That Orange Is an Apple – Opinion

I was able to wake up yesterday from my coma. While I am told that I have long-term COVID, my last memory is of being strapped and having a needle inserted into my arm. The calendar shows that 10 years has passed.

It feels decent so I go for a walk. The sun is shining, there’s a cool breeze, a perfectly lovely day. I walk past a fruit seller. “Ooh, those oranges look good,” I say. “I’ll take one.”

“We’re all out of oranges. Sorry, mate,” he responds.

I glance down at the orange-yellow, lemony fruits in the basket. “Aren’t those oranges?” I ask.

“No, those are apples.”

He squints at me. Do you think he is some wise person? “Those are oranges, pal. I would like to purchase one.”

He stares up at me, his eyes darting down and across the streets. His orangey breath wafting above me suddenly, and he suddenly leans in closer. “Those are apples, my friend,” he whispers in a fierce tone. “What are you trying to do here?”

I just shrug. Whatever. “All right, I’ll have an apple,” I say.

Walking away I realize that my clothes have become very out-of-date. I see a clothing shop on the corner, so I wander into it. “Where’s the men’s department?” I ask. The clerk’s eyes go wide, and she quickly skitters off. Huh. It’s getting strange.

As I walk outside again, a large SUV in black pulls up. Six black-suited agents jump out flashing their badges. “DGB!” they shout. “Get in the vehicle!”

As I am hustled into the back seat, I inquire, “what is the DGB?”

“Disinformation Governance Board,” one says with a snarl. “Now shut up.”

I’m taken to a featureless building and hauled into a small white windowless room. A group of agents stand in one corner with their arms crossed across their chests. A woman with the nametag “Nina” marches in and sits across from me. Protectively, a muscular man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a muscular body sits beside her.

I am astonished at the way she stares at my face. “You’re in some hot water, person,” she says.

“What’d I do?” I ask.

“You’ve violated Article 3 Section 48 of the Fruit Reassignment Act. That is a serious charge.”

“But I’ve never even heard of the Fruit Reassignment Act!”

“Section 49 states quite clearly that lack of knowledge regarding the act is not a defense. Your duty is to be aware of the contents and follow it.

“That’s absurd!” I shout.

In obvious anger, she stands up. “YOU. ARE. A. RACIST,” she says with a growl.

I do my best to keep calm and not get involved in the drama. “No, no, I’m not. I haven’t said a single thing about anyone’s race.”

I am glaring at her. “Section 5 of the Speech Act specifies that the word ‘racist’ shall apply to anyone we disagree with. That’s another year for you.” She points to the gentleman sitting next to her. “Now, go with them for your booking.”

I’m confused. “Go… with him? Or them?” I ask, indicating the agents in the back.

Her expression turns a furious shade of crimson. “I was quite clear,” she says, again pointing to the agent sitting next to her. “I said go with They. But now I’m angry. Go with them instead.”

I am surrounded by agents at the back of my room and they take my arms. “I’m sorry, lady, I don’t get what’s happening –”

She jumps to her feet, spittle flying from her mouth, as she yells, “Lady? LADY?! What dare you? That’s a violation of Subsection 4 of the…”

Because she really gets on my nerves, I shut her down.

As I sit here in the Happy Recycling Village, I gaze through the bars as I consider where I might have made a mistake. My arm barely moves when the needle is placed in. It doesn’t really hurt.

AUTHOR’S NOTEYou might have had a great time.  This is not funny though. The left continues to change the meanings of words in order to advance their radical agenda. Now, things have taken an even more ominous turn with the announcement of the “Disinformation Governance Board,” which RedState has been covering extensively:

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