When Treats Do Marxists Tempt

"Sit!" "Stare!" "Repeat!"

This is Grigsby. He is my colleague at [--censored--], where I toil, in Charm City. He is a Marxist. I know that because he eats everything in my office. He ate my yellow hi-lighter and he ate my stress brain. And that's just last week. This week, I'm missing a set of headphones and my surge suppressor. Grigsby and I don't loiter, the way we used to, in the '60s. Back then, Grigsby walked on hind legs. Chicks dug those pudgy little paws. And his guttural jowls. And his love secrets. In addition to being a Marxist, Grigsby can be a French Bulldog. He favors nuclear power and la préface de la riff. One of his grandparents sniffed Mitterrand's wife's dog's butt and barely escaped the guillotine. Grigsby is very popular, as it were, with the student body. Nevertheless, the administration makes him take a crap on the quad. Sometimes Grigsby and I engage in deep conversations about the future of the world. He is a pessimist and says that the world is flattery than every before. I give him pats that he Ho-Hums, yawn. He sure doesn't Knock my Utz Gourmet Medley. A chip in the hand is worth a Grigsby 'neath the desk. "Awroo!" he snorts. "Awroo."