Free Trade

Last night, after waking from a nap, I walked the streets of Micronville pondering new skills I wished I possessed. On the corner of Cranial Ave and Spiritual Street stood a five and a half foot tall Guinea Pig. He wore trousers, a button down shirt, stood on two legs, held a smoking pipe in one hand, and a cane in the other. He gestured with the pipe for me to follow through a dark open doorway. I felt inclined and fell into step behind his twaddling walk.
Through the doorway was a softly lit room rich with tapestries. Dark purples, greens and maroons draped around and over couches and chairs surrounded by small tables and lamps of varying heights.
"Have a seat." He squeaked before plopping onto a couch and dropping his cane. He took a large puff off the pipe and blew cherry flavored smoke my direction. I sat in a deep forest-colored chair that lacked enough cushion for my bony behind.
He said, "I understand there is a skill you wish to acquire. You want to access a complete psychological breakdown of an individual simply by acquiring a sample of their handwriting-is that as I understand it?" As he spoke his lower jaw rocked slightly from side to side leaving the impression he chewed his cud.
My eyebrows pointed in shock from the idea he knew the thoughts that only moments before pirouetted through my mind. And then by the two-foot tall impeccably dressed butler that took the pipe from him, tapped it out and repacked it-where had he come from?
"Quite certainly." I blinked, "It would make my job that much easier."
"What is it you do?" He puffed at the pipe, round cheeks billowing out as though he'd stuffed them with seeds.
I noticed the end of the pipe was raw with chew marks and smiled, didn't need to analyze his handwriting to see there was an extreme oral-fixation there.
"I read correspondence between inmates and free citizens."
"I could see how that would help. Would you believe I can help you?" He sat deep into the couch, the folds of his stomach draped over his haunches and he gestured with the pipe for the butler to leave. The tiny many disappeared behind a maroon curtain.
I leaned in very interested, "What would this require? Is it expensive?"
"Well, I work off trade." He paused a moment allowing me to digest this, "I need a physical asset, a trait if you will. This is something I think sight should be exchanged for. You give from whichever eye has better vision, if both are the same then you may choose. Then I give you complete psychological diagnostics for penmanship. Bam- career success!"
I blinked to myself. Something that required a moments...
"I'm sure you'd like time to come to this decision. Shall I have Jugo bring us some dinner? Never good to make a decision on an empty stomach."
Just the time I needed to think.

Food for thought- or Enjoy Seafood?

I've been thinking a lot lately about the way they harvest Crab Legs for our eating pleasure and have come to the conclussion that I do not wish to mess up in this lifetime and be re-born as a Crab. Though, I have friends and family members that may already tell you I am living said life now.
Crabs regenerate their limbs. Harvested crabs live in tanks and get their claws chopped regularly to send to various seafood restaurants and personal kitchens to feed the glutinous (for in this day most people cannot be said to be starving, especially when they are crab consumers). These crabs are not given any heavy barbituates, tranquilizers, or hallucinogens FDA approved or otherwise; they are left to regenerate and then harvested again until they die of misery and pain.
I ask you, why not eat the entire crab? Why be greedy and take just the good stuff and let the miserable crustacean create claws for us to consume later? Could there not be a connection between eating food that is raised in misery and humanity's deeper plunge into collective self disgust? I don't care if the claws are organic or doped to the gills (if crabs even have gills- we should be eating those too) just don't torture them before eating them to appease the overindulgence of the mass.