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VAN WERT 37 WILLIAM F. VAN WERT CHINESE FORTUNES There is an invisible red wave already sweeping over America. White and blue will betie-dyed red in our flags of the future. I know of no one else who can see it coming like I do, but I'm sure there must be others. Uniform salesmen have that special twinkle in their eyes. They don't need to read the Wall Street Journal Some day soon, everyone will be walking around in red leggings and baseball shirts, but it won't be any victory for the St. Louis Cardinals. I've read the complete, combined qui-linqual editions of Marx and Mao, and I'm ready. I've studied the latest reports on infra-red rays, as they affect anything from microwave ovens to the ozone layer, and I'm ready. The Fourth of July will be a big day again, but not for the reasons anybody thinks. I've got cherry bombs and Roman candles ready for the day when it's officially proclaimed. With a lot of effort and a little imagination , I've retraced my family tree all the way back to the Ming Dynasty. Even though the Mings will be considered revisitionists after the take-over, I think I'll be safe. I've got that certain ethnic purity which transcends the ideology of the moment. And when it's all over, philosophers will explain the most massive shake-down in world history through cliches. I'm ready for that too. I have written down every cliche ever uttered in the Western world, and I've begun to write down Eastern cliches too. Many of my friends are reading Eastern books. Alan Watts. Zen and the devaluation of the yen. Motorcycle maintenance. Inner tennis. Krishnamurti . Ramapurti. Ram Dass. Bubba Free John. Alexander ling. They're reading them, but they don't know yet that these books are primers for the anthologies of cliches to come. Our politicians don't know it yet, but they've begun to speak only in cliches. That is very good, for it means the revolution won't have to be as bloody when it comes. I have a problem with cholesterol, but I'm not letting any hardening in the marrow stop me. I've begun eating Chinese, even for breakfast. leven carry a big wok glued to the dashboard in my car. It's a nice place to put traffic tickets while waiting for the supreme coup d'etat of all time. I study the red, flaking wallpaper in Chinese restaurants. The flaking is a sign that it's coming soon. They'll either have to make a revolution or redecorate. Everyone else sleeps in the slumber of detente, but I keep readying myself , alone with my shrimp fried rice and ginseng tea in Leo Ping's at eleven every morning. I hate the smell of bathrooms, but I realize that this, too, is a sign of superiority. American disinfectants are powerless before the invisible stench of red excrement. I read the newspaper on the toilet of Leo 38 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW Ping's restaurant. Everything leads to the sports page, where the Cincinnati Reds lead their division by eleven games. The title reads: "The Big Red Machine Rolls On." They will have to change their name very soon. On the front page, there's a scandal. The White House gardener was caught planting peanuts. He could get up to twenty years in prison for conspiracy. That comrade needn't worry. We'll get him out when we repaint the White House. I read the serving mat on which my plate of shrimp lie lifeless, waiting to be transformed into proletarian protein in my system. The mat has become my Bible, filled as it is with translated sayings of Confucius. Reading them makes me glad I'm a man. Saying number one: Famous man get face on dollar, but woman prefer to get hand on same. These are revisionist teachings, I know, but they are excellent fodder for the haiku State of the Union messages of the future. I sip my ginseng, feeling the firm sprouts of Korean kimchi weed...

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