The Extremists.

I woke up and immediately knew something was wrong.
It was my pillow.
It had morphed overnight into a dead pelican.
Throwing it out the window, I ran downstairs to tell my wife
the strange news.
But she was nowhere to be found.
Instead,
a large and colorful plastic beach ball bounced up to me.
"Hi, honey" it said to me. "How do you feel?"
"I woke up with a dead pelican in my bed-- how do you think I feel?" I told the beach ball.
Beach ball?
Why am I talking to a beach ball?
How does it happen to be able to talk back to me?
"Aw, that's too bad . . . " the beach ball began, but I ran out the kitchen door to the back of the garage and crawled through an open window to get into my car and drive away from this extreme . . . extreme . . . extreme . . . 
Okay.
Now it makes sense.
The extremists have taken over.

So I cashed in all my stocks and bonds.
Got my passport out of the deposit box at the bank.
Bought a brass bugle and a jar of Slim Jims at
the pawn shop.
Caught a flight to Marmalade Field in Nova Scotia.
Laid my lobster traps in the Bay of Fundy.
And waited for the end.

It came six years later,
when the extremists rode up to my shack
in their wine bottle-shaped cars.

"We've been looking for you" said the head extremist.

"Well" I said coolly, "you found me."

"You know what comes next" he said meaningfully.

That's when I threw the Tic Tacs at them 
and made a break for the shore.

I had a dinghy tied up, all ready to take me out
to the ballgame. Take me out to the crowd.

My story doesn't end well. They caught me
and were extremely rude to me. Either 
I became an extremist or a colorful plastic
beach ball.

I'm now part of a 12 pack on Amazon
that costs $22.99.

Yes, extremists are now a dime a dozen . . .