Larry Doyle gets apocalyptic in the New Yorker.
You asked, Is there a problem here? There’s your answer. That’s the problem. When you stopped worrying about the curliness of your fries, when workers like you stopped worrying about the curliness, or creaminess, or deadliness of their respective fries, that’s when this country got on the wrong track; that’s when the bankers and the C.E.O.s all disappeared into that underground paradise they’ve been building since the eighties; that’s when women’s skin started falling off; that’s when the Treasury Department, in a last-ditch effort to solve the financial crisis, certified all Monopoly and other board-game moneys; that’s when the rivers ran red, and gelatinous, with what many thought was strawberry Jell-O but really, really was not; that’s when the post office finally followed through on its threats to stop Saturday delivery; that’s when dogs mated with cats, producing a pet that was unfriendly yet still slobbered all over you; that’s when the President and the Congress went on a fact-finding mission to Subterrania and never came back; that’s when baboons gained speech but only used it to make hurtful comments; that’s when the dead rose and flooded the job market with cheap, disposable labor, and the serpents, seeing an opening, took dominion over this once great nation of ours.
You and your uncurled fries.
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