My mate Joe Chip says: Power comes from the lottery barrel
Sometime after noon, Comrade Edgaredgarberger and myself were released from our respective high tech institutions, monitoring anklets securely in place. As the people are like the fish in the sea and swim with the current, it made it a little difficult for us to reach the prole neighbourhood where we were to meet. However, as we conformed with the highest interests we received the support of the overwhelming majority of the people and were able to pass through them to meet at Cafe de Homogenise, where we consumed Pho in solidarity with our Vietnamese comrades. The soup was good, even though it was prepared by paper tiger reactionaries and class enemies, again displaying the contradictions inherent in the capitalist system. While we ate, we selected our numbers.
O, how the mighty quaked in their roof top eyries. O, how the fascists shivered in their places of fascism. Wheels turned and history’s gears fell into place, as number after number, we came closer to the inevitable withering away of the state. Then we marched joyfully upon the lottery kiosk, singing the praises of the people (or harmonising Temptation by Heaven 17, something like that), where we were confronted by a lackey of the bosses, who made us wait in the rain while he finished flicking through his pornographic magazine, or made entries in a ledger or some other capitalistic endeavour. Finally he took the money from us and gave us our tickets. I couldn’t help myself: “Ha! Selling us the rope we’ll use to hang you, you bloodsucker!” He appeared nonplussed. “That isn’t rope”, he muttered. Comrade Edgaredgarberger put the tickets away, I’m not sure where.
Then we returned to our cubicles.