End of an icon

Joe Camel trudged along the vast Sahara desert, the hot sand burning the pads of his large feet. He was hunched over on all fours, a large Arab sultan riding atop his back. His trademark leather jacket and sunglasses were gone. Joe didn't mind losing the jacket. It reeked of tobacco, and the air of hipster coolness it afforded had never been worth the hassle from the humorless "Fur is Murder" Crowd. Joe really could have used the sunglasses, though.

As he plodded along, he reflected on how he had come to find himself in this demeaning role. Once he had been a star, beloved by millions. But over time, the country had grown increasingly resentful of the deceit and chicanery used by advertising agencies, and had risen as one, crushing them and stripping them of all their power. The executives and copywriters had been gathered up and imprisoned. And then, America went after the object of their greatest betrayal, their greatest distrust. They went after the icons.

The simple targets went first. The AFLAC duck was caught and found guilty of noise pollution. His sentence was swift, and the folks who enjoyed the duck al'orange at the local Chinese restaurant never suspected they were dining on the flesh of a former celebrity.

The Kool-Aid man went next. His behavior had been linked to increasing incidents of vandalism and property damage among impressionable youth. The large pitcher had been at home watching CNN when the live footage of his impending capture popped on the screen. He watched the swat teams surrounding his estate, and for a moment he thought of bursting through the wall and making a run for freedom, but he knew he would never escape. He listened as the authorities called to him through the bullhorn, promising that there was no way out. His voice rose in a mighty cry as he responded: "Oh, yeah?"

He resolved at that moment not to be taken alive and he grabbed the large hammer on his end table, smashing it with tremendous force against his crystal body. By the time the police broke down his door, he had bled to death, his carpet stained with over 300 gallons of his sugar-sweetened blood.

Joe knew his days were numbered, and so he had gone underground. He was living incognito, posing as an average everyday camel, humble servant to the local sultan. The sultan was an impatient man, and prodded Joe painfully, urging him to catch up to the rest of the herd. Joe did the best he could, but the years of smoking left him short of breath, and the stunning bulk of the fat Arab didnt help matters much.

Worse yet, the sultan was not good with animals. Since Joe did not understand Arabic, the sultan had resorted to swatting him on the butt with his rifle when he wanted the camel to trot forward. When he wished Joe to stop, he smashed the weapon over the camel's skull. Joe had begun to suspect that his Master's animal skills had come from an excessive and constant diet of Yosemite Sam cartoons. He sighed heavily, surprised and saddened by the turn his life had taken. Still, it could have been worse.

Thank God he hadn't taken that position with Enron.