Bread in the Time of Coronavirus: a Fable
Once upon a time, in a farmyard weakened by years of graft, division, and neglect, the long shadow of famine appeared.
A loose, bi-coastal affiliation of chicken bakers known as the Henny Penny Collective saw that unless something was done, many in the yard would soon perish. The chicken-bakers assembled a plan and went into action. “Who will help us plant this wheat?” they asked.
“Not I,” said Trumpy Nutkin, the orange squirrel. “I am headed over to the milking barn to grab some Cows. When you’re famous like me, they just let you do it.”
“Not I,” bleated Pious Pence, the bland-as-milk sheep. “But I will keep you in my thoughts, let that be a comfort to you.”
“Not I,” whispered Dunning-Kruger Kushner the thoroughly unimpressive rat, “but I’ll talk to my good friend MBS about it. Maybe he can help with a no-interest loan. He can cut right to the heart of a problem.”
So the Henny Penny Collective planted the wheat themselves. Soon the wheat was grown. “Who will help us harvest the wheat and mill it into flour?” asked the Henny Penny Collective.
“Not I,” said Trumpy Nutkin, ogling his daughter-wife Melanka. “If less than 200,000 of you die, I’ll have done an A+ job. Also, I tee off in twenty minutes.”
“Not I,” bleated Pious Pence, “but I will pray for you, never fear.”
“Not I,” farted Dunning-Kruger Kushner, “but I may confiscate your flour and redistribute it to some of my fraternity brothers.”
So the Henny Penny Collective brought in the wheat and milled it themselves. Then it was time to make the dough. “Who will help us mix and knead this dough?” asked the chicken-bakers.
“Not I,” sulked Trumpy Nutkin, fondling an out-of-date printout of the Dow Jones Index. “I think it’s a very nasty question.”
“Not I,” bleated Pious Pence, “But thoughts and prayers. Thoughts and prayers.”
“Not I,” coughed Dunning-Kruger Kushner, “And stop looking at our yeast stockpile. That’s ours; it’s not for you.”
So the Henny Penny collective made sourdough. They mixed and kneaded and kneaded and mixed through the night. In the morning, the farmyard was filled with the rich, warm smell of freshly baked bread. “Who will help us eat this bread?” shouted the tired chicken-bakers of the collective.
“I will,” drooled Trumpy Nutkin, “Its my absolute right to do so.”
“I will,” bleated Pious Pence, “Like Jesus at the Last Supper!”
“I will,” wheezed Dunning Kruger Kushner, “That smells much better than this paste I’ve been eating.”
“Go fuck yourselves,” said the Henny Penny Collective. “You venal, lazy bastards will get nothing from us.”
From nearby came the sound of wood on wood and metal on stone. The chickens cocked their heads. “We chickens know that sound all too well. Those are scaffolds being assembled and axes being sharpened.”
“Oh, woe is me!” cried Nutkin, Pence, and Kushner. “Who will help us?”
But there was no answer. The Henny Penny Collective had left them to their fate.
