It’s the Tower of Pyrex! At the Corning Museum.

Polling data show that Donald Trump’s supporters were deeply misinformed about most of the campaign’s defining issues. Only if this is attributable to bad actors exploiting a broken information ecosystem, rather than an electoral majority that chooses to be misinformed, can there be hope of a healthier politics in America.

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.”
— Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

The arc of the moral universe is feeling pretty stiff this morning.

The arc of the moral universe overslept.

The arc of the moral universe didn’t sleep at all.

The arc of the moral universe just walked into the kitchen but forgot what it was looking for. It mindlessly opens the refrigerator as if the answer might be sitting next to the milk. All the shelves are empty.

The arc of the moral universe says, Goddammit.

The arc of the moral universe is buffering.

The arc of the moral universe has passed the same Pizza Hut three times. It can’t read a map for shit.

The arc of the moral universe is rocking back and forth in the bathtub.

The arc of the moral universe is out of ideas.

The arc of the moral universe wants you to please wait. Your call is important to it.

The arc of the moral universe is being talked over by your worst uncle.

The arc of the moral universe called in sick today.

The arc of the moral universe has been sick for a while now. It won’t go to the doctor. It doesn’t have health insurance.

The arc of the moral universe wants you to sponge its forehead and bring it soup.

The arc of the moral universe can be a delicate creature.

The arc of the moral universe is running very late. It’s sitting in standstill traffic behind a fleet of Amazon delivery vans, a burning Tesla, and a stretch limousine with Truck Nuts.

The arc of the moral universe is leaning on the horn.

The arc of the moral universe shouldn’t have stopped for that latte.

The arc of the moral universe owes you an apology.

The arc of the moral universe is full of excuses.

The arc of the moral universe is stubborn. And flaky.

The arc of the moral universe can put its leg behind its head but doesn’t feel like showing you.

The arc of the moral universe looks, from some directions, like a straight line.

The arc of the moral universe does not bend.

The arc of the moral universe must be bent.

The arc of the moral universe is a constant pain in the ass.

The arc of the moral universe whines for you to carry it.

The arc of the moral universe demands constant fucking supervision.

The arc of the moral universe doesn’t want to brush its teeth or put on a jacket.

The arc of the moral universe needs a good talking-to.

The arc of the moral universe is not what we wanted to worry about when we woke up this morning, but, well, tough shit.

The arc of the moral universe takes a village.

The arc of the moral universe feels our hands on every side, gripping it tight.

The arc of the moral universe resists out of spite.

The arc of the moral universe demands our sweat.

The arc of the moral universe breaks our nails.

The arc of the moral universe holds fast—until.

The arc of the moral universe trembles. It creaks. It groans.

The arc of the moral universe moves a fraction of a centimeter.

The arc of the moral universe feels its back pop.

The arc of the moral universe says, Thank you.

The arc of the moral universe asks us to do it again. And again.

The arc of the moral universe is an unweeded garden. An eternal sink of dishes. A tedious group project. A mouse who wants a cookie.

But it bends, it bends, it bends.

Once, there was a deceitful, misogynistic shepherd boy. He spent his days spewing racist lies, showing off the large flock his father had handed to him, and fondling sheep. Then, one day, he took a great breath and sang out, “Wolf! Wolf! A wolf is coming!”

The villagers came running up the hill to drive the wolf away. But when they arrived, they found no wolf. The boy laughed at the look on their faces.

“Holy crap, this guy is full of good ideas,” said the villagers. “Get a load of this great, great guy and his fantastic ideas about wolves.”

“What wolves? There’s no wolf,” said the one villager who used the village library.

“Shut up, you fucking elitist prick,” said the villagers. “Everybody knows there are wolves.”

“Hell yeah, there are wolves,” laughed the shepherd boy. “Give me money. I am your president now.”

And the villagers declared the shepherd boy president.

Over the next few years, the shepherd boy threw garbage around the village, siphoned money from the villagers, and blamed everything on wolves. Then came a plague. The shepherd boy had been warned about this plague, but he was far too busy building tacky golden statues of himself to do anything about it. So, finally, after a lot of death and a VERY long town meeting, the majority of the villagers kicked the shepherd boy to the curb.

“Voter fraud!” cried the seventy-four-year-old shepherd boy in the greasiest, most annoying voice imaginable. “I’m being cheated by dead people and illegals!”

“Go away,” said the exhausted majority.

But the shepherd boy sang out again, “Wolf! Wolf! The whole system is A WOLF.” To his delight, a few villagers ran into the town square to drive the wolf away.

“WOLVES!” screamed the small group of villagers at nothing. They hit each other with sticks and attempted to burn the town down.

“What the fuck was that?” said the rest of the villagers, who weren’t insane.

“That’s a bad sign for democracy,” said the one villager who used the library, even though everyone had access to it.

“SHUT UP, you virtue-signaling globalist libtard! Feeling triggered, snowflake? This is about WOLVES!” yelled the villagers. “Besides,” they said. “He’s just kidding. Once things calm down a bit, the shepherd boy will stop crying wolf, even though he straight-up says he’ll never stop crying wolf. That guy is hilarious.”

Soon, most of the villagers were struggling. Plague recovery was slow, the shepherd had ruined much of the town’s infrastructure, and the cost of living was unbearably high. Many villagers were looking for something to blame. “We’d have more money if it weren’t for all these goddamn wolves,” grumbled one villager to another.

Then the shepherd boy sneered, “Wolf! Wolf! Millions of the biggest wolves you’ve ever seen in your lives! And I should know, I’ve seen the biggest wolves around, believe me! They’re eating the cats! They’re eating the dogs! They’re stealing OUR money for transgender wolf surgeries!”

“WOLF!” yelled way too many of the villagers. “We don’t want any transgender wolves around here! They might read stories to our children at the library!”

“What’s wrong with that?” said the library-frequenting villager.

“Shut the fuck UP, you blue-balls blue-state beta-cuck!” screamed the villagers. “There are wolves everywhere! You’re too busy guzzling Hillary Clinton’s wolf COCK to see the truth!”

“What… are you talking about?” asked the villager, confused by this misdirect.

“WOLVES!” screamed the villagers, frothing at the mouth for a paternalistic authority figure to tell them what to do. “THE WOLVES ARE COMING!”

“THE WOLVES ARE COMING!” repeated the villagers’ wives. The villagers’ wives used to be villagers, too, but with all the hubbub about wolves, the women lost many of their rights. But they didn’t care. As long as they were comfortable and didn’t have to have difficult conversations with their husbands, they were happy to let the elderly shepherd boy with visibly diminishing mental facilities burn their rights into the goddamn ground.

Then, the big stupid shepherd boy rolled up in a big stupid truck with his big stupid face on it. “WOLF!” screamed the ugly, evil shepherd boy (who no one could quite believe wasn’t dead yet, even though two villagers had already tried to assassinate him). “WOLF TRUCK WOLF TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK WOLF WOLF WOLF.”

“WOOOOOOOOOOLLLFFFFF,” roared the majority of the villagers.

“He’s lying,” cried many villagers, who were becoming genuinely terrified of their neighbors.

“Why would he lie?” shouted the majority.

“I’M NOT LYING!” screamed the shepherd boy.

“We believe you!” cheered the majority.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!!” screamed the criminally convicted shepherd boy.

“He’s just joking,” laughed the majority.

Just then, when things couldn’t get any worse, some wolves arrived in town.

“WOLVES!!!!” howled the shepherd boy.

“WOLVES!!!!” howled the majority.

But these wolves weren’t actually wolves at all. They were just new villagers. New villagers from other villages.

At the edge of town, one young villager, who wasn’t old enough to have a say, watched the shepherd boy as he called for destruction. She watched as the shepherd boy licked his wolf-like chops, his thick wolf fur barely hidden under his inhuman orange skin. She watched how his wolf eyes gleamed. She watched as the shepherd boy began ransacking the village as the majority threw themselves into violence.

“What do we do now?” she asked, looking up at the villagers who had hung back to stand with her.

“Protect whoever you can. And the library,” said the villagers, searching for a safe spot to set up camp. “We’re going to need that library again someday.”

This Exploded Fruit Bowlby by Paul Cocksedge made me smile.