Panel the First: Here we see our dear Monkey Zen, suited and astride the stage of Polity like some small collossus. He rests his arms upon the podium from which he shall (or has) address(ed) the gathered masses, his face the very visage of apprehension. It appears that he is seeking the office of lead Consul among Western primates. Perhaps his expression is one of inner tumult . . . concern at the prospect of public service and good governance. All who would seek this very highest of offices undergo a personal ordeal, forging themselves in the crucible of self-doubt and high ideals, and it would appear that, by way of the expression on MonkeyZen's noble and misshapen face that he is no different.
Panel the Second: As the proverbial camera closes in on this face of princely distress we see before him, on the podium, lurking in the shadow of his simian jowls, a button identified by text as "The Button".
Panel the Third: Finally, with great force, the simian skull is driven downward upon this "button" much fabled and discussed, the consequences thereof unexplored in this three paneled dramaturgy.
Brief Interpretation: The title of this piece, "Ronald Reagan", puts me to mind of that fabled civil servant. It is especially reminiscent of his great brother and friend, the Bonzo, who figured so prominently in the administration of that much lauded Cattle-Male-Child Presidente Magnifico for is it not said that behind every great man there is indeed a great monkey, a terrible secret, three women and a crime? Any schoolboy in short pants knows the Three Women of Reagan were Nancy Reagan, MarLou Reton and Anne Landers the Second, of Blessed Memory. And, let there be no doubt, that the crime was a Crime of the Passions— for, with three Fiery Fates such as these constantly measuring, searing and weaving the hems of your fine powerful suits, what other species of crime might there be? But the terrible secret . . . who can know the terrible secret of Reagan? Perhaps it is that he was two-timing upon his great monkey? Might there have been a MonkeyZen in his Ovular Office? Who can know, who can know? I sigh and twirl a forest green, idly wondering these wonders, unproductive and sub-optimal, yet neverthelesser forever drawing the mind back for further consultation, just as the treacherous warm watery upsurges always draw as nigh, despite the bursting death they promise and deliver.
But enough of these ponderings; that which clearly begs our questioning, at this juncture, is the functionality of "The Button." A button is either an electronic actuator or closure fastener. As the one of these definitions is clearly inapplicable, we thusly focus our attention to the remainder. As such, what does this grand fastener fasten? Is it that very seam of our great Nation, now threatened by President Reagan MonkeyZen's incessant pounding? If the fastener is unfastened, then it can only result in the denuding general, and thus we need know of what are we being denuded? Shall the fastener's unfastening lead to liberation— a free of constraints— or embarrassing exposure? What does this closure close? Is it a lock which protects our valuables— like that mighty chest in which our Socializing Security is contained— a lock which imprisons, or a lock which bars entrance? It strikes me curiouser that a message so simple can be so equivocal, its many meanings prismatically scintillating off of this facet and that. Love you, MonkeyZen, for the light you shed, but curse you for your high index of refraction!
Ah, if only MonkeyZen and NickSnow would deign to grant us a boon of seven panels, rather than this simple three, we might receive unto us the answers for which we slaver, like the hounds of guarding, hungry for irascible orphan's fleshy hinds.
Wondering Yet Still,
your Giant Squid
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