Sophie's Choice 2004

Scenario I

The President has pitted us against the world in a Kirk v. Gorn death-match. We stare across the arena at the world and say, "Why must we fight? Isn't there a better way?" Bush says, "No. They're terrorists. One of you must die." The world cries out, "I'm not a terrorist! I just have Alien hand syndrome." And so we're stuck. We have two choices:

1. Do the Muhammad Ali ropadope and spryly exhaust our opponents and forestall killing off the world by an exhaustive demonstration of skill and patience. Re-jigger our endgame to 2008.

2. If you can't beat 'em, join e'm. Gobble down some Tex-Mex, dawn a dusty Stetson, and get busy. Genuflect, rub some spit into our palms, and kick the living hell out of the world.

Scenario II

We have been denied parole. Over the past four years we've volunteered in the commissary, initiated a "prison garden initiative" (improving the dietary choices throughout the prison system by implementing energy-saving technologies and a state-of-the-art irrigation system), and we've nursed 2 sick birds and a spider back to health using nothing but toothpaste and a urinal puck. We've read every book in prison library. Twice. And now, we're being sent back to our cell with "DENIED" stamped on our parole request. We have three choices.

1. Work with our buddies in the laundry room and kitchen to construct a crude explosive device. Get Medieval on the warden's ass by packing the fucking thing with razor blades. Get covered in prison tats and hurl liquefied feces at the guards. Earn a stint or two in solitary and get an extended sentence…and a bus ticket to Topeka in 2012.

Pull a Shawshank Redemption. Placate the guards with smooth talk, do the warden's taxes for him while secretly building an escape tunnel from the wall of the cell. Be prepared (and maniacally optimistic) enough to crawl through a mile of shit to get away. Requires stealth and a spiritually uplifting soundtrack.

3. Shut up an do your fucking time.