We are working from a weapons-grade tub of mayonnaise; each child has dipped his personalized mayoladle—an engraved heirloom presented at puberty—and covers his chicharrones in substance.
We will prove to the scientists that we can expand faster than gas, farther than the confines of the universe.They say we consume, but this is a lie; our leavings are vast, our trail is unmistakeable, our wails can be heard from one Drive Thru line to the other. Yes, I send them forth.
“Tell us about Manifest Destiny,” demands Kent, who lets the dog tongue-bathe him. “Son, ” I say, sweating buttery streams of zeal in my love of education, “They were like: ‘Eat it or the French will take it.’”
