The Living Room Liberal
                
                               
     At the age of three, the Living Room Liberal views the world from his father's
shoulders.
     Grasping at the bald spot, he shouts.  'Down with pre-school education and I want an
ice cream.  It's my undeniable right to be pampered.  So there!'
     Aged ten, he attends a elocution class with a plum in his mouth and specialises in
spitting out the stone.
     'I say, you there.  Fetch me a diet Coca Cola.  There's a good fellow.  How now
brown cow.'
     At fourteen he's got fur on his belly and his testosterone level has risen to gutter level.
     Gruffly he mumbles.  'I'm only attending college cause I look so handsome with a
Walkman.  I already know everything worthwhile.  Gee, that chick's got big tits!'
     At eighteen he's thankful the army draft stopped forty years ago and complains
bitterly.  'It's not my fault, I would willingly serve my country.  But I need a credit card to
verify my citizenship.  A Gold American Express with Flyby, not a common Visa, thankyou very much.'
     By twenty-one he's toured the world with National Geographic and knows all about
religion.  Tapping his nose he authoritatively he hints that the red bits on the map are actually communist outposts in disguise and expresses compassion for the down trodden masses forcibly confined in the universities in the Bible Belt of Washington CD in the District of Montana.
     'Oh, the poor chaps.  Fancy having to live under a dictatorship.  No wonder they like coloured people.'
     By twenty-five he has obtained the services of a free thinking woman with a degree in sexual socialology and huge tits.
     'Just because you've got thick ankles, there's no need to wear a bra, woman.  Show
the people you're putting your best part forward.  Both of them.  Care for another red wine, outstanding one?'
     With incense smoking in a hookah pipe on the table, he's terribly sophisticated and
roundly condemns the unemployed as lazy excuses for human beings that should be shot out of hand.
     'They're not contributing to society, you know.'
     Residing on the couch, he shakes his fist at the politicians spouting rhetoric on
television and suggests they should resign and do something useful.
     'The overpaid, egotistical pricks.  They're totally useless.  Who would employ them
for a real job?'
     Middle aged, he attends an Indian poetry reading, exposes his Easy Rider tattoo and
claps politely after ruffling his hair to look the part of an unkept Peter Sellers.
     'Very good, Sheik.  You have an excellent command of Cantonese.  Unlike you, I only
smoke pot and write poetry on the weekend because I have to keep a clear head for problem solving.  I have a very demanding job.  I'm a CEO.  Us business gurus have to think for everybody else.  It's the white man's burden.'
     The year before retirement he sits in his living room drinking Campari with Canadian
fetta camel cheese to show he's read Lawrence of Arabia and knows all about Argentina.
     Always decisive, he angrily thumps his knee.  'I'm going to toss it all in, droopy tits.
I've had enough of the blind leading the blind.  I want to see Echops pyramid before they turn it into the Russian Embassy.'
     He books a ticket to Kathmandu on the Internet for next Wednesday.  Then cancels
because he's never been overseas and dutifully realises his work colleagues won't survive without him.
     'It's in everybody's best interest, you know.  I don't want to be seen to be selfish.'
     Wearing his, I'm being generous and worn to a frazzle look, he sits at his work station, picks up a ballpoint and sighs dejectedly.  Instinctively he knows that there will be worldwide chaos when he retires.  He's well aware that he's irreplaceable as the most knowledgeable and longest serving junior clerk in the Department of Miscellaneous Irrelevancies.