Saturday Funnies: That Orange Is an Apple

(AP Photo/Brynn Anderson, File)

I woke up from my coma yesterday. The doctors said I suffered from long COVID, but last I remember, I was strapped down and they were sticking a needle in my arm. According to the calendar, 10 years have passed.

I feel decent enough though, so I decide to take a walk. The sun is shining, there’s a cool breeze, a perfectly lovely day. I pass a vendor selling fruit. “Ooh, those oranges look good,” I say. “I’ll take one.”

“We’re all out of oranges. Sorry, mate,” he responds.

I look down at the round, orange, citrusy fruit in the basket. “Aren’t those oranges?” I ask.

“No, those are apples.”

I squint at him. I wonder, is he playing some sort of wise guy? “Those are oranges, pal. I would like to purchase one.”

His eyes dart up and down the street. Suddenly, he leans in close, his orangey breath wafting over me. “Those are apples, my friend,” he whispers in a fierce tone. “What are you trying to do here?”

I shrug. Whatever. “All right, I’ll have an apple,” I say.

As I walk away, I notice my clothes are pretty old and out of style. I spot a clothing store on the corner and wander in. “Where’s the men’s department?” I ask. The clerk’s eyes go wide, and she quickly skitters off. Huh. This is getting weird.

I wander outside again, and a large black SUV pulls up. Six agents in black suits jump out, flashing badges. “DGB!” they shout. “Get in the vehicle!”

As I am hustled into the back seat, I inquire, “what is the DGB?”

“Disinformation Governance Board,” one says with a snarl. “Now shut up.”

I’m taken to a featureless building and hauled into a small white windowless room. The group of agents stands in the corner, arms folded across their chests. A woman with the nametag “Nina” marches in and sits across from me. One of the agents, this one a muscled man with mirrored sunglasses, sits next to her protectively.

She stares at me icily. “You’re in some hot water, person,” she says.

“What’d I do?” I ask.

“You’ve violated Article 3 Section 48 of the Fruit Reassignment Act. That is a serious charge.”

“But I’ve never even heard of the Fruit Reassignment Act!”

“Section 49 states quite clearly that lack of knowledge regarding the act is not a defense. It is your duty to know what is in the act, and to behave accordingly.

“That’s absurd!” I shout.

She stands up, in obvious anger. “YOU. ARE. A. RACIST,” she says with a growl.

I try to stay calm, not wanting to inflame the matter further. “No, no, I’m not. I haven’t said a single thing about anyone’s race.”

She glares at me. “Section 5 of the Speech Act specifies that the word ‘racist’ shall apply to anyone we disagree with. That’s another year for you.” She points to the gentleman sitting next to her. “Now, go with them for your booking.”

I’m confused. “Go… with him? Or them?” I ask, indicating the agents in the back.

Her face turns an angry shade of crimson. “I was quite clear,” she says, again pointing to the agent sitting next to her. “I said go with them. But now I’m angry. Go with them instead.”

The agents from the back of the room surround me and take my arms. “I’m sorry, lady, I don’t get what’s happening –”

She jumps to her feet, spittle flying from her mouth, as she yells, “Lady? LADY?! How dare you! That’s a violation of Subsection 4 of the…”

I tune her out because she is really getting on my nerves.

Sitting here now in the Happy Repurposement Village, I stare through the bars and I ponder where I could have gone so wrong. When the doctor puts the needle in my arm, I barely flinch. It doesn’t really hurt.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I hope you got a chuckle out of this.  The matter is anything but funny, though, as the left has consistently been changing the meaning of words to further their radical agenda. Now, things have taken an even more ominous turn with the announcement of the “Disinformation Governance Board,” which RedState has been covering extensively:


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