What, Dear Reader? You do not recognize the word in the title to this post? Do not feel bad. Everything will be revealed to you in due time.

First, a hint on the etymology of the term. It is derived from the Greek. Why, you ask, is the Happy Pessimist inflicting this load of arcana on you? Don’t blame me — blame the United Nations. You know, that wise organization that has appointed Iran as the chair of the Nuclear Disarmament Conference.  The savants working on the problem of world hunger have just released a report with the UN cure for world hunger:

EAT BUGS!

This, I assure you, is not the wild raving of a delusional mind (certainly not wild raving. Delusional mind, well…). In any event the UN recommends entomophagy (from the Greek ent = ant, phagy = snarf). The learned report issued by these inhabitants of the Island of Laputa (see: Gulliver’s Travels, Book 3) waxes ecstatic about the protein and carbohydrate content of common household vermin. (When reviewing this report, I recommend that you keep in mind that your shoe is also protein.) The report points out that members of the Order Insecta are commonly eaten in several cultures, including the Cambodians (who eat tarantulas), Australian aborigines (who eat ants), and Mexicans (who eat worms and grasshoppers). As far as your interlocutor knows, however, this diet is not common in Western Civilization, or Eastern Civilization, or ANY civilization for that matter. The ingestion of creepy-crawlies (with the exception of lobsters and crabs) has heretofore been the mark of a pre-civilized society.

There have, of course, been chinks in the anti-insect culinary armor. I recall my reaction of disbelief when confronted by the menu of an otherwise delightful local Mexican restaurant with the choice of several dishes offered with and without grasshoppers. I was assured that the “with grasshoppers” version was the traditional recipe. My initial reaction was that the proprietor had come up with a clever way to unload a contaminated batch of chile peppers on his pretentious customers. But it turns out that he was dead serious.

So now, if the UN  gets its way, we will all regress to the pre-agricultural phase of human development, throw away our fly swatters and cans of RAID, and spend our free moments crawling around looking for goodies.

But this is great!

Horrible tenements will be swept clean of cockroaches and silverfish, immediately raising property values and increasing local government receipts from value-based property taxes.  The formerly revolting properties will also attract a much better class of tenants, accelerating gentrification.

The rate of inflation will decline precipitously, as purchases of lamb chops and sirloin steaks will drop like a stone. Further, our expenditures on domestic help will also decline, since leaving food scraps all over the floor will become a wonderful way to attract tonight’s dinner. What was once decried as execrable housekeeping will now be celebrated.

The only risk we face from this program is the possibility that the titans of finance and industry will attempt to corner the bug market. I can see it now: hordes of gigantic automated bug vacuums patrolling our fields and streets, shlurping up every insect in sight, then disgorging them to the packaging plant which will can them, freeze them, dry them, or otherwise process them. The packages will then appear on supermarket shelves. (Of course, in some areas, finding insects on supermarket shelves will be a familiar experience.)

Bon appetit!

The Constitution of the United States is completely out of date! Or at least thus sayeth the likes of Mayor Bloomberg, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and the New York Times, to name but a few. All the Constitutional protections that have allowed us to eat and drink what we want, vote for any moron we choose, and arm ourselves against the legions of maniacs who desire our destruction and the destruction of our wives, children, grandchildren, dogs, cattle, snowmobiles and go-carts, should be kaput if we are to enter the brave new world.

A document dedicated to the absurd proposition that we know how to take care of ourselves cannot withstand this onslaught in a time in which half the people of the country pay no taxes and collect food stamps. So a new constitution will be written in the very near future.

But fear not, Dear Reader. Your interlocutor, the Happy Pessimist, has decided to turn his not inconsiderable talents to getting this show on the road. I have not completed a draft of the entire document. Nonetheless, I will share with you the preamble that I have completed, which constitutes a dramatic improvement on the one written by Gouverneur Morris, the head of the style committee of the original Constitutional Convention. Well, it’s an improvement if you believe, as do the vocal advocates of junking the present constitution, that the constitution should reflect the zeitgeist that is driving the country to total and irreversible ruin.

“PREAMBLE TO THE CONSTITUTION OF 2013

We the people of the United States, in order to achieve perfect material and social equality among all its citizens, do hereby ordain and establish this Constitution of the United States.

All persons deserve equality in all things, and are endowed by their government with the right to enjoy this result. Governments are instituted among men in order to achieve this worthy end.

The government of the United States shall have absolute power over all persons residing within its domain, and over all possessions of such persons. Citizens have those rights, and only those rights, which are granted to them by the beneficent government.

Past injustices, no matter how ancient, must be rectified at any cost. Those whose ancestors perpetrated these injustices, or whose ancestors were contemporaries of those perpetrators, or who have any link of consanguinity, language, or culture with those perpetrators, bear eternal guilt for the injustices, and are deserving of continual punishment through whatever mechanism the government deems appropriate.

Any person who raises himself or herself above the level of others, whether through his or her own efforts or as a consequence of the efforts of his relatives or of his or her associates, is an enemy of society. It is the role of government to reduce the level of such persons until they have exactly the same status as all others.

The only exception to the principle of equality is in the case of the servants of the people who carry out the glorious work of government, including those who have achieved elective office and those who toil in the bureaucracies which implement the laws, and those they have befriended in consideration of the many valuable gifts that they have showered upon these servants, often in the dead of night. The servants of the people and their friends are deserving of a special place in the social hierarchy, and may enact laws and regulations which provide for their well-being in any manner that they see fit, even if this results in a level of physical and social comfort which exceeds the average for the people as a whole.”

If you like this, just wait until you read my new Bill of Rights!

So, here we are in the Land of the Free in 2013! Our safety is guaranteed by the video cameras with microphones on every street corner, boldly watching all they survey to spot malefactors of greater or lesser talent plotting our demise, while simultaneously peering gently over our shoulders to be sure that we are not reading or speaking seditious thoughts. You think I exaggerate? Don’t bet on it!

It was interesting when the Homeland Security folks started their “If you see something, say something” program. See what? A guy with a beard? It was interesting when the White House set up a website for the reporting of peccadillos of Republicans. But at least these Orwellian insults were searches for something moderately concrete. Things are now at a whole new level.

The latest benefit being conferred on us by our masters is pretty retro, harking all the way back to Nazi Germany. Palm Beach county in sunny Florida is now instituting a “rat out your neighbors” program, funded by one million smackeroos of state funds. The idea is to encourage everyone to report to the police anyone who expresses hostility to the government, and might therefore constitute a danger to themselves or the community. The motivation for this advance in civil society is to prevent additional unpleasantnesses like Aurora and Newtown. County Sheriff Ric Bradshaw says “What does it hurt to have somebody knock on a door and ask, ‘Hey, is everything OK?'” I, for one, think it is an issue, particularly if it’s two in the morning and “somebody” is clad in SWAT gear and is battering down your front door.

And who expresses hostility to the government? EVERYBODY! Listen to the casual conversations around the water cooler on April 15. Listen to the comments from the guy who just got a two-hundred-and-fifty dollar speeding ticket. If you don’t hate the government at least seventy-three times a day, you’re just not paying attention.

But this is great!

Implementing the Palm Beach Program countrywide will have enormous benefits. To begin with, we can institute fines for anti-government speech, thus reducing deficits by all levels of government. We will create millions of jobs for minions of the law who will follow up on anti-government comments (we can call them the “vhere iss your papers” squad). We can expand the program to encourage children to squeal on family members, thus augmenting their allowances.

And the program has the potential to rise to great technological heights! Remember those tens of thousands of drones hovering over your backyard barbecue? We can equip them with microphones, and monitor all those conversations. Electronic rats! Amazing!

The only flaw in this plan is that an aerospace engineer has designed a cheap device to detect drones by their engine noise.

It goes on the market in  a month or two.

I have already pre-ordered one.

Ah, Dear Reader, you have a dirty mind. I am NOT talking about human sex, a subject with which many of you may already have a passing acquaintance. I’m talking about plant sex. The plants are about to get horny.

Who cares about plant sex? I hear you cry. Plants don’t even move much! What kind of porno can you make out of that?

You care, that’s who. If plants don’t reproduce, when the old ones die the food chain collapses and we’re all toast.

The plant sex problem is not restricted to the declining numbers of honeybees, the so-called “colony collapse disorder” about which you have heard more than enough lately. The problem is much, much worse. All the pollinators are in deep yogurt.

A recent issue of Science Magazine informs us that there have been two major recent studies by scientists crazy enough to spend their lives counting bugs, (a pasttime that most of us outgrew at about the time we stopped shooting spitballs at our elementary school classmates) have obtained two genuinely disturbing results. First the number of pollinators of all kinds is rapidly declining worldwide. Plants get it on by playing kissy face with insects (yuch!), who carry pollen to their eager loins. (Well, not loins exactly. They’re called pistils. Aren’t you glad that I explained that to you?) No pollen, no baby plants. Of course, also no smelly plant diapers crawling with aphids; no screaming shoots waking you up in the middle of the night. But the poor plants would miss the joys of parenthood: no cute kindergarten plays with wilting plantlings muffing their lines and shedding leaves all over the place. Hey maybe this isn’t all bad! No, wait, wait, wait. If they don’t have baby plants, where will we get salad to eat with our steak? Come to think of it, where will the delicious herbivores get anything to eat so they can graduate into steakdom?

You of course are still clinging to the pipe dream that we, as masters of technology and husbandry (that’s farming, you ninny, not taking out the garbage and begging for nookie) will develop domestic hordes of pollinators who will make up the shortfall. Wrong. Another study has demonstrated conclusively that domestic replacements can’t hack it out there in the wild. It turns out that honeybees are not so good in the sack, pardon me, the pistil. If we lose the wild pollinators, pollination will go the way of the dodo.

But this is great!

There are ways to get along without plant kiddies. Some plants live long enough that running out of food becomes a problem for our great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren, whom none of us are likely to ever meet. Phooey on posterity! What did posterity ever do for me?

We will learn to eat plants with enormous lifespans. Giant redwoods  live up to two thousand years; bristlecone pines live up to five thousand years; Norway spruce live up to ten thousand years. We will apply our genetic engineering talents to allow us to mate with termites, and we’re in Hog Heaven for millenia. There is also a giant seagrass that lives up to two hundred thousand years, reproduces asexually (a positive application of “go screw yourself”), and can also clone without external assistance. Applying the same technology to allow us to cross breed with manatees, urchins, conches and sea turtles, we can keep munching virtually forever.

Yum!

The 1999 movie “Fight Club,” is a non-stop sociopathic riot based on the idea that moral and intellectual liberation comes from beating one of your fellow club members to a bloody pulp while the rest of the club members watch. Any male who subscribed to this unusual philosophy was welcome to join. While joining this club is not on my own list of pressing needs, it does represent one end of the club spectrum: a club defined by who its members are.

But that is not the only kind of club that exists. My kind of club is encapsulated in the famous dictum of Groucho Marx: “I do not choose to belong to any club that would accept ME as a member.”  Right on! I want to belong to a club that is defined not by who belongs to it, but by whom it excludes. A cool kids club, like a country club or the Hell’s Angels or the Mafia.

Regretably, many of us do not have the money to join a country club, the motorcycle and accoutrements (boots, leather jacket, chain, switchblade, axe, and machine gun) to join the Hell’s Angels, or the Sicilian background to join the Mafia. This leaves us in something of a quandary.

However, I have come upon a solution, which will provide some of you with a path to exclusivity.  I am starting my own highly exclusive club. In order to remedy the gap in the social panorama left vacant by Fight Club, I am starting FOUP Club. FOUP? What the hell is FOUP? you ask. Let me enlighten you, Dear Reader.

FOUP (rhymes with “soup”) is an acronym for Fat Old Ugly People.

Think about it. There are many fat people. There are many old people. God knows, there are many ugly people. But only a select few combine all three characteristics. Face it, if you are fat, you will probably not get old because you will drop dead of coronary artery disease, diabetes, or by being buried in the debris of a building which has collapsed under your weight. If you are ugly, there is a high probability that you will expire by flinging yourself off a high precipice when you are rejected for the umpteenth time by a member of the opposite sex. Old takes care of itself — just wait.

FOUP’s have a variety of ways to be rejected by the membership committees of other clubs. They want their members to be slim, beautiful, ageless people. They believe that they can dictate the canons of desirability to the rest of us.  Nonsense! We FOUP’s can seize the reins of social power, and grind the young, skinny, beautiful people into the dirt.

All that we need to do is begin to announce that we have rejected applications for membership by Claudia Schiffer, Angelina Jolie, Garth Brooks, and a few others. This does not have to be true; all we need is a publicist to get it bruited about in the leading literary publications, like Cosmopolitan, People, the National Enquirer, and the like. Soon the story will be picked up by Fox News, MSNBC, and the Drudge Report. Suddenly, FOUP’s will become in, trendy, the objects of insane jealousy, courted by late night talk shows, and offered eight figure book deals. Our membership committee (me) will be inundated with applications, 99.5% of which we will reject by sending the applicants insulting, smarmy letters telling them that they are undesirable swine, too thin, too young, and too beautiful to consort with the likes of us. Put on forty-five pounds, we will tell them, age fifteen years (or at least look it), and undo those nose jobs, facelifts and tummy tucks and then perhaps we will talk to you.

And while they are struggling mightily to meet our outrageous demands, we will all go on diets, visit the plastic surgeon, and have the playing field all to ourselves.

Ha ha!!