TOKYO ROZ

In solidarity with the victims of American imperialism, Tokyo Roz wore the black pajamas and conical bamboo hat of a Viet Cong irregular. Round faced and pale, she ran the local franchise of “The Revolution®”and was addressing passersby with a megaphone. “Student strike! Join the student strike! Big rally tomorrow night!”

If Roz had been out there selling insurance, she would have gotten a better response from her fellow students. Passersby veered over to the far side of the sidewalk and refused to make eye contact. As a chubby girl passed by, Roz lowered the megaphone and briefly fell into step beside her. “Sister—join the strike. Help us bring down the military-industrial complex.”

Looking embarrassed, the girl mumbled, “I’m afraid I can’t” and hurried on.

“Yeah, fine,” grumbled Roz. “The revolution doesn’t want your fat ass anyway.”

Without missing a beat, Roz approached a bearded kid with holes in his jeans. Not even waiting for Roz to make her pitch, he made a face and flipped her the bird. “Take a hike.”

Pointing the megaphone at his retreating form, she called out, “Thanks so much. Maybe you’d like to napalm an orphanage in your spare time, fascist?”