Now with the population of the planet edging toward 8 billion human animals, those in charge with the biggest brains have finally figured out a solution, based on a piece of satire written in 1729.
Jonathan Swift wrote “A Modest Proposal”, which outlined a great idea for getting rid of too many people who bugger up the plans of the elite.
See, the elite want ‘the unwashed masses’ to exist in order to pay taxes and pour coffee and flip burgers and make corporations run smoothly. But they don’t want those same people demanding things. Like rights. And fairness. And redistribution of wealth so that we can all enjoy boogie-boarding and playing golf on a Tuesday in September and raising spoiled brat kids who get their own butlers and who are able to fly private jets to the Caribbean to go shoe shopping.
Why can’t we all just get along? asked a wise man once.
Now we can. The elite have stomachs that need satiation, and they get to enjoy only the best foods. But even then, they always want to try something else. Bigger, rarer, more verboten!
And the poor … well, there will always be more of them. Dirty, disgusting, foul-mouthed things … need a good wash! Once they get that good wash, of course (possibly in some kind of institutionalized ‘shower’), they’re clean and ready for the chef to construct a delightful dish with a side of bone marrow and toenails presented with a sprig of coriander and chest hair, and an after-taste of saffron and bile.
Delicious! And with a potential of 8 billion delectable dishes of ‘long pig’, the elite will never go hungry!
Oh, good, I was so worried about them. Weren’t you? Now shut up and get in the oven. Hansel and Gretel are nice and juicy, but there are still many bellies to feed and fill.
In 50 years, the population will be hovering around what those Georgia Guidestones (now taken down and destroyed for telling too much horrible truth, blamed on Satanists by, guess who, Christians, of course) at 500 million, no more, “in perpetual balance with nature”.
Soon, you will you get to own your very own knife and fork and spoon. But only if you’re an elite. Which rhymes with:
Bon appétit!