- SPECIAL GUEST WRITER

The return of Mr. Ignorant (not the author's name)

Murderers, those meat eaters are.

Meanwhile, three states over, 600 chickens are mashed so tightly together their straggly feathers meshing through the metal dividers s you don't see where one starts and one ends- that a child, accompanied by a curious mother, answers her question saying that there must be like 20 chickens in there. His mom looks again at the chickens and then at her son. Don't look to close Tommy, those chickens don't have wings or beaks, she wants to tell him, but she lets it wisp away in die fecal breeze. Their wings and beaks hacked off, to impede fighting, increasing egg yields, still dot the ground around their matching Keds.

Behind the chicken coops, Mr. lgnorant's soy fields are being sprayed with insecticides, the same insecticided which are, simultaneously, dropping on the people picking coffee and cotton. A deer, which would have made a venison for a hunter's family, lies staking in the grips of death, like a Guatemalan Indian. Two weeks later, the deer is beyond death, oddly preserved, crows and hawks poisoned by its side. An ecosystem of poison and ignorance. The poisoned carcass won't fertiliu a field. The farmer will need to use the chemical fertilizeft-fo{_that. And so the world turns and turns.

Back in the kitchen. Mr. Ignorant is just complimenting himself on a good cooking job, when the clock strikes eight. It is time to report to work-Mr. lporant is, yes, a punctual guy- at McDonald's. whose, companies mission is, besidcd cookins.to uvc tberain forestsol tbe world."Yes. .. be says out loud, "that is why I work for the company." But later this afternoon he will also have to report to Sears, since McDonalds only pays $5.50. voice in the uninhibited, robust, free and open discussion of issues.

At the side door next to the kitchen, a strange fog steals into the kitchen. Suddenly, it retreats into the door jam, where an apparition of a Guatemalan child is standing, blood so at home on her skin that she no longer wipes it away.

Mr. Ignorant rises, reaches for his jacket, and heads towards the little girl. Surprisingly, she stands as if emotionless. Mr. Ignorant walks by her and out the door, down to the comer where he will catch Septa. She is used to being ignored.

With a cloud of exhaust announcing its arrival, the bus squeals to a stop. "Damn public transportation," he speaks, his face twisting like a Genaurdi's bag. "I can't wait to get my Camry back." A lady who sees the earthquake of emotion on Mr. Ignorant's face asks "Are you okay, Mista?"

Firing a look of superiority at her, he mumbles to her, "Yeah. Hit a deer with my car, so its in the shop. Damn deer. Something needs to be done."

Robert May is a guest writer for Loquitur. He is a senior majoring in English/Communications.And no, fellow Cabrinistudents,the GuatemalanIndians are not a minorIBaguBbas«,a/1 '8am.

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