Rise Of The Cardboard People
Storms always leave their mark. Some merely refresh your garden, others wash the dam away. The typhoon that was 2020 left some strange residue in its wake, including the bourgeoning face mask industry, pheasant under glass delivered to your door and ferocious Viking Capitol-sackers who require organic meals to survive. With these guys, one day it’s “Arrggh!” and the next day it’s Emily Litella squeaking “Nevermind.” Whatever happened to Eric the Red, who ate rabbits raw and washed them down with a quart of mead?
Among the more curious results of the annum is the sudden appearance in arenas everywhere of the oddly-space Cardboard People. Whether the home team’s restricted human fandom is little or none, they can always count on the silent majority to root them onward in hushed tones. The recent Super Bowl in Tampa had 25,000 full-throated fans in evidence, but who’s to say it wasn’t the 30,000 Cardboard People who carried the day for the underdog Bucs?
But where did they come from, this army of silence? And what will happen to them when the fans are allowed back in the ballparks? Will they be ungratefully shuttered away in dank closets or (gulp) worse….burned at the stake? Is this appropriate treatment for a dependable band of supporters who showed up when the need was great and volunteers were few? Are we to callously forget that when nobody else was willing, the Cardboard People came through smiling?
We at The Flying Pie have been considering this problem and we have a few ideas. First, CPs might be put to work by drivers in need of a companion to better negotiate the zippy HOV lanes on busy highways, where single offenders can receive tickets of $200 or more. Oh, we know what you’re going to say---selfish drivers who abuse the traffic regulations deserve to be punished. But what about the poor victim who’s rushing to the emergency room with a blocked bile duct or or a scary outbreak of Hutchinson-Gilford Progeria? You may scoff but that’s only because you have never experienced dangerously high levels of bilirubin in your blood or become 5 years older overnight.
Since Cardboard People come in all shapes and sizes, it’s only logical that there are a slew of sweet little granny-figures, some of them replete with darning needles. Escaped prisoners or bank-robbers facing a possible roadblock could load the getaway car up with smiling grandmothers and whistle right through the blockades.
Lonely people could insert a CP or two on the other side of the table or even in their beds. Folks who lived by themselves in dangerous neighborhoods could place an Arnold Schwarzenegger or Machine-Gun Kelly near a front window under a well-placed light. People interested in making a partner jealous could sit on the front-porch swing with George Clooney or Wonder Woman. The possibilities are endless. Just in case things don’t work out with Timmy, Chuck LeMasters could even have his own permanent mini-pup.
The first step, of course, is to create an employment agency, at which the names, ages, talents and photographs of the cardboard job-seekers would be available. This would allow potential employers to zip right through the candidates and find a suitable hiree. There would be a slight fee for the agency’s service but no other costs involved except room and board for the new worker and perhaps an occasional dusting.
We used to laugh at the poor guy who sang, “I’m gonna get a paper doll that I can call my own….a gal that other fellows cannot steal.” But nobody’s laughing now. Pretty soon he’ll be in the mainstream.
Tres Chic!
When the hippies first came along, no clean-living American approved of smoking dope. Now, everybody does. When face masks appeared in the blitzkrieg of the Covid pandemic, nobody liked them, either. The whining was all-present: “I can’t breathe with one on.” “They make me look awful.” “The virus is a phony, why bother?” “My fuehrer doesn’t wear one, why should I?”
Now, of course, they’re an indispensable fashion accessory. Nancy Pelosi has one for every day of the year, matching her gloves and handbags. Even SuperTrumpie Marjorie Taylor Greene, the Razorbill from Milledgeville, likes her message-of-the-day masks, which boldly announce such witticisms as “Free Speech!” “Censored” “Trump!” and “I Eat Boogers.” These clever face covers are probably responsible for her weighty new assignment to the Committee For Putting Things On Top Of Things, an esoteric group whose members meet annually at a Taco Bell in Landover.
The face mask explosion has been a boon, of course, to criminals of every stripe challenged by the vast array of public and private cameras strewn about the universe. Pocketing an extra artichoke at the vegetable market? Camera. Attaching explosives to the door of the bank vault? Camera. Icing the bag boy who insulted Don Giovanni’s wife? Camera. It’s been difficult for a hard-working criminal to get a break. But now that face masks are de rigueur, conditions are finally right for a massive crime spree. Prosecutor to Witness: “Do you see the perp in this courtroom who performed the dastardly deed?” Witness: “Yes, sir, I do. He’s that lout over there!” Prosecutor: “But how can you tell, he was wearing a mask?” Witness: “I remembered my history books, sir. I held my judgment until I saw the whites of his eyes.” Judge: “Sorry pardner, Not guilty!”
Where Have All The Vaccines Gone (long time passing)?
If anyone thinks winning the lottery is tough, how about getting a vaccine shot? It’s easier to win with one card on Bingo Nite at St. Malachi’s. It makes a guy appreciate baseball, where the rules are the same in every park. In Vax World, every town has a different plan, and even then they keep changing them.
Some places, you sign up, others you don’t. Some places, you get an appointment, with others it’s a cattle call. Most of the time, a shrewd friend calls you with a secret number, and if you call it 276 times you might get a human on the line. Then, if you are 65 or older and in the proper zip code, the Vax People put your name in a giant rotating bin from which a trained Capuchin picks out the names of the winners. After that, you go down to Needle City and get jabbed, but with a smile on your face. After all these years, you finally understand why they call it a shot in the arm. Happy? Good, because now you get to do it all over again. Oh, and by the way, they say the second shot makes you feel like you’ve been staked out on an anthill on a summer day in Phoenix, but that could be just an ugly rumor.
How To Start Your Own Militia
Everybody’s doing it. In the wake of the successful takeover of the Capitol, militias have suddenly become a hot item across the United States. Previously relegated to frigid states along the Canadian border where people live in caves and eat dirt, these chic military bands are popping up like internet malware from Provincetown to Petaluma at a rate of ten a week. In his wildly popular new book, “Dressing for Insurrection,” designer Rodney Rainbow explains, “It’s like the biggest fad EVER. Better than pet rocks and hula hoops. Our two-tone camouflage ascots have really taken off in the last 30 days and you wouldn’t believe the reaction to the new army boots with lifts (guaranteed to add two inches to anyone’s height or your money back).”
In the fast-selling instructional book, “Militia-Building For Dummies,” Faux-Colonel Ralph Rakeitin claims “Every neighborhood has the potential for recruitment. Getting a little tired of SMART people? Do you think the country needs a whole lot more of Jesus and a lot less rock and roll? Not seeing enough star-spangled banners in YOUR neck of the woods? Well, this is your chance to DO something about it. We’re not exactly sure what, but we’re sure it will involve ammunition.” The Colonel would like you to know he’s offering a two-for-the-price-of-one closeout sale on Trump flags, but they’re going fast and will not be refabricated.
The militia movement has been a major boon to bail-bond agencies across the nation, especially along the Delmarva Peninsula. Spokesman Freddie Freeman of Usurers ‘R’ Us commented, “You wouldn’t believe some of these dimwits. They actually think they OWN the Capitol building and it’s okay to take a dump on Mitt Romney’s desk. We go over there and they’re crying for their mothers, but mom doesn’t have twenty grand for bail. I bought a new Tesla yesterday with some of the proceeds.”
Rowdy Ransacker, prize-winning author of “Insurrection For Fun & Profit,” sees inevitable expansion for the militia industry. “There’s a jillion unemployed goobers out there with nothing to do but shoot coke bottles off tree stumps in their back yards. They want meaning in their lives. They want to be part of something bigger, like the fans in Steeler Nation, but with guns. You know the old expression “Show them a light and they’ll follow it anywhere?” We at Insurrection, Inc. intend to be that light. By the way, we’re taking applications right now for booths at our great new trade show in Fargo, where all the latest militia outerwear and sexy gadgets will be on display. The new armor-piercing bullets are to die for.”
Say no more, Rowdy. The off-road vehicles are on the way.
That’s all, folks….
The Best
Recently, The Flying Pie solicited stories on the Best Day of readers’ lives. Below is the second installment.
Best Day: Patricia McKennee, San Quentin, California
I was 40 years old, married for five years and ready to start a family. Never had “female problems” in my life, but just to be on the safe side thought it wouldn’t hurt to be checked out before going through the conception agonies of others I’d known. Especially since my mother had received a drug called DES in the 1940s which left her female children allegedly unable to conceive.
After my exam, the doctors told me I had an improperly constructed uterus and that I would never get pregnant….and even if I somehow did, I wouldn’t be able to carry a baby. About as bad a report as a hopeful mother can get. We were properly devastated.
I immediately quit taking birth control pills and defied the odds by getting pregnant. Three miscarriages later, my doctors were begging me to be sensible, have my tubes tied and put an end to the crushing disappointments. I am a very stubborn girl. I reminded them I’d been told I couldn’t get pregnant and that turned out to be in error.
In 1990, after a trip to Jamaica, I realized something was different. (I’m now crying as I write this.) I was pregnant again and this time I didn’t coddle myself. I worked until the week the child was born. On January 26, 1991, the Best Day Of My Life, my beautiful redheaded miracle baby Graham was born, with an Apgar Score of 9.6. He just turned 30 and he is the ultimate joy of my life.
"But through it all when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out;
I faced it all and I stood tall
And did it my way."
That rascal Bill added the last part. He says if the compliment fits, wear it.
