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Show Anting Alone Page 231 a English hoity-toity accent like those guys on educational television got. "Pro-gra-a-a-a-am!" yelled the political theory guy, and all the old and young and in-between men jumped about half a mile out of their pews and scattered in all directions in a cloud of funny beanies and granny shawls. It was kind of funny. Like slapstick funny on Benny Hill Show. That must be it: a program from England that's kinda wacky and stuff. That's what they were doing here. Spikey felt like he was digging with a shovel in sucking mud, trying to dig up reasons. There was no women in church today. They must of been home baking the ham and making the potato salad because there was a big old outdoors party in Wheatville, maybe, today, like sometimes on Sunday back in Kiev when the women shooed their men to church-meeting so they wouldn't be in the way while the picnic was made. The political theory guy swaggered up to the front, pushed the bearded old foreigner minister aside, reached into a special dent in the wall and pulled out an old fancy carved wooden box. He smashed it against the pagan altar and gathered up the stuff that was inside, which was a bunch of things rolled up and covered with cloth and little silver bells that made little celebration sounds. The political theory guy ripped off the covers and pulled out a bunch of old rolled-up pieces of paper with hand-scribbling on them. He tried to read them, because he was a real well-reading guy and liked to read everything he could lay hands on, especially what he called perditious literature, which he read so he could find out the bad |