OUR Uncle George is wide awake to things that are not so; he’s weeding out for pity’s sake the guys that ought to go. The vultures all are talking, they say he’s acting queer, because he’s on to faking ones that passed for highbrows here.

Our little faker daddy, with the whiskers on his chin, has gone to get a better job; now, isn’t that a sin? He was the king of fakers, all whiskers and no soul; he didn’t fake a single day when Uncle got control.

We hear that in Nebraska some folks are sawing wood that used to live in splendor here when faking times were good. If it was not for our Uncle they’d all be living still, in mansions fit for harem girls on Slyvan Ancon Hill. They say his nerve is getting weak, but he’s only getting wise; he’s handing out a line of dope that takes them by surprise. He has his wits about him yet, and his love for all things just, so when he says get up and get, the fakers know they must. Our Uncle has the helm, and he’s steering mighty well; he fears no politicians, they all can go to heaven.

The fawners and the cringers think the Zone is all askew, but Uncle never did have use for that that was not true.