The New Flesh

"And that is how I firmly believe we can significantly reduce the amount of teen pregnancies in the United States of America." Senator Stevenson looks directly at the TV cameras.

The audience cheers a perfunctory cheer - if such a thing exists.


I walk onstage and shake Stevenson's sweaty, lifeless hand.

And now!


It is my turn to speak. And speak I do.


"Ladies and gentlemen - those of you watching me in the audience, and those of you fine people watching me at home. I Senator Walter Brigman have made an extraordinary discovery." I tell them
earnestly. "And do you have any idea what that discovery is?" I ask rhetorically.


Stumped. They don't know. Except: Cough, sneeze, snort, burp.


But no answers.


"Think about it." I tell them. "The answer to it all is right under most of your noses in the morning. It is what will kill all our Country's ills finally. And effectively. Once and for all."


Further silence. Still.

"Still no idea"? I look upon their contrite, ignorant little faces. The question is no longer one of rhetoric. I am now truly angry.


"What has the power to quash all the cancers of society?"


They are stupid. Yet ingrossed. Maybe there is still some hope for them.


"Aids. Influenza. Colds. Chancers. Cancers - of all shapes and forms. Teen pregnancies. Terrorism. Globing Warming. Pestilences. Smallpox. The measles. Genital warts of all stripes. Wars. Drug addiction. Extortion. Rape. Child molestation. Assault and
battery, assault with no battery. C'mon people! For the love of God has it not yet dawned on you?" I puff on my pipe,
containing medicinal marijuana. Panama Red.

Exasperated, I continue.


"See. Unlike my esteemed colleague, Senator Stevens, my answer doesn't just reduce teen pregnancy - as well as all the other issues I noted, that are plauging humankid - but EXTERMINATE it. Once and for all. Haven't you imbeciles caught on yet? Don't you moronic people see the cure-all? It is right in front of you!" I scream into the mic.


Hostily they shout "WHAT?"


I have struck a nerve. And, breaking the tension, I give them the answer:


"Pancakes."


Now. Truly engrossed. They listen - attentively.


"Pancakes don't stab. Don't kill. Nor steal. Nor rape."


Now. Engrossed ever more by my brilliant words.

"They will not get your teenage daughter pregnant! They will not give it to your wife while you're out working. They do not start wars illegally. They are neither jealous nor puffed up with pride!"


A busty blonde newswoman leaps to the stage and shoves her tongue down my throat. It's hard to talk as she's doing it. But I manage. Until a security officer escorts her away. I warn him to be gentle with her.

"They do not carry veneral disease. Or give you crabs. Or, after twenty- five years or marriage they do not run off with another pancake of the same gender, making you question your own sexuality in the process!"

The auditorium bursts out in joyful acclamation. Like a preacher empowered by some holy ghost. I continue. Enpowered by the Holy Pancake.

"Pancakes are not meat! They do not entail bloody, vicious murder! And they cannot murder you...can't give you Mad Cow Disease. Or freckles. Or or." I try talking over their massive applause. "They don't hire a lawyer and ask for child support!"


"Pancakes didn't neglect capturing Osama bin Laden at Torra Borra. Nor did they squirt their maple syrup all over an intern pancake named Monica's blue dress!"


More wild applause. And all of them - the audience, you understand - simultaneously glancing their heads toward Senator Stevenson, who in the corner is pissing himself a river of shame.

"Pancakes don't piss themselves!" I exclaim, pointing my giant, god-sized pancake fist at Senator Stevenson's. He cries.

The crowd mocks him.

"You know what else pancakes don't do?"

"WHAT?" The crowd pleads to know.

"They don't belittle Senator Stevenson." I chide. "Or anyone else for that matter. They have more class than that." I momentarily turn my nose up at them.


"Damn right!" The crowd agrees with my counsel. And by now the same busty blonde who kissed me breaks free of the security officer's grip and jumps over to the side of the stage where Senator Stevenson sits sulking and whimpering, and gives him a lapdance.

Senator Stevenson regains faith. And beams "I love you all - I love my country."

"Pancakes neither endorse nor condone Senator Stevenson's personal conduct!" I half-scream at the joyfully exuberant crowd.

I go on:


"Pancakes aren't partisan! They have no slush funds! And they do not vote in favor of political expediency over what they know to be right!"

CHEERS. APPLAUSE. MORE DEAFENING, INTOXICATING


CHEERS. INTOXICATED BY...

"Pancakes vote right on abortion. Stem Cell research. And gay marriage everytime!"

The entire audience--men and women, boys and girls, Democrats and Republicans, young and old, gay and straight, pro-choicers and no-choicers--grab hands, howling enthusisastically. Binding together as one


America should...

Therefore...therefore! I told them. Trying to scream over their whole one entire giant body of voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen. My beloved countrymen and women, let us come together, as the nationalistic brothers and sisters we truly are. And be - once and for all - One Pancake Nation. Under God...for liberty, justice and a vast selection of multi-flavored, multi-colored pancake syrup for all!"

"The Breakfast Food Revolt"

Copyright: © 2010 Jack Bristow

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Jack Bristow graduated Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2009. He lives in New Mexico. His next short story, "Our Bus Driver, Fred" can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.