Our first time up, we're all bound to make asses of ourselves, to overdo it some: a cowboy hat, plaid pants, those plastic glasses they used to sell at Future World. The fascists sure made it an issue, didn't they? Plum in sharp Italian-tailored suits, white asses swaddled damply in silk while the poor masses sit on dirty linens. Who'd keep mum in the face of such apparel? Thus, the glasses, hat and pants; and as the motorcade passes to step out of the crowd, right? - stretch a thrum- -ming voice out over them, knock them on their asses - and with what? You'll never know until the clash is done: some tinny-sounding guff, some dumb inconsequential squawk, while the fat-asses coolly discussing your death laugh over glasses of not-giving-a-fuck, your kid-sister, and rum.