Campbell's running on this assembly line, defecating turds from the ceiling ducts onto conveyor belts made primly for our convenient hauling, no wait: keep running -- but off in the distance, you can hear a twang of rebellion tiptoeing onto the floor, cleverly unnoticed. mitigates the tyranny of this Mass Produced Communism. You can see the constipated ceiling ducts straining; impaired Valsalva maneuver (a mechanical one) -- then suddenly a paroxysm convinces you that there is

No Movement, with the promise of putrefying canned soup, bundling, spilling, quaking and popping like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Cascading avengence; a sloppy, hopeful anarchy -- tastes like Chicken.