Blanket Socialism

I'm heading into my meeting with the evil new light-skinned Chief. Personally, I think he's a white man, but some of the tribe claim they remember when he was a papoose, and even when he was born. Like his mother. Alleged mother. Anyway, he's the one I have to complain to.

You may not be familiar with my nation. We're the Cuddashuddawudda. Not as sexy as the Sioux or Apache, I know, but we're a lot smarter and more politically and ideologically aware. That's why got right onto this new guy, who wants to mess with the time-tested traditions that have served us so well for ... decades. Like the Stranding of Elders, which is the topic of today's meeting. Oh, well. Here I go ...

"Just who the hell do you think you are?" It always pays to stake out a preemptive aggressive, yet friendly, position.

"I'm the Chief," says the Chief. A little less intimidated than I would have liked.

"Look," I continue, "the time for the southern migration is upon us, and it's time to leave Granny behind. Why are you messing with this time-honored tradition?"

"I'm not," says the Chief. Not the wordy sort, apparently.

"In our tribe," I explain, "it's customary to leave the old folks behind to ... er, fend for themselves, when they can't keep up anymore. Of course, we leave them some food, water, and a decent blanket to tide them over until we come back or ... whatever."

"Yes, I know," says the Chief. "We're in the same tribe."

" And what with the brutal winters and merciless summers, it always seems to be ... whatever," I continue, "but that's beside the point. Where do you get off messing with the market prices of food, water, and blankets?"

"Well, ... they aren't exactly market, are they?" says the Chief. "That's all controlled by Blanko Corporation, and the prices have been shooting up for years. Beyond the resources of the average person, now."

I know the answer to that one. "Research costs!" I cry. "Citizens for Fair Blanket Pricing explained that. New dyes, new materials, new styles. The cost of lugging around Blanko execs who are too fat to mount a horse. It stands to reason."

"A Blanko front group," mutters the Chief. "That's Blanko paying people to tell you what good guys they are, and how mean I am. You must know that I was elected Chief because people were fed up with Blanko's exorbitant prices, and I promised to do something about that. A man can't afford to abandon his grandmother anymore! All that I am doing is trying to make the guilt-abaters affordable to the average tribe member."

"Oh, no, you don't!" I counter. "You're not getting away with that! That's Blanket Socialism, that is! The Teepee Party explained that to me! I'm not having any of your BS!"

"Really," sighs the Chief, "it's for your own good. But it's not mandatory. If you want to go on being fleeced by Blanko, that's your choice."

"Oh, yeah?" I decide to go for the kill. "Then what about your Abandonment Panels, huh? Where you force us to leave our loved ones without the usual food, water, and blanket?"

The Chief sighs again. He seems to be doing a lot of that. "Now, that," he says, "is a simple lie. There is no such thing. What I have proposed is to help people plan for the event -- save up a little in advance so that you aren't caught short when the time comes."

"So, you admit it!" I gasp.

I storm out, leaving him shaking his head and sighing some more, a broken man. When I arrive home, I find a Blanko rep waiting for me.

"Your food, water, and blanket request has been denied," he says. "You're just going to have to chuck your granny out as is. I suggest keeping her clothes."

"But ... why?" I ask.

"If you have to ask," he says, "you can't afford it."

"Well," I reply, "fair is fair. Thank God we have been saved from Blanket Socialism."