Century Link and Eternal Damnation

phone-devil

imgur.com/sMeZ042

 Outsourcing. It seems like virtually every corporation has moved its customer service operations out of the United States. Each time I have to call Comcast or Verizon or some other large company, I speak to someone in India or Cairo or Dagobah.

But Century Link is the worst. Period. They’re customer service is so bad, I’ve come to an inescapable conclusion: they’ve moved their customer service not to Bangladesh or Sri Lanka, but to the fiery pits of Hell itself.

I’m no stranger to bad customer service interactions. Whenever I call the customer service department of a large company, I grit my teeth and prepare to have my brain worked over with a metaphorical meat tenderizer. But there’s one interaction with Century Link customer service that, to this day, makes my buttock hairs rigid with fear.

The call started off innocently enough. After navigating a sea of automated menus and waiting on hold for about five hours, I spoke to a customer service representative about setting up new phone service. It was all going swimmingly and I began at last to see light at the end of the tunnel.

The rest of the exchange went something like this:

Customer Service Representative: Okay, sir. I’ve got you set up for the Phone Plus Plan, which includes caller ID and voice mail. Your monthly premium will be $35 per month. Now, I’m just going to transfer you to [unintelligible series of words] department, which will finish setting up your service.

Me: Wait, what?

[silence as call is transferred]

Me: Hello? Hello?!

[continued silence]

New Customer Service Representative: Hello, sir. My name is Brian. Can I please begin by having your date of birth and social security number?

Me: Uh…which department have I reached?

Brian: Hello, sir. My name is Brian. Can I please begin by having your date of birth and social security number?

Me: No, I already heard you. Can you please tell me which department you work for?

Brian: Sir, I have to stick to the script. I’m not allowed to talk to you about anything different than what appears on my script. Now, can I please begin by having your date of birth and social security number?

Me: But I was just talking to Century Link and I thought I’d set my service up completely.

Brian: Sir, I just need your date of birth and social security number.

Me: Brian, which department of Century Link do you work for?

Brian: I don’t work for Century Link, sir. Now, can I please have your date of birth and-”

Me: But I was just talking to Century Link. To set up phone service. And they connected me to you.

Brian: Yes, sir.

Me: So I need to know how you’re related to Century Link and what you have to do with setting up my phone service.

Brian: Sir, I’m required to collect personal information using the script I was given. I have to follow the script and collect the information from you.

Me: Brian, what company do you work for?

Brian: I don’t know, sir.

Me: You don’t know what company you work for?!

Brian: No, sir.

Me: Then why the heck would I give you my personal information?!

Brian: Sir, I’m required to collect–”

Me: Brian, for all I know, you work for some evil, sphincter-eating cult and you want my personal information so you can break into my house tonight with a pair of disemboweling tweezers and some ketchup and have at my colon! Goodbye!

And then I took a shower. Because that conversation made me feel violated.

My only explanation for this phenomenon is that, desperate to cut costs, Century Link decided to move its customer service operations to an otherworldly plane of fiery torment. Some middle-manager probably packed a sacrificial dagger and a goat into the back of his Suburban (as middle-managers are wont to do), dragged them into the office, and slapped them down on the stone altar right between the coffee maker and the copy machine.

Then the whole office probable chanted something in backwards Latin and drew pentagrams in goat blood on all their manila folders until a fiery portal emerged in the middle of the altar, into which they cast a few dozen VOIP phones and headsets.

Nothing quite encapsulates the phrase “where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth” like listening to a six second loop of hold music for four hours.

Gerbils: Cannibalistic Cretin of the Pet World

evil-gerbil

http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Gerbyllium

Lots of people have fond memories of their childhood pets. They remember a favorite dog or cat or bunny that brought them joy and merriment for many years. But as appealing as that idea is, there’s one species that, instead of creating precious memories, will scar your children on a deep, emotional level.

Never buy your kids gerbils. They are disgusting, vile creatures that kill their own families indiscriminately and reproduce like Catholic rabbits on Viagra.

When I was about six years old, my parents brought me to the pet store to buy some gerbils. I picked out two, a black one and a white one with brown spots, which the sixteen-year-old zoologist behind the counter assured us were both male. And pretty soon, we had about thirty gerbils.

That wouldn’t have been such a big deal, since they all stayed in their cage, but as I came to find out, that black, mother gerbil made Jeffrey Dahmer look like Mister Rogers.

The first thing six-year-old me wanted to do when I saw the dozen-or-so baby gerbils was pick them up and pet them. So, like any other kid would, I picked up one of the baby gerbils and let it crawl across my fingers. Then, the next day, I went to the gerbil cage to find the baby gerbil lying motionless, its neck gashed open, and the mother gerbil’s whiskers coated in blood.

All it takes is the slight scent of a human being to make a mother gerbil brutally murder its child in a way that would make Jason Vorhees squeamish. I tried handling the baby gerbils with gloves or only petting them lightly. But every time, it led to gerbil infanticide and an impromptu gerbil funeral in the back yard.

The last straw came when Herman, the father gerbil, died. The mother gerbil continued having babies, even though the only other gerbils in her cage were her children. Then all my gerbils mysterious disappeared. I guess my parents drew the line at gerbils with an Oedipus complex.

The label on the gerbils’ home said “gerbil cage.” It should’ve said “Blood Sport Pit.”

So go ahead; buy pets for your kids. Buy them loving dogs or indifferent cats or smelly rabbits. But unless you want your children to have the combined visual experiences of Game of Thrones, Deliverance, and Se7en, don’t bring any of these little demons into your home.

Elmo’s Hostile Takeover

elmos-bloodlusthttp://knowyourmeme.com/photos/938780-bertstrips

Remember Sesame Street? Of course you do. The colorful puppets, songs, and memorable characters have educated and entertained millions of children. Many people learned to speak English by watching Sesame Street and there are some who otherwise wouldn’t have learned to read or count.

It’s too bad that, in the ‘90s, Sesame Street experienced a bloody coup and now finds itself ground under the fuzzy heel of a brutal dictator.

Those of you who grew up in the ‘90s may remember some of the changes that beset Sesame Street during that time period. The biggest one was a small, red puppet name Elmo who, narcissist that he was, always referred to himself in the third person.

At first, Elmo appeared only occasionally, but after a year or so, some of the other puppets began to disappear. Oscar, the Cookie Monster, and even Big Bird were rarely seen. And there was more Elmo. A lot more Elmo.

Elmo started showing up in practically every sketch, song, or other segment and the likes of Grover and the Count slowly went away. If you look closely, you can see Elmo handing out tiny copies of his manifesto to the other muppets and, in a rare deleted scene, using brutal interrogation techniques to teach Ernie to count to ten.

It was truly becoming Elmo’s World.

Then, a lot of the Muppets started to disappear. There came a time when Prairie Dawn, the Amazing Mumford, and others went away entirely. Mr. Hooper died under suspicious circumstances and Gordon was silenced. New Muppets—Zoe, Telly, and Lil’ Stalin— marched through the streets and indoctrinated the children with their message of a new world order.

As is the case with most hostile takeovers, the evidence was largely hidden away and destroyed by the powers that be. A great wall was built and people, Muppets, and information alike were kept inside (ever notice how no one on Sesame Street seems to walk beyond those fences in the background?)

The worst of it was the effect on the children; ever noticed how, every few years, Sesame Street gets a completely new crop of youngsters to interact with the puppets and teach important lessons? It’s only a matter of time before those kids learn too much.

No one said it better than George Orwell: Today’s episode was brought to you by the number twelve. Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the Muppets. The Tellitubbies outside looked from Muppet to man and from man to Muppet, and from Muppet to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

The Black Jelly Bean Phenomenon

Jelly-Bean-E-Card
http://simplybeingmommy.com/2014/03/24/20-jelly-bean-ideas-for-easter/

I can’t take it anymore. I’ve tolerated it for years and years now; for almost a decade, I’ve been sitting on the sidelines, watching as all I hold dear goes down the tubes with a pathetic whimper. No more. It’s high time we had a discussion about the horrid philosophy that takes all that is good, turns it on its head, and pretends everything is okay while systematically destroying all that is decent.

We need to talk about the Black Jelly Bean Phenomenon.

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about black jelly beans. I hate them. You hate them. God hates them. Little children in sub-Saharan Africa who’ve never heard of jelly beans hate them. These “candies” sit amidst all the other jelly beans, staring at you, daring you to pop them in your mouth. And at some point, all of us have been duped; we’ve all bitten into a black jelly bean and felt our tongues contemplate seppuku.

Seriously, who in the candy manufacturing business thought “Hey, let’s have pink jelly beans that taste like strawberries! And we’ll have yellow jelly beans that taste like lemons! And we’ll have black jelly beans that taste like a buffalo’s rectum!”

All of this is common knowledge to anyone over the age of four, and I won’t waste your time recounting my traumatic jelly bean experiences. Black jelly beans have always been an evil, but until recently, they were an isolated evil. I’ve become aware of a disturbing trend: the Black Jelly Bean Phenomenon is spreading. It’s already spread to other food groups and, unless stopped, will soon consume all that is good.

Remember the days when there was only one kind of chocolate? Those were happy times. Back then, if someone asked if you wanted chocolate, you always said yes. Always. Why wouldn’t you? Chocolate was an exceptional thing that filled one with feelings love, comfort, and acceptance.

Then they introduced dark chocolate. Now, if someone offers you chocolate, you have to ask “Well, what kind of chocolate is it? Is it the good kind or the kind that tastes like celery and cough syrup?” And God forbid you bite into a piece of dark chocolate thinking it’s the good chocolate. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Chocolate: once an honest, loyal friend, now a devilish deceiver.

And remember when there was just one kind of yogurt? I’m not a heavy yogurt user, but I do dabble. Once, while housesitting for my grandparents and scrounging for food, I opened the refrigerator and spied a package labeled “Greek yogurt.” I thought, “Hm. This must be different than normal yogurt, but whatever. It has pictures of fruit on it. I’m sure it’s just regular yogurt mixed with Spartan blood or something.”

So I took a bite. And for a split second, I thought a sewer rat had climbed in my mouth, died, and evacuated its bowels all over my taste buds. Once again, a rancid taste abomination has wormed its way into what was once good and wholesome. Greek yogurt is black jelly beans in yogurt form!

All over the world, black jelly beans are taking on new forms and poisoning the things we love. It isn’t just happening with food, either. Remember when there was just one DC Comics? Before that New 52 crap? Now, whenever I buy a comic book, I have to check the publication date to make sure I won’t be engrossing myself in the adventures of pissed-off, angst-y Superman or PMS-ing Wonder Woman.

Remember when there existed only good Star Wars movies?

Remember the days before low-flush toilets?

Remember when all movies were two-dimensional?

Black jelly beans are popping up all over the place. They may not look like black jelly beans, but they are black jelly beans in spirit. It’s time we put our foot down and demand that all black jelly beans be destroyed with holy fire, as they should have been since the beginning.

Or at least, we should stop buying baked potato chips.

Furby Hunters

furby hunters logo final 2 (small)

Like a dark harbinger of doom, the Furby menace stands at humanity’s door, ready to destroy our world and devour our very souls. Foolishly, I had thought their kind rendered powerless after their toy fad wore off, but after their triumphant return, I can remain silent no longer. We face two choices: either succumb to the sinister fuzziness and become the furbies’ zombified slaves or stand and fight.

Friends, now is the time to join the Furby Hunters.

The black magic of the Furby is great, but my studies have led me to believe that they are not invincible. As we did with the vampires, werewolves, and hippies of old, we can fend off the furbies with the proper tools and knowledge.

Pledge your sword to the Furby Hunters, comrades. Our cause is noble, our hearts are pure, and our logo took me a good six hours in Microsoft Paint to design.

In the coming months, this site will be the staging ground for our war against furbykind. I’ll still be writing about beards and chicken fries and cybernetic llamas, lest the furbies discover the site’s true purpose and destroy it with their dark powers. But check back often, friends, for I’ll be disclosing more details on humanity’s war against the accursed Furby race.

The first step to becoming an effective furby hunter is to gird yourself with the proper equipment. If it catches you unprepared, a furby will not hesitate to incinerate your flesh and inappropriately harass your soul. To survive against the satanic spawn of Hasbro, you must employ the following equipment and strategy:

• Like vampires and ACLU attorneys, furbies can be repulsed by the sign of the cross. The Furby’s squishy claws, furry body, and voice like a castrated Kermit the Frog are an affront to God and all that is wholesome and good. As such, a cross will cause furbies to hiss and retreat back into shadows.
• Many ancient creatures of evil are repelled by garlic, due to its purifying properties. Similarly, because it is a nutritious alternative to other sandwich spreads, Nutella can be used to keep furbies at bay. I recommend slathering yourself with a liberal coat of Nutella and making sure you have a generous supply stored in every possible orifice.
• The only way to kill a furby is by impaling its battery casing with a stake made from hardened buffalo mucus. The majestic buffalo has been the enemy of the Furby ever since the two races competed in the fearsome Texas Hold-‘Em tournaments of ancient Babylonia.
• Like sunlight to the Vampire is the sight of a mullet to the Furby. The holiest of hairstyles, a swaying mullet causes furbies a searing pain and prolonged exposure can burn off their fur. Your mullet will be most effective if you whip it around sensually like you’re in a women’s shampoo commercial.
• Because some breeds of Furby are capable of flight, a pogo stick may be in order.
• Even the sinister furby is not immune to the power of music. The melodic sounds of Louis Armstrong will immediately cause even the most savage furby to cease its attack and break into dance.
• Because they savor the terror-stricken expressions on their victim’s faces, furbies will almost never attack a foe from behind. They are also hesitant to attack anyone wearing fuzzy garments, as they feel a kinship with all things furry. This makes the snuggie the ultimate in anti-furby armor.
• Over the millennia, the furbies have made many enemies. One of these was Carmen Miranda, whose erratic dance moves confused and angered the furbies. As such, a tasteful arrangement of fruit will protect your head far better than any helmet.
• For some reason beyond even my comprehension, the most effective battle cry to use against furbies is “sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t.”
• Because the Furby’s diet consists mainly of orphans, speaking in a cockney, Oliver Twist-esque accent is a good way to attract and entrap furbies.
• Adult diapers. They don’t have any special effect on furbies, but hey, when you’re facing an army of demonic ‘90s toys, you can’t expect to be in complete control of your body.
• The Furby, at its core, is a toy fad of the 1990s. This is a great strength, but also a weakness, as other ‘90s fads can used against them. So gather your pogs, dunkaroos, and Pokémon cards, friends, and dust off that Ninja Turtles tee shirt.

Granted, running around in a snuggle with a fruit hat and Nutella leaking from your body cavities won’t exactly impress the ladies, but if we’re going to save the human race, sacrifices must be made. Until our next discussion of the Furby menace, may your pogs fly true and may Louis Armstrong bless your buffalo snot.

Return of the Fuzzy Darkness

One of the many great lessons learned by mankind is this: in its re-emergence, evil is often far more threatening in than in its first incarnation. We thought we had defeated the Germans after World War I, the end-all be-all of warfare. Then came World War II. The people of Russia thought they had brought injustice to an end after they overthrew the Czar. Then came the Soviets. And now there is a darkness, one we’ve seen before, that has taken on a more powerful form and threatens all of existence.

I thought I had seen the last of the Furbys.

The Furby, for those of you unaware, was a dark fusion of bird and mammal with a voice like that of a sinister Mr. Rogers and eyes like a thousand screaming, tortured souls. Wielding a powerful black magic, the Furby, at the height of its power, nearly ground all of humanity under its fuzzy heel.

The foolish children of the 1990s purchased furbies in large numbers, allowing them to spread their dark cult across the face of the whole Earth. Fortunately, the fad died out and the hellish idols were left to gather dust in America’s closets, their age of darkness at last brought to a close.

I thought it was over. I held on to the hope that mankind had banished whatever foul spirits had inhabited the creatures and could at last live in peace. But I fear that, like evil, pain, and death, Furby domination may be inevitable.

Earlier this year, I was taking an innocent scroll through my Facebook news feed when I saw that a friend had posted this on my wall:

furby boom 2

“Furby Boom.” They’re back, ladies and gentlemen. And they’re more frightening than ever.

In addition to resurrecting the sick creatures, the poor fools at Hasbro actually expanded their power. With the aid of an app akin to the Necronomicon, the furbies can now interact with your smart phones, tablet computers, and other pieces of technology. That’s right: all of our communications—our phones, our computers, the Internet—all will succumb to the will of the Furby.

How did this happen?! What brain-dead ad executive actually said to themselves, “You know what’d look great on kids’ smart phones? Satan!”

You heard it here first; the future is indeed here, and the future is Furby. In a few years, I suspect we’ll be living in a world that resembles those of The Terminator, Mordor, 1984, and My Little Pony fused together into a land where the air reeks of cuteness and death.

Oh, but that’s not all. Feast your eyes on the next generation of dark dieties:

furbling
http://www.toysrus.com/buy/interactive-stuffed-toys/furby-furbling-creature-polka-dots-a6100-30181246

This is a “furbling.” Yes. They’re reproducing. Not only have the immortal furbies resurfaced, they’ve multiplied. There is no doubt in my mind: the furbies’ will continue to procreate until their demon spawn overrun the Earth and devour all who resist their iron-fisted rule.

Malevolent forces greater than any mankind has ever faced surround us, ready to devour our very souls. But do not despair just yet. I have long prepared for this day.

My studies in Furby lore have shown me the beasts’ weaknesses, and I plan to share my knowledge with any who will listen. After cowering in fear of the Furby’s return for over a decade, it is at last time to stand and fight.

Grab your crosses and garlic, friend, and check back next week.

Ketchup Negotiations

ketchup packet
http://www.amazon.com/Heinz-Ketchup-Packet-200-Case/dp/B004X6TWQA

The fast food drive-thru (spelled “thru” because words that contain more than five letters are frowned upon at many fast food establishments) is one of the many gifts bestowed on mankind by the gods of the frozen patties. It’s quick, easy, and lets you obtain food without ever having to leave your vehicle; you don’t even have to wear pants if you don’t want to. But there is a dark side to the drive-thru. If you’ve been to one in the last few years, you’ve no doubt found yourself having to go through ketchup negotiations.

Ketchup is the most valuable fast food commodity. Without it, your fries are tasteless, naked, and shameful. And like gold or oil, it is a resource that you must fight tooth and nail for.

In days long ago, the drive-thru worker would include with your meal a few packets of ketchup. It was a happy time when all was right with the world. But these days, as you pull away from the second window and look inside your bag of food, you’ll no doubt be struck with a stunning realization: there is no ketchup. None. Those heartless cretins keep the red goodness to themselves and you are left ketcupless.

This happens every time you go to the drive-thru. The ketchup gluttons at McDonald’s and Wendy’s simply will not give you ketchup unless you ask for it. Having to ask for ketchup at the drive-thru is like having to ask for anesthetic before a kidney transplant; there’s no one who wouldn’t want it, so you’d think they’d just give it to you automatically.

Oh, but the ketchup debacle doesn’t stop there. If, after the employee hands you your bag of food, you do ask for ketchup, they’ll first stare at you for a moment with accusatory, anger-filled eyes. Then, grumbling, they’ll grab a huge handful of ketchup packets—usually around two hundred—and shove them into your hands, as if to say, “Here, you big crybaby, take your ketchup. In fact, take far more ketchup than you’ll ever need, just so you never need to come crying to me about your condiment problems again.”

So now you have too much ketchup. After you’ve devoured all your tasty French fries, there are still a good dozen-or-so ketchup packets at the bottom of the bag, staring at you. Some people think, “I’ll put the ketchup packets in the fridge and use them later.” But you’ll never end up using all the ketchup packets because by the time you’ve used up one batch, the sarcastic ketchup glutton over at the Burger King drive-thru overloads you again and you have a brand new mountain of packets in the fridge to work through. You’re trapped in an endless ketchup cycle!

You’d think it would end there, but no. The fast food powers-that-be have come up with something even more diabolical. A few years ago, some fast food chains introduced new, “improved” ketchup packets:

big ketchup packet
http://www.designcontest.com/blog/what-can-you-learn-from-a-packet-of-ketchup/

These hold more ketchup than the old packets. But how much more? No one knows.

Let’s say that, before the new packets were introduced, you needed five ketchup packets to adequately cover all your fries. How many of the new packets do you need? Two? Three? Six? You’d better get it right or your ketchup-to-fry ratio is going to be skewed. These new ketchup packets have completely screwed up the ketchup packet exchange rate.

It’s high time we stand up to these fast food fascists and put an end to the ketchup mind games. I implore you, the next time you receive a bag of burger and fry without packets, thrust it back into the drive-thru worker’s greedy hands and say “Nay! You shall not make a mockery of my taste buds this day! I say unto thee, give me sufficient ketchup or give me death!”

Or you could just go to Taco Bell, where ketchup isn’t an issue.

Doritoception

Doritos.

Few words conjure memories of pure bliss and satisfaction quite like that one. The Dorito defies definition. Is it a unique snack creation, similar to the Funion? No, it’s definitely a chip. But is it a potato chip? Heavens, no! Then is it a simple corn chip? No, good sir! You are gravely mistaken!

You can no more define the Dorito than you can define love or beauty or consciousness. The tooth-reddening cheese powder, the perfectly-triangular shape, the little black peppercorns or singe marks or whatever those are—every facet of the Dorito is a flavorful mystery of the universe.

For eons, man respected the Dorito and did not tamper with its taste-defying state. But then, foolishly, man began to meddle with the Dorito.

It started innocently enough. Frito-Lay released spicy nacho Doritos and the ever-satisfying cool ranch Doritos. Emboldened by these successes, man began further meddling with the simple pleasure that was the Dorito. And then, one day, man released this:

guacamole doritos
http://food.productwiki.com/doritos-guacamole/

Guacamole. Doritos. Guacamole is not meant for Doritos! Guacamole adds flavor to normal corn chips! And Doritos are the furthest thing from—

corn doritos
http://www.walmart.com/ip/Doritos-Toasted-Corn-Tortilla-Chips-11-oz/24360286

No…no…they didn’t. They brought the mighty Dorito down to the level of a simple corn chip. That’s like hiring Beethoven to write a jingle for a deodorant commercial!

And the heretics at Frito-Lay didn’t stop there. They made salsa Verde-flavored Doritos, chile-and-lime-flavored Doritos, Chipotle barbecue-flavored Doritos, tapatío-flavored Doritos, spicy sweet chili-flavored Doritos, ranch-dipped chicken wing-flavored Doritos, and enchilada-flavored Doritos.

They made taco-flavored Doritos. Then they made a taco using a giant Dorito as a shell. Then they made Doritos that are supposed to taste like the tacos that use giant Doritos as shells.

taco taco doritos
http://www.seriouseats.com/2013/04/doritos-locos-tacos-chips-taco-bell-nacho-cheese-cool-ranch.html

Doritoception!

Once again, mankind in its foolishness has taken something simple and good and pure and twisted it to its own perverted purposes. The noble Cheez-it, the humble Skittle, the gallant Oreo—all were once simple pleasures and are now lost in a sea of gimmick flavors and orange, Halloween-themed frosting.

So heed my words. It is not our place to tinker with such immortal foodstuffs. Are we not but mere men?

We must make our voices heard now. Before the beef jerky-flavored Cracker Jacks and kung pow chicken laffy taffy rear their ugly heads.

Ferrets, Cheese, and Human Rights

ferret
http://www.ferretfriends.org/

I wrote the essay below for college political science class. The assignment required that we write some sort of essay that summarized our political beliefs. So, naturally, I wrote a story about ferrets and cheese and speedos.

In the middle of a vast ocean, surrounded by huge green clouds that carried a pungent odor, there was a small island known as Stenchland. Stenchland was a vast, fruitful island populated by a multitude of ferrets and cows. No one knows quite how the animals got there. All that was known was that the ferrets had somehow attained a degree of intelligence beyond that of normal ferrets, for they wore tiny speedos in every color of the rainbow and cared for the cows on their own. The ferrets would feed them, graze them, milk them, and eat their meat. But most of all, the ferrets enjoyed making cheese.

All day long the ferrets would labor with their cows and milk buckets and butter churns and cheese-aging cellars trying to craft as much cheese as they could (rumor has it that this obsession with cheese was what led to the island’s name of Stenchland.) Sometimes, the ferrets would even work for each other in exchange for cheese or trade cheeses of different kinds with their neighbors. They knew little but cheese and speedos and, for a long time, the ferrets lived in peaceful, cheese-making bliss.

Then one day, problems began to arise on the island of Stenchland. Mean-spirited ferrets fashioned weapons for themselves, wooden spears and shields from the trees, and killed or threatened others in order to take their cheese. There were disagreements about whether the cow-owner or the cheese-maker should get to keep the cheese and about whether brie was more valuable than cheddar in cheese exchanges. Soon, all the ferrets of Stenchland had to carry weapons to protect themselves and their cheese and the stronger ferrets would often take cheese from the weaker ones.

After several years of this, a ferret named Sheila called her ferret brethren together and spoke firmly in a voice that sounded like Janet Reno after she had inhaled helium.

“My fellow ferrets,” Sheila said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of always having to defend my life and cheese from those who would take them. I’m tired to having to resolve disagreements at the tip of a spear. Let us form a government, so that we can all live in peace and prosperity.”

And so, inside a cave on the top of a tall mountain, the ferrets met to discuss how they should construct the new ferret government. The elder Dave, one whose speedo was yellowed with age and wisdom (at least, let’s hope it was age and wisdom) led the meeting.

“The purpose of this meeting,” he said, rubbing his graying whiskers in contemplation, “is to form a government that can protect all ferrets on the island from harm and be the judge in conflicts. Now, it seems to me that the wisest thing to do would be to appoint a king or elect a council. That way, the rulers can punish those who harm others or unlawfully take their cheese and decide conflicts.”

“But no ferret is with without flaw,” another ferret named Pedro chimed in, “A king or council could easily oppress the ferrets they rule over and take their lives or their cheese for themselves. Any government should promote peace and prosperity, not make the lives of its ferrets miserable. We need to put something in place to protect out rights.”

“Rights? What are rights?” asked a third ferret.

“Rights basic modes of being that every ferret is entitled to. Ferrets have rights automatically. They are not given to us by a government or any other rodent; they exist naturally,” Pedro explained, “The whole reason we would enact this government would be to stop other ferrets from intruding on our rights. For example, every ferret has a right to live. We should have a law that protects our right to be alive so that if someone, even the government, tries to kill or harm you, you can appeal to the law that protects that right.”

The assembly talked it over and it was agreed that Pedro was right and that ferrets always had the right to be alive. The government, it was decided, would be required to protect that right and would be forbidden from infringing on it. But the council was far from over.

After adjusting his speedo, a ferret named Harold said, “It seems that we have other rights than just the right to be alive. All ferrets also have a right to freedom. No ferret should be able to tell another what to do, to dominate over another without any sort of agreement between the two.”

“Can we write something in the laws about the right to freedom of speech?” Enid the ferret asked, “I like to say the phrase ‘buttery marmoset’ a lot, but Reginald doesn’t like it and he’s threatened to beat me repeatedly with a sturgeon if I don’t stop. Do I have a right to be able to say whatever I want?”

“And freedom of religion,” shouted Fred the heretic, “I do not worship the tuxedo-clad monkey god Higjjor like my neighbors do. Do I have a right to choose my own religion?”

All the ferrets agreed that they did have a right to freedom, but before they could write it in their laws, a young ferret named Stanley spoke up.

“I think we also need to put something in our laws about a right to cheese,” Stanley said, “If I make some cheese and someone else takes it from me without my permission, they have violated my right to acquire and use my cheese as I see fit.”

“Indeed, what is a ferret without his cheese?” Dave said in agreement, “but it does seem like the rights to freedom and cheese could be taken too far. One does not, it seems, have the right to kill their neighbor or to steal another’s cheese. I would say, then, that every ferret has the right to be alive, the right to be free in any area of their lives, and the right to cheese as long as they do not use these rights to infringe on anyone else’s rights. This is what we should write in our laws.”

The ferrets agreed on this and laws protecting their rights were immediately written down. Soon afterward, they elected a governing council with Dave as its leader and the island of Stenchland had order at last.

Years passed and the ferrets continued to live under the new government. As time went on, new technologies came to the island from faraway lands and some of the ferrets employed these as ways to get more cheese. One particularly ambitious ferret named Jorge used all his cheese to buy machinery and built a speedo-producing factory.

His factory produced the most comfortable and glamorous speedos around, and soon ferrets were willing to part with their finest gouda in exchange for one of Jorge’s speedos. With the extra cheese, Jorge hired workers and his factory could soon make more speedos and earn even more cheese for him. Jorge soon had more cheese than anyone else on the island and a diamond-studded speedo that made his pelvic region glimmer with the shine of his success.

While Jorge enjoyed great profit from his endeavors, others were not as fortunate. Paul was a poor ferret who lived in a small hovel made of cow dung and glue and wore a speedo made of rags. He tried to find work in exchange for cheese, but few people had ever hired him, since his only skill was being able to play the didgeridoo underwater. Dreaming of quality cheese every day, Paul had only the occasional moldy edam that someone else gave him out of pity. Every day, he would walk by Jorge’s huge factory and monumentous pile of cheese and clench his fist in anger. Why should Jorge have so much while he had so little?

One day, fed up with Jorge’s endless store of cheese, Paul went to the governing council, hoping to improve his situation. Taking a deep breath, he walked through the large metal doors of the council’s building and stood before his rulers. Their wise eyes seemed to pierce deep through his fur and into his very organs as they looked down on him from their large, leather recliners.

“What is your grievance, Paul?” Dave asked.

“I am very poor, Dave,” Paul replied, “My house is small and inadequate, I have trouble getting food, and my speedo barely stays on. Meanwhile, Jorge has far more cheese than he needs to be comfortable. Can’t you take some of his cheese and give it to me?”

“Our laws won’t allow that, Paul,” another member of the council said, the footrest of his recliner jutting forward as he pulled the chair’s wooden lever, “Taking some of Jorge’s cheese and giving it to you would be a violation of Jorge’s right to cheese.”

“But I am barely staying alive!” Paul protested, “Don’t I have a right to be alive? If taking some of Jorge’s cheese is what it takes to keep me alive, the government should do it. You need to protect my right to be alive. And anyway, isn’t Jorge’s having so much cheese keeping me from getting cheese? His right to cheese is infringing on my right to be alive!”

Dave rubbed his chin, fixing a contemplative stare on Paul. “Leave us now, Paul,” he said at last, “so that we may deliberate.”

So Paul left and the ferret council discussed his remarks. There was much disagreement, but it was eventually agreed that Paul had a point and that Jorge, as a member of ferret society, had an obligation to keep Paul alive. And so, after this decision, Jorge was forced weekly to come before the council and give them some of his cheese. Then the council would give the cheese to Paul. Still not as rich as Jorge but comfortable nonetheless, Paul ate some of the cheese he got every week and used the rest to purchase a nicer house and a respectable speedo.

The arrangement between Paul and Jorge continued this way for several more years. One dim fall morning, Dave awoke, adjusted his recliner to an upright position, stood, and walked to the window. Flinging open the glass panes he inhaled deeply to take in some of the rancid, cheese-scented air. But on this morning, a different smell filled his nostrils. A cold fear seized him. Grabbing his binoculars, Dave looked far into the distance and realized his guess was correct. The koalas were coming.

Ever since they had built ships and explored the ocean decades ago, the ferrets of Stenchland had lived in fear of the savage, fedora-wearing koalas on the island of Jellyville. These brutal marsupials had killed most of the expedition party that had been sent to the island and had sworn to someday find and ravage the ferrets’ homeland. With a shudder, Dave closed the window and walked solemnly to his closet. He firmly gripped the wooden shield and spear he had hoped never to use again and woke the other members of the council. The day of reckoning had come.

The message spread swiftly through the ferret community. All who were able to fight were to meet in front of the council building. When the ferrets’ humble army was assembled, Dave strode slowly to its head and gave his warriors final instructions. A shout of “For the speedos of our ancestors!” erupted from the crowd and the ferrets charged forth.

The ferrets of Stenchland saved their island that day, but the fighting was brutal. Paul fought well, slaying seventeen koalas, wounding ten, and saving many of his fellow rodents from destruction. After the enemy retreated, he surveyed the destruction around him. Blood-stained fur coated the ground and the air seemed lifeless. To his horror, Paul recognized the bodies of many friends, including Jorge, who lay motionless with a koala axe deep in his back.

As he stared at the carnage, Paul slowly became aware of voices around him. From what he heard, he deduced that the entire council had been slain in the battle. Until another election could be held, the ferrets were without government.

Organizing a second election turned out to be harder for the ferrets than they had at first thought, and Paul soon realized that since Jorge and the council were gone, he had no more source of cheese. He was reduced to begging once again and his speedo deteriorated. Frustrated, Paul again looked to those who had more cheese than he and decided that he would enforce his right to be alive, government or no. Girding himself with his finest speedo, Paul traveled to the home of a wealthy ferret named Fabio.

As the door to Fabio’s house creaked open, Paul was nearly overwhelmed by the scent of succulent limburger. Ignoring the smell, Paul composed himself as best he could and spoke.

“I’ve come to take some of your cheese, Fabio,” Paul said, trying to sound as confident as he could, “Give it to me, or I shall come into your house and take it for myself.”

“You can’t do that!” Fabio shouted, “That’s a violation of my right to cheese!…and my right to freedom!”

“The government is gone now, Fabio,” Paul responded, “You don’t have rights anymore.”

“My rights exist whether or not there is a government!” Fabio said, grabbing a whistle from a nearby table, “You know this as well as I do. If you come any closer, I’ll blow this whistle and my neighbors will come to my defense!”

Disheartened, Paul took a step back, the back of his speedo seeming to sag with disappointment. “But what about my right to be alive?” he cried, “What about my right to receive cheese from other ferrets when I don’t have enough?”

Fabio set his whistle down and thought for a minute. “Paul,” he said, “you did not have a right to that cheese, because you were dependent on Jorge and the council for it. Rights are things we have naturally, things we aren’t dependent on anyone else for. Any service you must depend on others for cannot be a right, Paul, because if the ones you depend on are ever unable to provide it for you, the service will be gone.”

Paul sat down on Fabio’s doorstep, the chill of the cement on his buttocks preceding the cold, hard truth that was slowly overcoming his mind. Finally, Paul removed his didgeridoo from his pocket and held it out to Fabio.

“How much mozzarella will you give me for this?” he asked.