The spotted owl flutters near.
“It’s not old-growth any more, ” argues the protester. “It’s just a garden.”
“The forest of liberty requires on occasion the blood of patriots and tyrants,” answers the logging foreman. “See? Little saplings. We’re watering them. With that very blood! That makes it old school and old growth both.”
“The can says ‘processed blood product.'”
“It’s just like real blood,” the foreman argues.
“Also, think of the ecosystem! The root weevils of justice. The spotted owls of old-fashioned American ingenuity. Even the magnificent cougars of decorum! They need a real forest of liberty!”
Nearby, a cougar coughs politely. It would like to leap down and attack, but cannot do so until someone acknowledges its presence.
“There’s plenty of room for these animals,” the foreman protests. “The crabs don’t like living in our discarded cans any more, so the landfill’s practically a brand-new habitat.”
It’s true, of course. For years, crabs lived in discarded imitation patriot and tyrant blood food product jars. Then a strange brain parasite taught them to transcend material needs and fly around the world in tiny zeppelin shells. Once the crabs moved out, the root weevils moved in. Nature abhors a habitat vacuum.
“It just seems gauche, is all,” the protester says. “To cut down a tree and then plant a replacement and send people cards saying it was done in their name.”
“I have to send out the cards,” the foreman says. “It’s what the spirit of labor day is all about!”
“You mean arbor day.”
“Do not trouble me with your petty chronology,” the foreman says. “There are principles that must be cut down, and others that must be grown!”