to not be so beautiful?"
"Whose feathers are you wearing?" asked the third, "They are just fabulous!"
The beautiful swan told the others all about how it felt to not be recognized, how many hours it had taken to put on the disguise and how the whole experience had given her a newfound respect for geese and, to a lesser extent, ducks.
As soon as the beautiful swan glided away, once again feeling very good about herself, the other swans started trash-talking about her.
"What a show-off!" said one, "What, exactly, was that supposed to prove?"
"Why would a swan pretend to be a goose?" said another, "Geese want to be swans, not the other way around!"
"Some birds will do anything to get attention," said the third, "Talk about needy!"
Moral: Birds of a feather, my ass.