I'm on the march. I'm marching. I'm here. I'm going.

The mantids are here. The crickets and beetles are here. The ants are here. The mosquitoes are here. And I am here.

Humans are here. These humans are my friends. They don't step on me. They don't build motels that I check into and can't check out. They vaccinate me against Raid. They are good humans.

The one who ate me is gone now. He was a bug-eating plant. He was chopped down like a plant. He is rotting somewhere. I am eating him.

Up ahead two humans stand by the side of the road. I notice because they are wearing bright clothing: green and pink. The one is green, the other is pink. They are not with the march. They are tourists. They carry video machines to record the Million Mantid March.

I recognize them.

"Hey," I say. "You're those guys that made the propaganda movie."

"What the fuck," the one in green says. "A talking cockroach! Get it!"

I get ready to scamper away. But he doesn't mean with a shoe; he means with the camera. The one in pink films me going by.

"That, uh," the one in pink says from behind the camera, "that wasn't us. That was Michael Moore."

"It was you," I say. "You made me the bad guy. You made me Kim Jong Il."

"Shit," green says. "It means Team America!"

"Yeah," pink says, now moving the camera from his face. "Damn! How'd you guys see our movie?"

"I'm watching it right now on 470 screens across America," I say.

"Huh?" green says. "That isn't possible."

"I am One," I say. "I am Blattodea."

"Who?" pink says.

"You hate cockroaches," I say.

"No, no," green says, laughing a little.

"You're fish-lovers," I say.

"No, no," pink says, laughing along with green. "We don't hate cockroaches. It was a joke."

"You think it's funny," I say. I take a few steps toward them. They take a half-step back.

"Well," green says, "it seemed funny at the time. Have that roach crawl out of the dead guy's mouth and climb into that tiny spaceship."

"Ha ha," I say, taking a few more steps. I'm bigger now, too. More of me. Thousands.

"Seriously, guys," pink says, backing into some kind of field, "we're on your side. We want Bush back in the White House too. We're with you all the way!"

"Yeah," green says. "When we have Gary say dicks fuck pussies, we meant George Bush's dick fucking liberal pussies."

"John Kerry pussies," pink says, a little more nervously now, still back-pedaling. "Abraham Lincoln pussies. Alec Baldwin pussies."

"You also," I say, "have Gary say that sometimes dicks fuck too much, and need to be reminded by pussies to pull back," and keep moving in.

"Uh ... yeah," green says. "But that was just--that was just ..."

"What do pussies smell like?" I say.

"Uh," pink titters. "I give up, what do pussies smell like?"

"Uh," green gulps, "fish?"

"Oh yeah," pink says. "They smell like fish."

"I think you smell like fish," I say. "I think the two of you like fish."

"Well," green says, "heh heh ..."



"And I think that's because you are pussies!" I say, and rush them. It's all over in a minute. When I stand back up, I'm in the shape of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. I even know my names.

Then I notice the camcorder fell in the scuffle. It's lying in the field. I pick it up, thumb it to record, point it at myself.

"Look everybody," I say, "You killed Kenny. You bastards!"

# posted by Doug Robinson @ 6:29 AM