The Weekly Screed (#583)

Paul Ryan visits the cafeteria
by David Benjamin

BROOKLYN — Late last month at the Warren G. Harding Middle School in a small Wisconsin town, little Bobby Shaftoe, 6th grader, had just gotten through the lunch line in the school cafeteria. On his tray were a breaded-fish sandwich, baked beans, a spray of seedless grapes and a carton of milk. He also had a hot dog — which was extra — because Mrs. McNulty, one of the serving ladies, had a soft spot for little Bobby.

Suddenly, Bobby found himself face-to-belt with a grownup in a blue suit. Bobby looked up. The man had a mild, friendly face and a “Mad Men” haircut. The man said, “Hello, young man. Are you little Bobby Shaftoe?”

Little Bobby nodded yes.

“Well, then,” said the man. “I’m Congressman Paul Ryan, Chairman of the House Budget Committee, and I’m here to take your lunch.”

At first, Bobby — who was quite hungry — didn’t understand. Always taught by his mom to share, Bobby said, “Well, I can’t give you all of it, sir. But go ahead and take the grapes. I didn’t really want ‘em, anyway.”

“Sorry, son, that won’t do,” said Cong. Ryan. “I’m acting on principle here. That’s a government-subsidized lunch and I’ve got to have all of it. Every crumb.”

“Now, wait a minute, fella,” said Mrs. McNulty, intervening on little Bobby’s behalf. “You can’t take this boy’s lunch. He needs it.”

“Of course he needs his lunch,” orated Cong. Ryan. “We all need our lunch. Lunch is one of the family values I’ve fought for my entire career. But free lunch? Free? Come now, madam. This makes a mockery of everything America stands for! A mockery!”

Mrs. McNulty said, “I agree, sir. But you don’t quite understand. Little Bobby didn’t have any breakfast. He told me. That’s why I gave him a little extra.”

“No breakfast? Why did this boy have no breakfast?” demanded Cong. Ryan.

Little Bobby explained, “Well, my mom, she waits tables out at the Hi-Way Diner, and she doesn’t get off ‘til 3 a.m. So, she’s always asleep when I get up.”

“Well, I can’t say I approve of this woman, this mother of yours, coming in at all hours of the morning. It goes against all the family values I’ve fought for my entire career,” preached Cong. Ryan. “But this shiftless slut’s failure is no excuse, young man. When I was your age, I was capable of preparing my own breakfast.”

“Well, I would have,” began little Bobby Shaftoe. “But there was nothing — ”

“Let me explain,” said a man. He had a vaguely academic demeanor — heavy glasses, scruffy beard, sweater vest and a stained tie. “You see, Bobby’s mother gets food stamps. Toward the end of the month, the allotment runs out, and there isn’t much left to eat in the family fridge. So, lunch at school is just about Bobby’s only — ”

“Food stamps!” exclaimed the Congressman, his eyes alight. He snatched away Bobby’s lunch tray and bent close to the little guy’s face.

“Well, then,” he said, “I’m Congressman Paul Ryan, Chairman of the House Budget Committee, and I’m here to take away your food stamps.”

“My food stamps?” said Bobby. “But that’s how my mom buys groceries. How are we gonna eat, Mr. Congressman, sir? What about my little sister, Nell?”

“Son, you really have to stop thinking selfishly and consider what it costs your fellow Americans to keep you hip-deep in handouts,” said Cong. Ryan. “We all have to pitch in, son. After all, shared sacrifice is one of the family values I’ve fought for — ”

“Hold it, Ryan,” said the man in the sweater vest. “Taking food from kids is not an American value. It’s what Joe Stalin did in the darkest days of the Soviet Union.”

Cong. Ryan suddenly turned on the man, raised an eyebrow and peered into his face. He said. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

“Well, I’m Mr. Feinberg, Bobby’s history teacher.”

“A teacher!” Cong. Ryan’s eyes twinkled. “Well then, I’m Congressman Paul Ryan, Chairman of the House Budget Committee, and I’m here to take away your job!”

Mr. Feinberg blanched. Every teacher in the cafeteria ran for cover. Mrs. McNulty crept, in terror, back to her steam table. However, a tall well-dressed man, seemingly unafraid, advanced. He said, “Congressman, you go too far.”

Again, the interloper got the fish eye, after which Cong. Ryan said, “Who you?”

“I’m Mr. Murphy, he said. “Principal of the Warren G. Harding School.”

“Principal! What luck!” cried Cong. Ryan, who did a little jig. “Well, as you might have heard, douchebag, I’m Congressman Paul Ryan, Chairman of the House Budget Committee, and I’m here to close your school!”

Murphy fainted. Ryan smiled. But as the Congressman was dumping little Bobby Shaftoe’s lunch into the garbage pail, Bobby piped up. “But why? Why are you taking all this stuff away from us?”

Cong. Ryan smiled charmingly. “Son,” he said. “America can’t afford luxuries like this food I just threw away! The nation is broke, because our president is a glorified field hand who can’t find his ass with both hands. If I don’t take away your lunch, your teachers, your school and your education, you won’t have the future you deserve.”

“Wow. So, by having lunch, it was like I was eating my future?” said Bobby.

“That’s right,” said Cong. Ryan. “You’re a smart boy. Who needs school, right?”

Little Bobby Shaftoe was still a little confused. “OK, so I don’t get lunch and America gets some money back. But then, where does all that money go?”

“Millionaires, son. We entrust it blindly to millionaires.”

This surprised Bobby. “Golly. Do millionaires really need my lunch money?”

“OMG, yes! They need every nickel they can squeeze out of kids like you,” said Cong. Ryan, passionately, “because, you see, millionaires are the Job Creators.”

“Gosh,” said Bobby, thinking that his mom needed a better job and maybe Cong. Ryan could fix her up with a millionaire. “What sort of Jobs do they Create?”

“Well, for instance,” said Cong. Ryan, “there’s my job. I’m getting paid a fortune, by some of the richest men on the face of the earth, to take away your lunch.”