Utility trucks drop pylons like land mines. Widows waving Tupperware in passionate dissent, standing barefoot, braced for battle on their front lawn. Foremen with 100's hanging from their lips, scarred up hands planted firmly on faded denim hips, standing tall and stern like the Brawny lumberjack. The statement from the Mayor paints this as serious business, so the city refrains from laughter (misconstrued as vulnerability). United, their voices cross streams in a town-hall slaughterhouse: all opposed, none obliged to the dump truck convoy stumbling down your sidewalk, riling knife fights with the cement mixers. This time the Charlie won't burn. We knew it was coming when the Xerox pamphlets appeared tucked under screen doors so as not to offend. "Don't shoot the messenger," the fliers would plead, jabbing at your ribs, teasing and coaxing. As if they had a mind of their own. As if they were more than just placeholders, running an elliptical relay race for the incumbent's next of kin. Vote by vote, we design a revision of outdated ideas. Brick by brick, we're building a more competent yesterday. With horse blinds to keep out the second thoughts using progress as the skeleton key of our grievances flying high the Bear Flag on a foundation of bullish principles. And when the time comes to occupy fresh horizons I predict a stunted legion of engineers and programmers visibly trembling, clutching coffee mugs, scratching toupees with sweaty palms, racking brains, afraid to ask about Vertical Expansion.
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