Kevin Cole

“Destroying property is an acceptable for of protest in a world that values property more than people”

                                                                                                                        Photograph by Christina Selby, bioGraphic                                                

Come one! Come all! Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the greatest show on earth! For decades you’ve written in to tell us that on no uncertain terms should we be using elephants in our live shows: 

“It’s cruel” 

“It’s abuse” 

“It seems odd that you would still need elephants to entertain us in a time when laser-lights and fireworks are so easily accessible!” 

Following a series of violent threats from local PETA activists, Mr. and Mr. Ringling heard your cries and pulled the elephants from our shows.

Each and every Ringling-owned elephant was promptly entered into retirement and sent to the Ringling Brother’s Elephant Sanctuary in sunny Orlando, Florida. There they enjoyed a healthy diet of peanuts, mangos, melons and whatever small animal happened to wander into their feeding area. Every day they would go swimming and enjoy world class massages performed by our reserve team of acrobats. Meanwhile, the circus kept on touring. Imagine it, over three shows a day across this great nation without a single elephant, and what did you do?

You stopped showing up.

Now, every Ringling-owned human has been left to fend for themselves, to find real jobs. Every human except for me, I am Gustav, the only man the elephant’s trust! Welcome to Just The Elephants, Ringling Brother’s first all elephant circus, because this is apparently what you wanted.

Today you’ll see Elephants doing everything you never imagined:

Elephants playing double dutch!

Elephants shooting guns!

Elephants carrying sparklers!

Elephants walking the fifty-foot tightrope!

Elephants resting!

Elephants eating that small child in the second row!

Elephants proving their love to other elephants!

Elephants kissing other elephants!

Elephants kissing human audience members!

Elephants getting upset over all the kissing!

Elephants selling souvenirs!

Elephants making change!

Elephants playing the piano!

Elephants making passionate speeches against the ivory trade!

Elephants singing along to ‘Ebony and Ivory’!

And our grandest trick of all… The Forty-Seven Elephant Pyramid!

So sit back, relax and for the love of god, no flash photography or loud noises, you don’t want to startle this many elephants!

Nope. Sorry, you blew it.

You came here expecting a list of things that would redeem you as a victim of the Arby’s hack, but there is literally nothing more embarrassing than this. You could’ve been caught pants-down in the Ashley Madison hack and returned to your family with more dignity. Your secret shame–consuming heaps of recklessly cut meat, slathered in an always disappointingly thin layer of barbecue sauce and liquid cheddar–is out in the open.

When my brother Forrest and I founded Arby’s we knew we had a monstrosity on our hands. People thought we were out of our minds to venture into fast food, and from the moment we ladled out that first batch of roast beef I knew they were right. Still, I stayed with the company for 15 years, amassing a small fortune for myself. By that point we had over 500 restaurants, and I could no longer peddle slow-cooked meat to the public in good conscience. Keeping a low profile, I resigned from my position as CEO and moved to the Appalachian Mountains where I started the first co-op. No one here knows me as Leroy Raffel, the surviving Raffel Brother (which as I’m sure you know, is what Arby’s stands for… that, and roast beef). Most folks just call me Barry. Now the shame I have felt for decades has become a national problem leaving many, like you, the reader, in need of some serious dietary examination.

I suppose half the problem is your inability to eat Taco Bell like the average self-respecting starved commuter, and now you’re paying the ultimate price. Someone has hacked Arby’s and stolen your credit information, which means somewhere on the deep web there’s a credible paper trail to attest that you all-too-frequently gorge on roast beef and low-rent mozzarella sticks. It’s a paper trail so embarrassing that your banker knows about it, and they’re kind enough to do you a favor and send a fresh debit card to you before news of the hack even breaks. Due to a clerical error on the bank’s part, the new card is sent to your parent’s house, so Momma and Poppa are now aware of your need to choke down unfathomable combinations of deli meat. Now, the only gift card you can expect come your birthday will be that of Arby’s, a restaurant you enjoy in passing but are largely indifferent to, until those steamy six inches of thinly sliced beef are sitting in front of your face.

Look at yourself: You’re an adult. There’s no babysitter taking you to Arby’s for a quick dinner fix. You have no one to blame but yourself. You made an active decision to roll up to Arby’s drive through. You asked for a beef and cheddar sandwich and when they asked, “Would you like two for five bucks?” you said yes as if you had won the lottery. You didn’t even eat the second one until a day later, and you were constipated for half a week. Your intestinal tract wouldn’t clear until the threat of meat-obsessed hackers after your personal information went public.

The “classic beef and cheddar” trap occurs all too often. The few who know that I, Woodsy Barry, am actually Leroy Raffel will often call upon me to rehabilitate those emerging from that slow-cooked coma. Today I am called upon by the nation, as my creation has resulted in serious financial repercussions and the cringe-worthy realization that the IT guy who notes a credit card change on your automatic payments knows about your meat-addiction.

Seriously, it’s time you and the 300,000 other Americans who opened this article seeking comfort take a long, hard look at yourselves. Thank God there’s only 300,000 of you. I recommend you start this self-examination in the bathroom mirror of a restaurant that only functions as a giant salad bar. This isn’t about body-shaming; it’s about acknowledging you’ll live well into your thirties if you swap out that mountain of roast beef for some lettuce or anything other than a varying shade of pinkish-brown. Perhaps it’s time you give up fast food and city living all together and come home on the range, specifically, the Appalachian mountain range, where I hear a man they call “Woodsy Barry” is ready to serve up some delicious free-range chicken sandwiches with a side of thick-cut organic potato fries.

Snow Day!

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