The pre-dawn atmosphere was heavy with humidity and dread—like a sauna full of fat, naked, Russian men. Then, drawn together by an unknown force in the absence of a pre-blast, out of a primordial soup of organic building blocks, a smattering of primitive life forms congealed at Westmoreland Park like the dehydrated fats and proteins on the surface of heated milk. It was at this point that the gratuitous similes ran dry and the author was forced into a more linear narrative.
When it became clear that a Q was not arriving, a silent panic ensued. (At least we thought it was silent; some of us don’t hear so well.) We scanned the faces of the rudderless retinue for signs of leadership. Surely, in this bastion of independence, this republic of opportunity, this domain of the avaricious capitalist pig, a leader would emerge—if for no other reason than to lord his sovereignty over the mindless minions forced (modifications notwithstanding) to respect his tenuous authority.
Not one man heeded this clarion call of command.
A Lord of the Flies scenario was imminent, despite the lack of obvious candidates for the Ralph and Piggy roles. But then Eeyore grabbed the conch and commanded the attention of the castaways—not to assume hierarchical command, but to propose a radical, revolutionary idea: shared ownership of the means of perspiration.
And thus, on one otherwise uneventful Friday morning in the midst of the August doldrums, six pathetic proletariats organized into a coherent, cooperative Q, emancipating themselves from class struggle and the iron fist of the bourgeoisie.
Many curls, crushers, and crunches ensued, as leadership was given from each according to his ability and to each according to his need. Heart rates were elevated almost as much as the spirits of the working class, drunk with freedom and sweating out the elixir of oppression from their plebeian pores.
Then we had lattes at Starbucks.