With my lunch break over, I go back to my job of History Revisionist (second class) at the government office next to the park. While fighting back utter boredom, I spend the afternoon creating several fictitious sources that all describe atrocities done by the rioting workers in Boston. This would support the harsh clamp-down that the military is planning for tomorrow. I leave work unusually happy, it must be the nice weather.

The elevator glides down with the last of our office staff and the doors open and close at each floor. With each stop, more Haliburton lobbyists pack into the small space, each glowing with content from the weeks progress of destroying the third world for Bush's oil fortune.

The thought of rioting workers being herded, beaten and shot by the military consumes me as I imagine the violent scenes in my mind. Hey, I like to imagine middle easterners slaughtered for oil as much as the next guy, but the unions suck ass.....and they are right here in the US.

"Fuckin' wicked bastuds" I say outloud accidently. The other passengers seem to read my thoughts......see the exact same images as they look at me and nod in agreement. Each of us are enjoying our own mental movie of carnage and I cant help thinking about how very much we all owe Jeb.

The elevator doors open at the ground floor and the people spill out into the lobby.

Flowing through the throng, I mused on how many other times and places I had available to me to be ragingly political, and decided that there were times it was better to just relax and have some fun. So I headed off to the amusement theme park by the Boardwalk--hey, maybe I'd find the clam on the roller coaster, right? Had to give it a try or I'd never know.

Waiting impatiently in line for the roller coaster, I wondered where could it be. How could a clam go unnoticed, with all these people milling about. Then it struck me like a failed NASA project, out of the blue. A disguise, it was wearing a disguise! Now I knew, I was searching for a.......bearded clam.

This was not the first time I found myself searching for the ever elusive bearded clam, but this was a whole new angle. I felt a twinge of hunger, brought on by the fabulous smell wafting out of a little country cooking stand next to the rollercoaster. As I had no real good leads to go on, I decided to think on it over a nice warm plate of biscuits and gravy.

About half way through my biscuits, I found a hair. A short bristly hair. I called my waitress over to complain. She took one look at the hair, and shreiked," Harry, there's a whisker in this guy's biscuits!"

The irony struck me. I had been looking for a bearded clam, but all I had found was a whisker biscuit. What was next? A hair pie? Disgusted, I turned to leave, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

An old man in red suspenders, going by at like 100 mph on a moped. So I'm like dude, wtf? You ran over my clam! But it was too late, he was headed for the overpass.

Clod,

you have now officially redeemed your existence.:haha:

Slang,

this should be your user title

I pushed through the throng of people massed around what was left of the bearded clam. Somehow, he was still alive, though how, I can't say. I pushed aside the whiskers and leaned in close to listen.

you have now officially redeemed your existence

I had no idea my existence was unredeemed... does that mean now I've used up all my coupons?

I heard him gasp his final words. It was faint, and there was a lot of noise and confusion, but i heard, "eat me " quite clearly.

I gently scooped up the bearded clam and held it to my sob heaving breast. The tears welling up in my eyes, I was gazing helplessly down at the dead bearded clam, when I heard a voice say “Give me the clam”. Too numb to question, I handed the bearded clam to the voice and as he whisper to the shell, I recognized the voices owner. It was the Mayor, who owns this park and half the town. Suddenly, the bearded clam stirred, then spoke, it was alive!
It never ceases to amaze me how wealth, can revive a dead clam.

I heaved a great sigh of relief. Now. Where the hell is that kid?

The kid, unable to quell the unrest at the union hall, vomited in a lavender VW microbus. Politics, tequila, and clam digging while not a lethal mix, str [tryyu jstf pm vst[ryomh/

Damn, Griff. That looks like the spam I get.:(

str [tryyu jstf pm vst[ryomh/ = are pretty hard on carpeting. :) An irate hipster grew angry when he realized his box of cellar gear was in the splash zone. "Kid" he says "kid..."