In the dank little hamlet that I call home, the local busybodies and control freak contest winners are accustoming their myopic vision to the murky darkness of the secretly-sanctified local barn where they meet to feed on the dreams of future youth, in order to continue a system of obfuscation that has ran this place along the same ruts in the unpaved main road since 1644. Or something.
Like the United States Supreme Court, only without the wrangling about empathy -- because no one on the quaint anachronism has any -- Town Meeting goes on without abate, and is widely misunderstood by the eleven of us citizens who do not sit on its esteem'd benches. (Or is that "steam-cleaned" benches? I so don't know.)
The moderator has thrown out parliamentary procedure because most members of the astute body refuse to follow it since they believe that they actually fought in the Revolution against Parliament, and many were personal (although hostile) acquaintances of General Henry Robert and didn't like his attitude about not letting people talk whenever the Spirit moved them, and thus feel that he was discriminating against the local Society of Friends.
The rumors (or rumours) about parts of the imaginary agenda include:
- Should we, as a community, fund some bratty smarty-pants to molly-coddle the trouble-makers that them libs call "at-risk teens" when we all know that them punks just need a good whuppin'?
- Same goes for that Michael Gagne.
- How can we vote on a operating budget when everybody knows that (I) we ain't got no money, and (b) nothin' operates around here anyway.
- What is up with the street cleaner driving at like two miles an hour in the middle of rush hour? And why are the large orange bags darker than the small orange bags?
- Does anyone smell that? I mean, really. Does this "waiting for the Spirit to move you" thing also apply to hygiene, housework, and lawncare?
- Where are the good old Dartmouth industries of the past, like salt-making?
- Them fancy-shmancy wind turbine things. Somebody's making out on that deal, right? I mean, who's got a friend in the business? Come on, fess up!
- And, no, we can't just incorporate as a City, elect a Mayor with some common sense and fiscal experience, and distill the Town Meeting to a City Council of seven very popular morons that we can all make fun of.