Peas Porage and the Bumbler Nation

In a land that time forgot and then remember lived a Bumbler. Not that this is unusual for a majority of the land’s citizens were Bumblers. Being uninformed was a national pastime for the inhabitants of the realm. The style of dress for Bumblers was blinders as those worn by a four legged creature called by many names such as nag. These Bumblers also ate most of their foods preprocessed or from food distribution points called fast-food joints. Many of the Bumblers were rotund, lazy, lacked imagination, and generally were dimwitted making their living from the “what have you done for me lately” profession. They were also notorious for making mountains out of molehills and were divided into three classes; the lower, the middle, and the upper. It should be noted that the middle class being the largest of the classes was tasked with supporting the other classes.

Now the Bumbler we are most interested in was the leader of all the other Bumblers. This Bumbler was a male of the species, a rather nondescript and highly inarticulate individual; he was placed in a position of leadership because he mirrored the primary characteristics of the majority of the other Bumblers. Named Porage Blush, we’ll just call him Peas Porage to denote his position and given name (Bumblers called their leader The Peas), was considered really hot by a religious cult called Blown Asunder Crustaceans (BAC for short). Dogmatic book thumpers, the BAC’s were unwilling to think for themselves thus following a line of mythological group insanity that made decisions based on ancient lore, cult leader directions, and fear of the unknown.

Backed largely by the BAC’s, Peas Porage was placed in a position where he could create mass allusion with slight of mouth and the guidance from an evil gnome, the Vice Peas, Prick Cranky. Prick Cranky was agenda driven. The agendas to which he adhered were written by big oil companies, the industrial military complex, and hidden coalitions. Known for shooting friends, bad advice, and being The Puller of the Strings V-Peas, Prick Cranky was one of many instrumental in plunging the Bumbler Nation into the deep dark morass of War (actually it should have been called “Invasion of a Sovereign Nation” since no war has officially been declared) and World Condemnation. All the while the majority of Bumblers, led by the book thumping BAC’s, swallowed the swill of conjectured deceit stirred up through the black art of propaganda to feed an opiate of Hero worship to the masses. Heroes once occupied a special place in the minds of the Bumblers, however after a liberal, uh-oh, that should be a ‘conservative’ plastering of the term on anything and everything that moved to obscure The Peas and V-Peas dark intentions, Heroes took on a shallower connotation. Dogs began to be called Heroes even kids collecting pennies to save prairie grass were Heroes. Thus each member of the Bumbler Nation thought of their self as a Hero. A wave of self righteousness swept the kingdom. The Peas and V-Peas were happy. They smiled smugly as they watched the great mass of other Bumblers day dream their way to that altered state of Recession. It was a journey that took seven years. As Lemmings, the Bumblers rushed in a headlong calamity humming that old song “Pennies from Heaven” (a song written during a past recession once called a depression that was commissioned by the national government) as The Peas, V-Peas, and other Bumbler nation leaders performed Saukows of delusion on the ice rink of “Let’s Pat Ourselves on the Back”. Sometimes the leaders would even make a show of making a show. Double speak for “that was fun, let’s fool ‘em again.”

Finally the time to fake a vote for the next The Peas arrived. As usual a gaggle of egos stepped forward to offer their mythical qualifications for the position. They dusted off their tired old campaign gobbledy-gook, contributors lined up to get a favor from the sinner (strike that) winner, pontificating pundits, quaffed network news anchors, and other assorted know-it-alls paraded across the media outlets to tell the Bumblers what they thought Bumblers should know. And the Bumblers, true to the form, lapped it up like a pack of hungry mangy hounds at a bowl of spilled sour and clabbered milk. The egos and know-it-alls listened to the clamor and gnashing of teeth as the Bumbler masses licked and slurped up the drivel from the bowl of contentment.

The Peas smiled, the V-Peas smiled, all the contributors smiled, the swollen headed lobbyists smiled, even Little Orphan Annie smiled, the controlling oil conglomerates danced a jig of joy; they knew what Karl Marx had always known “Religion (sour clabbered milk) and political slight of mouth were the opiate of the Bumbler masses.” Satisfied the Bumbler Nation voted in the previously chosen one, swiped their credit cards, and resumed their plodding cattle to slaughter journey all the while murmuring, “Bumblers, we’re the real heroes.” Nothing changed. Bumblers made decisions on rhetoric filled with emotional context. They imagined they were somehow smarter, more civilized, and right (not the logical part of the brain). They went to their over mortgaged homes, paid their life savings to the greedy unregulated mortgage companies, and shut the doors to their abodes in the Bumbler Gulag. Positioning their chubby forms in front of the glowing screens of derisiveness they waited their turn to die from clogged arteries so they could be replaced by their Bumbler offspring.

Life went on as usual for the Bumbler Nation.