At dawn, i was awakened from a fitful sleep when the jackbooted thugs kicked down my door and announced that it would go easier on me if i didn’t make ’em conduct a long search for the stash of opti they knew was somewhere on the premises. They were relatively gentle, but it didn’t take long before i pried up the floorboards in the corner of the kitchen for them. After that, they never hit me again because in the first place they were so excited over finding such a large quantity of the product and in the second that people who are full of high-quality opti lose interest in hitting others.
I warned them that if they took too much of the stuff, it would make them so nice that they wouldn’t be able to do their jobs, so they held back a bit but continued to sample, declaring the product the purest and least degraded by recent events than any they’d had in years. So they sat around toasting me with champagne (mine, of course, but they let me have a glass) as one of ’em calculated the street value once it was cut, packaged in single-use quantities, and distributed by street dealers saying under their breaths, “Opti? The best. Real government stuff.”
At least that’s the line my dealers use now that optimism is a controlled substance.
How did that happen? Well, remember that during the beneficent reign of Trump II, Our Leader realized that optimism was in increasingly short supply and that he should, contrary to the usual rule, remove it from the hands of free enterprise and make it a government monopoly. Some things are too good to be left to the highest bidder.
And then, under Trump III, distribution was limited to those with a clear need – party officials, members of congress, and selected state government officers.
Certainly not the likes of me. Or thee.
Meanwhile, some rather optimistic street art:
