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?"
"Me."
"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."
"16 oz.?"
"What a pickle you
are."
"No, too much
salt."
"Your choice, Mr. Mayor...as it
should be."
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