IF I AM ELECTED all the rats will wear jewellery. The trees will be raked of lizards nightly. No one will ever go hungry without a permit. Skyscrapers will be renamed cloudsnaggers. Giant maple keys will come spiralling from the sky to cut off the heads of the Evil Ones and delight the children. Pussycats will climb willow trees to eat the cicadas, but the cicadas’ wits will be sharpened by this and they will never be caught, their wings will sing forever until they evolve beyond us into the supercreatures of the new millennium (meantime, we put them on our flag). Horses will get birthday cakes. Punches will be thrown out of windows, showering spirits upon those living below the party line. Nightcaps will be dislodged an hour later on holidays, extending daylight for the revellers and looters. Aperitifs will be served in the deserts and a pair of teeth will be served in the desserts. I will say no more on the subject.
IF I AM NOT ELECTED an era of dark depravity will reign, such as you’ve not seen since the mid-70s or so. The tails of your schnauzers will droop. Caterpillars will not turn to butterflies but instead grow to monstrous size and lie rotting on your thoroughfares, tying up traffic and stinking to the heavens. The elderly will wear hotpants. No one will ever know what time it is, but all will have the sense that it must be getting very, very late. Forget-me-nots will be renamed what-the-hell-are-these-things. The Beast of War will ravage the globe, and there will be nothing on TV except reruns of curling matches and infomercials about wheatgrass grow-kits. Chickadees will fornicate with badgers. Car alarms will become contagious, a single incident setting automobiles squonking and whooping for miles. It will become impossible to get a decent sandwich anywhere. The denizens of Hell will walk the earth in pink lycra gymsuits, their Walkmans blaring Vivaldi. And moths will eat your pillows.
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