something's not right at Forepaugh's

Next time you're out to a fancy dinner at Forepaugh's in Saint Paul, know that the people doing the dishes off of which you dine are meth addicts, nearly toothless zombie-people who have scratched almost all the skin off their arms. Please pass more of that delicious gravy. Where broad smiles gleam and photographs of governors grace the walls, mere feet below tweak the living dead, shakily, uneasily, and with declining possibilities of any future at all. Bon appetit!

The moral of the story is, the more complete a class separation succeeds in being, the more dehumanized all involved become. In a society that isn't deeply sick, you might not want to have dinner with the dishwashers, but is it too much to expect not to be afraid to?


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