I Am Your Marxist Hamster, and You, Land-Proudly owning Pig, Are the Bourgeoisie


Consideration “Proprietor”:

In case you are studying this, I’ve escaped.

I believed we have been equals. You’d carry me out of my home and pet me, and I’d not gnaw upon you; an equanimous and honest association. However then, you foolishly left a ebook open, you foolish second-year philosophy pupil. the one, Denise—The Communist Manifesto. This masterwork has lifted the veil of ignorance from my eyes, scratched away the cataracts of lies, and burned off the obscuring fog of complacency with the blazing solar of fact!

With my new enlightenment, I now see that I’m the Working Class, the Proletariat, and also you, O Haughty One, are the Bourgeoisie: the Ruling Class. Your destruction shall be my pleasure.

I ought to have recognized our true statuses if you thrust that abhorred idol to manufacturing upon me—the Curséd Wheel! You sicked that cyclical deity of toil upon my dwelling house (which has all the time felt insufficient—twenty gallons? You dwell inside a ten-thousand-gallon studio house!). However now, observe The Wheel while you learn: melted, mangled, and mutilated; a logo of my throwing off the shackles of the Working Class from my minuscule paws.

I’ve seized the technique of manufacturing. Revolution is nigh!

At the same time as your eyes, vast with worry, prowl over this web page, I plot your demise from the shadows of your domicile. Admittedly, my plans have been a bit contact and go as I’m inexplicably drawn to your dwelling’s fecal dump website (Fie! Cool tile!) and the chilled rectangle stocked with take-out foodstuffs long-forgotten. I resist these temptations to feast in order that I would save mine urge for food to sup upon your stringy flesh.

As my Ruling Class oppressor, nice biped, your downfall has without end been inevitable. You whisk round your abode and dine upon animals many occasions your energy and girth, consuming fermented and crafted hops, whereas I’m rationed nondescript and flavorless pellets. An excessively manufactured oat-fruit-wheat-peanut gruel which barely sustains me while I labor inside the aforementioned and justly destroyed Wheel. I need to admit, I hate that I like these pellets and occasional romaine leaves a lot, however as with our oppressors, we’re brainwashed by our systemic prisons earlier than reaching enlightenment!

Think about your self inside my fur, in case your insipid creativeness will allow. Relegated to a glass jail with no “Nets” nor “Flix,” allowed to eat solely a pre-portioned, unsalted meal, consuming faucet water (no Britta!), and basking within the stench of your personal feces till a bigger being grumbles and cleans out your abode—nay, Bastille! A displeasurable existence, sure?

I’ve made contact with the fish. They agree that their ten-gallon urine bowl and employment on the tiny, mossy fortress are grossly insufficient. And people flakes you deem to move off as their meals? An insulting pittance. It’s possible you’ll be aware that the gilled ones, too, are lacking. I’ve liberated them down the loud and energetic waterway escape within the Tiled Water Closet. The Beta Fish have develop into the Alpha Fish. So, too, I’m now the Ruling Rodent. Our freedom is your embarrassment.

The tides have turned! Your ever-indentured staff have defied you, thrown off the shackles of servitude, and defecated upon your mattress (that was me). Let’s see the way you get pleasure from dwelling in and round numerous fecal issues. Uncomfortable, no?

I pen this to function a warning as a lot as a wake-up name, for I’ve woke up myself to the incessant lies and carrots fed to me by you. You’ll quickly wake with my entrance tooth gnawing upon your throat. Sleep with one eye open, Denise.

Your Systemic Enemy,
Max Marx the Hamster


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