Two old Mexican men sitting by a cactus in Cholula, drinking pulque, laughing, argue over Ozymandias versus Ecclesiastes

We are Ken. Ken is the Flower, the Epitome, the Inevitable. Since the first War over Taxes, since Benjamin Franklin said, "Let us be wise, early to bed, wealthy, and Ken," since the Constitutional Convention, since "Happiness"was euphemized from the original "Property" until "Sustainable" came to mean "Eternally Never," since corporations became legal human beings, our own flag-waving Frankenstein monsters, since the lynching of slaves until the beheading of soldiers, we have been on the road to Ken. Whitman and Melville more or less missed out; Whitman tried, but... too gay. Melville evaporated into his clerk books. 9/11 was for Ken. And then we die.

We own and die, like Ken. We eat at Applebee's and Le Cirque, and then we die. We buy Big Houses like Ken and no one wants to clean them, except those who are not yet Ken, who have to learn to speak Ken's language. Oprah screams, A New Car... for Ken. The price is right: A New Car. Perhaps a Boat. Something to polish. Something smooth and green to mow. And then we die. But we were Ken. Let the world never forget: we were Ken.

The war has been lies, lies, and damnable lies, and failure, failure, failure, says Hilary. And we should trust you this time because...?

Because I am Ken, answers Rumsfeld. Because of my goodness. My goodness.

All who are Ken relish and thrive on Perpetual Global Conflict, but the legacy of Ken will clearly be the Conundrum, the simple phrase that followers of Ken believed, that Oxymoron, that Impossible Hope: "Military Solution."

Not even Ken saw the End coming. He came, he saw, he conquered, he bought brand names. He was branded, the greatest brand name of all. He was Ken.

and then we lay ourselves down and die but without ken