A House Pixie Complains About The Bad Economy To A Human
by Leeroy Applesauce
Hi. Excuse me sir. Yes, me, the tiny person standing next to your sugar bowl and cup of coffee. I’m sure you must be rather—no please do not try and smash me with the newspaper. There are many uses for the New York Times, but destroying me isn’t one of them. As I was saying, you must be a little startled; after all I am riding a trained beetle. If you can stop searching for a mallet and listen to me…we need to talk about this economy.
I can tell you’re having financial troubles. From the floorboards we’ve heard you pacing around the house nervously during work hours, cracks in the walls have let us witness the heated arguments you’ve had with your wife about bills, and I discovered that recently purchased gun under the bed in my monthly pilgrimage up The Stairs.
So you got laid off. Big deal. You need to find work again, no matter what. Bread must be put on the table to support your family. We will then take crumbs from that bread and put them on our table. It’s made from a wooden spool.
You say it’s impossible to find work? Man, I live in a fucking thimble. I have nine kids sheltered in what’s meant to shield your finger when sewing. But you never sew, do you? You spent money for those luxury linens that we and the moths chewed through in months. You’re living in a cavalcade of potential fabrics. My daughters have gone their entire lives wearing clothing made from your wife’s shed hair. Yes, we have nine children. It’s hard to find condoms when your penis is the size of a dust particle.
So buck up, partner. You’ll make it through. At the worst, you’ll die alone in this house. We’ll still be here, and we could live off the dried remains of your body for a generation.
Oh, I see you’ve noticed I said “we”. Yes, there are more like me. Many. We watch you sleep every night, plotting the best way to take you down without losing many of our people. We are many and some night you will wake up in your bed feeling a thousand little hands and feet cutting into your skin, digging toward your vital parts. The economy is really the least of your troubles.
[Disappears behind a salt shaker]