If i ruled the world

No one would be expected to smile or greet you, though they could if they wanted.

No dogs just cats.
Yes to miniature tigers and teradactyls.

You work at what you choose, and you may sleep when done working and work when done sleeping.

No more cell phones just walkie talkies. No mayonnaise. No social media, in fact, advertising and marketing are banned and punishable by tickle torture.

No more pavement and the animals live freely among us. No sentient being owns any other living thing.

You can still own property.
No currency just barter.

You can still fight wars if you want, but no draft and don’t involve anyone whose peaceable-like. Punishable by hippie farm segregation.

Sorry but no more cars or planes. Let the birds do the flying and everyone gets a bicycle on their 5th birthday. And a bell.

You can live in a house but you won’t need one. You can fall in love but that’s your business.

No weddings, and funerals are called commencements, and celebrated madly.

Only assholes and bitches get disappeared. This includes wannabe dictators, sociopaths, and tattoo artists who decide to deliberately ignore your design and permanently mark you up with their sad art.

Creative types get to create whatever they like wherever they wish, so long as its divinely inspired and not hurtful, just helpful.

If you like my world, please follow my website @ katyamills.com and buy my books on Amazon.

And feel free to write me in for mayor of Toronto, to replace the crackhead whose got the malignancy in his belly. May he get well soon.

american dream concession stand

The business was familiar to us all, and could not have polled much worse in a popularity contest. Kinda like one of those Amazon  personal online shops, where some thief set up an account and made their first sale but refused to deliver. Rating goes substrata. They may think they will, but they won’t ever sell anything again, on Amazon.  The popularity polling chalked up to this: statistically, one person out of twenty, was talking to the porcelain, per diem.

Lemonade-stand politics, on the main thoroughfare. Selling lemons with sugar, and splenda to spare. Just the usual american dream concession stand. Lining of pockets. Confusing law with order. Wearing mops on their heads during nuclear-family civil-war revival fetish skirmishes. Focused on precedents rather than innovative action, when weight of their argument failed to summon any traction.

Who knows exactly what was the mainstay of their business? Maybe talk soup. Whatever carried over long weekends, on the backs of TGI Fridays and long island iced teas. They resorted to shady tactics, hung over a rail.  Weekdays, if necessary, they were open for business. Conducted by whomever wasn’t drying out, or in jail. Daydreams of badminton, croqueting through their minds. Only Joan Didion might write a piece, if paid well, to drum up business for these assholes. But she would tell the truth. Everyone loves a scandal.

mousey

‘mouse’ by k

Who knows how they were still afloat? Hardly IPO material. I guess they had a fan following, from facebook promotion. SEO dabbling, over suntan lotion. Complaints from the business bureau? disregarded completely. They continued to package their spam sandwiches, in platistic wrap. It used to be Saran Wrap, but like pharmaceuticals, the label was too costly. It used to be cellophane. Wow. It wouldn’t take the CFO they could not afford, to tell them to shelve the luxury ticket. Go back to backyards, and orchestras of crickets.

You know your business is failing when you’re trying to finagle backroom deals with the US Postal Service to work out a cheaper shipping plan. UPS and FEDEX wouldn’t even have a conversation. That’s like Lance Armstrong having a conversation with the Tour De France. Or OJ Simpson having a conversation with the NFL. Or Mike Milken having a conversation with the NYSE.

Their public relations campaigns were spectacular. Like Anthony Weiner’s sextexting vernacular. They could run for cover in a second, but they would never disappear.  The headlines were too lucrative. Their half-baked proposals awash on the carpet. They could spin their bad press like a champ. They were attempting to turn triangles, into squares.  Bogies, into eagles. Who knows what was par for the course anymore? They convinced themselves of their own relevance. Their substandard practice had fallen below basements, and washed far downshore the glacier. Their MTV cribs became archaelogical digs.

The slave labor pool of interns fueled their quiet ascension. Their fans were fanatic, unsubsidized, wallowing. The swallows in the trees looked down, swallowing. Witness to an outlying mob-like destructo-con. Another promotion party with no compass at all. Rushing in on August with stale promotions for fall. Dropping what would never pass for science, to the kids in the halls.

Another american dream concession stand. Barely legal and belly up, with copyright infringement parade-style tactics. They had no protection from themselves. Not even prophylactics.