The man in the blue spandex suit crouched patiently and waited as the armada of
32 oz. cups of sweetened beverages approached, or at least seemed to.
"Take that, and that, and that," he shouted, being careful to avoid tripping over his flowing red cape as he struck each one in turn. "Make my New Yorkers fat, will you? Not while I'm mayor, you won't. Do you see this 'S' on my chest? Once it stood for 'smokes'. Then for 'salt'. Now it stands for you! Sweetened beverages! Ha, ha, ha? Go ahead and laugh. They laughed at Socrates too."
"Nobody laughed at Socrates. They poisoned him."
"Who said that?"
"Who's 'me?' Where are you?"
"Up here on top of the curtains, Michael. I'm your Rational Self."
"Well, speak louder. I can hardly hear you."
"So I've been told."
"Well, what do you want?"
"I want you to leave everyone alone before someone decides to poison you too. You're becoming a pest and you're driving people crazy. And, most important, what happens to you, happens to me. We're joined at the unconscious."
"I just wanted to help. I want everyone to be healthy."
"They're adults, Michael. They all have to make their own decisions, more healthy living, less healthy living, in-between healthy living. There's no right answer. It's not 'one size fits all.' Keep the streets clean and the snow shoveled and people will love you and remember you as a great mayor."
"Look at this. I'm attached to a philosopher."
"Come, we'll have a couple of Cokes."
"What a pickle you are."
"No, too much salt."
"Your choice, Mr. Mayor...as it should be."