The exact opposite of Progressive thinking
I’m worried about my friend Flo.
You know Flo ... the woman so busy busting her hump to sell insurance that she’s still in her work uniform at Sunday dinner with the family.
She’s on 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. She has no social life. The only time I’ve seen Flo out socially, her “date” turned out to be a blue-coated demon for a rival company — I think his name was Tom ... or was it Bill? ... Doesn’t matter — who wanted to weasel his way into her heart to gain access to her most treasured possession.
She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t eat. I’m not certain, but I don’t even think she blinks.
Day after day, she’s swatting wayward newspapers out of her customers’ lawns, or talking frightened first-time home buyers out of a moving truck, or riding with biker gangs ... all in her altruistic attempt to better the lives of her fellow human beings.
Heck, I bet she’d even help one of those half-human, half-motocycle Motaurs learn to trust others and find security.
So why (if you’re still reading) do I worry so about Flo?
Because it has become obvious that there’s an internal coup underway. Slowly but surely, it appears Flo is being put out to pasture. Like Boxer in “Animal Farm,” she’s been worked until she can work no more — all that’s missing is a “retirement” party, followed by having her bundled up and sent to a nice farm upstate.
And it’s clear who’s behind this insurrection. That dorky second banana with spiky orange hair and the appeal of the last kid picked at recess for kickball teams.
Like all hostile takeovers, Jamie’s master plan started innocently enough. Supportive teammate, eager to learn the ropes from his idol, Flo. Every now and then he’d screw up, leaving Flo to clean up his mess, as the Greek chorus of co-workers mocked him in unison.
But, then, things started to change. Jamie put on his big-boy pants and his evil side emerged.
He lived in a mansion? With a supermodel wife? He spoke several languages, was a Muay Thai martial arts expert, and was a lawyer ... even though he’s only licensed to practice in Stockholm?
Suddenly, he’s side by side with Flo ... solving even the most difficult cases. And, in the clearest sign yet that our heroine’s days might well be numbered, Jamie’s singing “Danny Boy” in harmony with her family — a regular Sunday event, apparently, in which somehow they’ve never bothered to include Flo.
Clearly, this will be a greater challenge to her super-powers than that dastardly attempt at replacing her with a robot — oh, excuse me, the “Flo-bot” ... the one that mimicked her voice and also didn’t sleep, eat or blink.
We have seen this sort of thing before.
A beer company decided in 2016 we had seen enough of “The Most Interesting Man in the World,” giving him a grand finale by having him blast off in a rocket ship to Mars.
“His only regret,” intoned Mr. Serious Announcer Voice, “is not knowing what regret feels like.”
But no sooner had he left the Earth’s atmosphere than he was replaced by a much younger impostor as the “new” Most Interesting Man in the World. Look, there was only one who was befriended by Michael Jordan, Leonardo DiCaprio and Barack Obama ... and it wasn’t some 50-cents-on-the-dollar knockoff.
The new “Most Interesting Man in the World” disappeared from TV screens two years later ... before the original had even made it to Mars.
Then, of course, their was the ill-fated fate of the original best-deals Negotiator, undone by ... of all people ... his own daughter.
He performed spoken-word singing, he hung out with Mr. Spock, he performed daredevil stunts. But then he was killed when the bus he was a passenger on careens off a bridge and lands with a big bang.
Just like that, the daughter he had trained takes over. His spirit is so broken that, when he rises from the dead, he has decided to spend the rest of his life in search of the perfect wave.
Most horrid of all, though, was another death ... as in January of this year, the legendary Mr. Peanut sacrificed his life to save Wesley Snipes as the Nutmobile went over a cliff.
They tried to sell us on some mumbo-jumbo about how the tears shed at Mr. Peanut’s funeral by his good buddy Kool-Aid Man were somehow responsible for the sprouting of some grotesque, mutant “Baby Nut.”
Well, those looyal to Mr. P weren’t going to drink that Kool-Aid — especially after it was revealed last month that “Baby Nut” has suddenly grown into a 21-year-old illegitimate legume going by the name “Peanut Jr.” ... a revolting development that spawned a viral protest using the hashtag #BlockMrPeanut.”
“He thinks he can just push himself to the front of public consciousness though cut forced vitality,” bellowed Twitterer Mr Sunday Movies. “Not the year for it. I won’t have it.”
Mr Sunday Movies is right; 2020 has been a traumatic enough year without another shock to those truths we hold dear.
If social media is going to get salty over a peanut, no amount of insurance is going to suffice should Jamie supplant Flo.
We few, we hardy few will do what it takes to see she continues her reign. Just name your price.
Mail Tribune news editor Robert Galvin, who can be found 24/7/365 at firstname.lastname@example.org, still hasn’t recovered from Quake losing to Quisp in the other rigged election of 1972.