Fun fact: This scene is from an art project called Shrek Retold, in which the movie Shrek was re-created, scene by scene, by over 200 artists of all varying levels of talent, and it’s freely available on youtube.
I haven’t even read any communist stuff my ideology is “share and be nice” like the first two rules of a kindergarten
When you get out of kindergarten you might learn that stealing isn’t sharing.
Literally who is talking about stealing get outta here you absolutely giant jester
Do you know what redistribution means?
You sit back in your dark leather chair and run your fingers through your greying hair. You’ve just set up your preparations for owning some random kid on the internet and now all you have to do is wait for the fish to get the bait. You chuckle and close your eyes.
The door to your office opens up, letting in a flood of bright light from the world outside your cave, and a messenger stands squarely in the middle of the door frame.
“Telegram for giant jester!”
You walk over, take your telegram, and read.
“READ FIRST SENTENCE AGAIN STOP”
You smile confusedly and think it might be a mistaken delivery. You throw the telegram into the bin beside the door. The deliverer still stands like a gatekeeper, blocking the exit.
“Another telegram for giant jester!”
You think this is all very strange. People usually don’t send two in a row, and now this messenger won’t leave you alone. You are beginning to sweat lightly in your cheap cotton suit. You open this new telegram and read it.
“REDISTRIBUTION INVOLVES TAKING MONEY FROM PEOPLE WHO HAVEN’T WORKED FOR IT YOU THINK JEFF BEZOS MOVES EVERY PACKAGE HIMSELF THE BASTARD SITS THERE AND MAKES THE SALARIES OF THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE IN A MINUTE ALL BECAUSE HE EXPLOITS THE TIME AND ENERGY OF HIS WORKERS HOW IS THAT NOT STEALING WHY ARENT THE WORKERS GETTING PAID FOR THE EFFORTS THEY GIVE IN FULL”
You have no idea how the sender got all this text on one telegram sheet. You’re feeling queasy from this anomaly. The text is clearly too much for the sheet but it hovers delicately off the edge anyway. Youre unable to process the contents of the message due to a dark, evil sickness in your stomach. The sentry stands tall and firm at the doorway.
“One last telegram for G. Jester!”
Your shaking legs buckle and you fall to the oak floor and slowly rest yourself on your side. You pray to all the gods you know (and a few you don’t) that everything will be okay. You don’t understand what is happening. The messenger turns to you and begins to speak the telegram:
“No one was talking about stealing or redistribution anyway. You believed you were reading between the lines when in actuality you read past it, drifting off into space instead of staying with earthly affairs. And now you lay on the ground and beg with tears and snot soaking into the floor beams that we may spare you. Pathetic, isn’t it? You swung at a dummy and still managed to miss. Where is your sense of self respect? Of keeping your mouth shut when you need to? Did you lose it somewhere? Did you never have it in the first place? Why did you comment on this post in such a way as to assume the intent of its author when you clearly know so, so little about the world, about people, about yourself. We will leave you for now to contemplate on this.”
Your face sits in a puddle of bodily fluids as you watch the messenger dissipate slowly, burning up in holy and righteous fire. You don’t know what you have been visited by. But you feel that you should listen. Your world turns black. You dream of impossible architecture, horrible creatures, and inhuman languages.
This was George. He was a 9 year old Jack Russell who lived in the small town of Manaia, New Zealand. On April 29, 2007 he jumped into a losing fight with two Pit Bulls to protect two young children. According to witnesses he fought as hard as he could, but he never stood a chance and was severely mauled as the children were pulled to safety. George died from his wounds that afternoon at the vet.
The Knottiness of Existence 