Since local government changed hands in early November, Bristol Republicans have conjured conspiracy after conspiracy against the new mayor Ellen Zoppo-Sassu and the Democrats.
There was the BOE deficit, health care for two, Charter Revision Committee-gate, MBS for God knows what this week, and the fire department schedule change just to name a few to keep this under 426 words. Once regarded as practical and astute the republicans have become the party du jour for the tin foil hat crowd leaving many to wonder, what happened to them?
So in an effort to find out, late last week on a cold and stormy night, Boardman was taken to a secret meeting in Tory Den; a rock formation in the foothills of the Bristol and Burlington border where citizens that were loyal to the British crown once hid.
With the next council meeting only a few weeks away, Bristol Republicans gathered here to cook up their newest conspiracy.
Three republican witches huddled in the dark cavern over a great boiling cauldron, and begin to create their brew. With the eye of a newt and the toe of a frog deposited into the grand broth, the republicans chant, “Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble.”
The first witch leans over the kettle and speaks,
“I doth not like her I must confess,
So we must tarnish any success.”
The second witch comes forth and following a clap of thunder announces,
“Round about the cauldron go,
In the fire department work schedule I shall throw.”
Ashes emanate from the scalding cauldron into the frosty night air.
The third witch, addressing the bubbling cauldron, and stirring the brew howls,
“By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.
Write some editorials,
That are accusatorial.”
The midnight hags retreat and the assembly marvels at their good fortune. But what does it mean and what does it matter?
Alas from from the rabble emerged the jester adorned in orange breeches, orange tights, orange jester shoes and an orange petticoat; with a tin foil hat like a fool’s cap, and a stick he found in the forest.
Clearing his throat the jester delivers his soliloquy.
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,