Our Moldin' Corral

For years, American's have had a feast of easy money. All kinds of buffets--especially Aunt Fannie and Uncle Fred-- wanted to take us in as customers and let us try our hand at the fat of the land. Like the dulled football spectator watching the game with a box of Cheez-Its, we kept thrusting our hand in the bag for a couple more. But then--during the fourth quarter--the box was suddenly empty.

The end of the day found us a fattened and, oddly enough, still hungry for real food. We reached for our wallets to pay for our past meal so we could then order another, but were surprised to find that we hadn't the means to pay.

And the bank-buffets? They were all out of food to give us. All that's left is an empty kitchen, a pile of sloppy leftovers--ranch dressing encrusted salad plates, a few morsals of bad canteloupe, a piece of t-bone from the steak--a bbq stained shirt,and a stomach that's been stretched from our years of overeating.

Luckily, there's that trustworthy and efficient Dietician, ol' Uncle Sam, willing to sweep up our dirty plates, hide them away in a doubtlessly magical kitchen, and order us some new dishes, a fresh set of flatware, and another round of drinks. Banzai! Bon appetit!

But...wait? Who's going to wash the old dishes?

Best not to think about it now. They'll get clean. One of these days...