Calvin & Hobbes – Political Peas
Calvin and Hobbes are sitting at the table with Calvin's homework spread out in front of them.
"Oh boy, these books are so heavy, they're really starting to weigh me down," Calvin sighs with furrowed eyebrows.
"Yes, they look pretty demanding for first grade stuff," Hobbes agrees.
"No, I mean I can hardly carry them," Calvin clarifies, grasping at every straw to delay his homework – and if it will only buy him mere seconds.
"Oh, I see," Hobbes murmurs and rolls his eyes when Calvin doesn't look.
"It's as if they are trying to undermine even the slightest hint of commitment that I could otherwise have mustered right from the start."
"Look, this task isn't too difficult," Hobbes says, pointing with his claw and ignoring Calvin's rant against the conspiracy of the schoolbook publishers.
"Generations of students are discouraged and let down by the very system that is meant to instill knowledge and curiosity into them," Calvin laments. "How does the Ministry of Elementary Education imagine us to nourish an incentive for learning?"
"Well, for one thing, it's not exactly hard to quench your desire for learning other than your learning about today's TV program. And for another: if you're so upset about the American educational system, why don't you use the rhetoric power the system has already given you and talk to our local reprimandative about it? Your dad always says that if you're at the brink of the abyss, calling our reprimandative is definitely a step forward."
"You're right, Hobbes! Finally there's one aspect of presidential democracy that gives voice to the needs of the individual!" Calvin's smile stretches from ear to ear.
"I'm glad you have discovered the deeper meaning of majority rule."
"Don't be such a sourpuss, Hobbes! Come on, let's write a letter to the reprimandative about the way in which schoolbooks rob students everywhere of the opportunity to experience an unburdened childhood."
"If anything, I am a sour tiger!" Hobbes says indignantly.
"I swear, Hobbes, one of these days your vanity is going to kill you," Calvin tells him while he's searching for his pencil with which he then starts to write on a dog-eared piece of paper.
"I think you're mixing your metaphors here; it's supposed to be curiosity that killed the cat," Hobbes remarks as he thoughtfully watches Calvin write, chin in paw. "Come to think about it, it's is really discriminating against felines in general. You should include this in your letter to the reprimandative, too."
"How do you spell 'first amendment'?" Calvin interrupts Hobbes's train of thought, scribbling away busily and not listening to the tiger's concern.
"Hey, mom, where is the phone book?" Calvin asks as he enters the kitchen. He is carrying Hobbes and the finished pamphlet on the exploitative school system.
His mother, who is so much taller than Calvin that he has to tilt his head back to look at her face, is standing at the cooker and doesn't turn around to face her son and the trouble he is possibly up to again.
"It's in the drawer of the shoe cabinet. Why, who do you want to call?"
"No one. I just need an address. Oh, and some stamps would be helpful, too."
"Honey, it's a bit early for your letter to Santa Claus. Remember, there are no bonus points for writing early and no reduction of your pranks list, either!"
"I know, you've made that quite clear."
"Right. And don't go too far away, dinner will be ready in a few minutes." His mother peers into the saucepan and seems to have forgotten Calvin's original question already.
"Okay. Oh, by the way, what's the name of our local reprimandative?"
His mother stops stirring tonight's dinner and turns around suspiciously.
"What's this?"
"We've written a letter to the reprimandative demanding immediate relief of our school book load to all local six-year-olds. But don't worry, it's fine, Hobbes proofread it."
Calvin proudly presents the stuffed tiger to his mother and makes it nod in affirmation.
"I see," his mother says, suppressing a smile. "Well, you won't have to look up any address in the phone book, Calvin, because I am your local 'reprimandative'."
"You? No, this can't be right. A reprimandative is part of the democratic system." He looks somewhat distressed.
"So?"
"It means that that person is elected by popular vote."
His mother's face falls.
"If that is so and if you didn't vote for me, you must belong to the minority whose opinion is not represented by me anyway. In other words, you might as well bin your demand right now," she counters, kind of peeved.
Calvin looks horrified at her with his hair standing on end (even more than it usually does).
"Heck, I didn't see this coming! The system betrayed me again! Let me think… Would you at least be open to reprimanding me if I gave you a revised version of my letter?"
"I can whole-heartedly accede to this request," his mother says solemnly but the corner of her mouth twitches funnily. "Does a commonsensical citizen like you want nutmeg in his mashed potatoes?"
"No, thanks, but Hobbes would prefer deer steak, still warm and bloody and all." Calvin has turned away by now and walks towards the kitchen door, still clutching Hobbes and the letter, disappointment written all over his face and in his widened eyes. His mother grimaces at the idea of freshly slaughtered deer on the dinner table and shakes her head at Calvin.
On the way to his room Calvin meets his father who is just returning home from work.
"Hello, son," he says as he takes his hat off.
"Democracy, thou art but a backstabbing illusion," Calvin mumbles and walks past his perplexed father who now enters the kitchen and asks his wife: "Every time I speak to that kid it eludes me in so many ways…"
"Just wait till you get a taste of this week's agenda," Calvin's mother replies darkly.
Some minutes later the family is sitting around the kitchen table. Even Hobbes is there, on the chair next to Calvin. The parents are happily munching away on their dinner but Calvin is picking at his food unenthusiastically.
"…which is why I'll get off work early tomorrow," his father says.
"Mom, can I make a second request, concerning an immediate embargo on peas?" Calvin interrupts him, staring at the little pile of peas he has built on his plate.
"Calvin, stop playing with your food! And you need to eat some vegetables – so your notion is hereby denied."
"'Notion denied'? What are we playing this time?" Calvin's father asks his wife. He sounds more tired than surprised.
"Turns out I'm the local 'reprimandative'. I already wish I had never accepted the position, I've been receiving requests ever since," she sighs.
Calvin's pile of peas collapses and some of them roll around on the tablecloth uncontrolledly. His mom covers her eyes with her hand to spare herself the sight of the mess.
"Actually, I would support the notion against peas and instead suggest having spinach in the future," Calvin's father says tentatively, taking another mouthful of mashed potatoes and ignoring his son's vain attempts at skewering the lost peas on his fork.
"Be careful with your complaints, honey, because as Calvin can assure you, I rule with an iron fist," the mother snarls.
"Spinach instead of peas? I think I will end up going on hunger strike," Calvin tells Hobbes who looks at him understandingly with his black beady eyes. "Mom, can Hobbes and I go now? Hobbes says he wants to go and hunt some dinner outside because he doesn't like peas either, and I have to organize my protest against the spinach scheme."
"By all means, go!" his dad says in a rather unnerved voice.
"And just for your information, all further protest and requests about vegetables will be denied and result in instant reprimands!" Calvin's mom adds quickly, sniffing a chance for early containment.
Calvin scowls but takes Hobbes and leaves the kitchen without another word. He and Hobbes are just on the way to Calvin's room when Hobbes remarks: "Don't you get the feeling that she has a different understanding of the word 'reprimandative' than we do?"
"At the moment I'm more interested in finding out the president's address to send him my letter," Calvin says, walking beside his furry friend. "He needs to know that the civil rights in this country are being undermined by the very people they are supposed to protect."
"I think if you write to the president, you will need something fancier than a letter with your math exercises on the back of it. Not to mention that you will need the sheet at school tomorrow."
Calvin stops dead.
"Oh man, my math homework! I completely forgot to do it! Well, at least my letter will prove to Miss Wormwood that I concern myself with the important things in life."
"I'm sure she'll be delighted to learn that," Hobbes comments drily as they walk up the stairs.
From the kitchen the subdued voices of Calvin's parents can be heard: "I'm surprised that our six-year-old son and I already speak different languages."
"He must have inherited that peculiar political vein from one of your Yankee forefathers."
"No way, my family immigrated much later than yours. Remember, your grandmother is still wearing fur in the one picture we have of her."
"Honey, don't make me go all iron-fist on you again…"