The Sign of the Pasta

"May the Great CEO bless you with full benefits, good sir," the old cashier crone crooned as she deposited the change upon my palm. I pocketed it, hoping she couldn't see me subtly shaking my head as I wandered, groceries in hand, to the lot outside. I guess one of His Marketing representatives must have come through His Favored Market recently, once again inciting in even the lowliest and dirtiest clerk the Good Fortune Shared By All Whom Shall Work. The bright sun belittled my meager cynicism as I came out into the lot, His minor torment upon me, perhaps.

Three of His Lost Employees were scattered across the lot, doing what little they could to scrape a living off the droppings of the more fortunate, to eke change from the few that they could. "It is their own misfortune only because they cannot or will not work when His Magnificent Society asks that of them," spoke the parody Marketer in my head, looking at least a little bit like the current President, our current head of His Earthly Affairs. I still don't understand how people can always be so close to such depressing desolation and not wonder why in "His Benevolence" he can't seem to feed or clothe so many that wander His Cities homeless and desperate.

His Preferred Market across the street glittered in the wonder of His Holy Writ, proclaiming sales in produce and home appliances. His Fabulous Furniture Emporium next door letting all know the great fortune of how His Machines have delivered unto us nearly unprecedented savings! Just like last week. Just like every week...

A man of rather imposing stature made a rather whimsically meek cough just behind my left shoulder. "Excuse me, good sir, but do you have a few ...