and as the diffusion of flavors swirled over my palate I succumbed to a similar efflux of thoughts aswirl: I thought upon the little boy in the Singapore sweatshop who had put together this breaded meal of mine some months prior. How much did they pay you, little Pablo? A dime ... a farthing? Did they allot you a bathroom break during your 12-hour shift? Did you sacrifice a tiny finger-tip or two to the great exhaust-belching corndog thresher? A tear welled in my eye.
I crumpled the corndog wrapper and angrily littered it, in violation of the law. Call it an awakening, of sorts: I now knew why I'd been protesting all week. You know, before all this had started I had never heard of the WTO; and when it was explained to me I quickly forgot. Oh sure, back in the 60's we marched and changed the world, as I recall, but this was different: I had a great job at Microsoft and a home coveted by my neighbors and wanting to change the world would be frankly quite irrational for me now. So why was I down here yelling at Nordstrom shoppers?
I'll tell you why: Pablo. Little Pablo was the reason I was fighting the "system": he was the reason I was opposed to global "trade." Because his little corndog was the worst fucking thing I have ever put in my mouth in my entire life. Learn how to prepare food, people! Maybe then we'll trade with you. WTO pricks. Even as I write this a year later I have that horrible taste in my mouth. Jesus!
(The WTO Riots continue next week at the TriState Agribusiness Convention, Peoria Fairgrounds, Peoria, Kansas.)