Caricaturist Rescuer

This one really skewered them!

There is no greater political act than to pick up one’s nib and sketch out an exaggerated version of a well-known public figure.  That is why caricaturists are so beloved by the proletariat, the workers of the world, and so vilified by those bourgeoisie pugs in power.  That is why the most talented caricaturists were so often thrown like rabble they represent into makeshift, moving jail trucks, heavily sedated and dumped into the dry ravines of Arizona, New Mexico, and even the bedeviled republic of Texas.

In the halcyon days of my youth, I often sat beneath the ancient, wizened oak in my backyard, a straw in my mouth and a loyal yeller dog by my side, dreaming of becoming a caricaturist myself and sticking it to the pugs that were oppressing my dear mothers.  But as I grew, it soon became clear that my aptitude for this fine art was severely limited by my walleye.  (Which many surgeries have now corrected.)  Yet, the idea still plagued me… there must be some way to support them, our nation’s finest dissidents.  I thought about starting an endowment, a national endowment for the arts, but any way I sliced it, it didn’t seem like enough.  I thought about catering the international caricaturist convention, but doubted I could steady my hand to carve a roast whilst in the presence of such greatness.  Then I realized the greatest service I could render– to begin a rescue organization, so that at least a few of the hundreds of caricaturists that died each year, choking on the desert dust and pummeled by tumbleweeds, might live.

When I started out, it was only me, a van, and a trusty yeller dog with a good sniffer.  Each night, armed only with a metaphorical sword of justice, we’d climb into the van and drive the back canyons of the desert until the sun broke red, orange, purple and gold over the mesas.  On a good night, we’d find one caricaturist, but that only happened once every few weeks.  More often than not, we’d wind up giving rides, water and food to lost immigrants.  I was glad to at least accomplish something each night.  The dog was glad to be petted.  But those rare occasions when we chanced upon a caricaturist, we’d spring into action– bringing her or him to a safe house (usually my own), where a local physician (usually myself) would clandestinely attend to the poor soul.

Word spread quietly amongst those sympathetic to the cause, and soon an entire legion of young folk had thrown in their lot with my own.  We were saving nearly 75% of drugged and dumped caricaturists.  The pugs in power were pulling their hair out.  They tried cracking down on us, but because we were so loosely organized, we evaded nearly all their raiding attempts.  And when a few of us were caught, the newspaper rags took up our cause and public opinion was with us.  We had become a legitimate, respected institution.

That is why you hear nothing of caricaturist kidnappings today.  Once we had the people, on all levels of society, on our side, the practice stopped and caricaturists were once again free to sketch as they pleased without fear of premature death.  These days, the organization is mostly back to helping immigrants.

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