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Ghosts Of Founding Fathers Rearrange Clouds Over US To Spell ‘It’s A Living Document You Idiots’

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After over two hundred years of trying to send messages from the afterlife by knocking on the walls of of congressional offices, tickling the noses of supreme court justices, and scaring cats and hiding people’s television remotes, the ghosts of America’s founding fathers have today finally had enough, and are giving their message directly to the people. In two-mile-long cloud letters, emblazoned on a blue February sky.

“Put FFS at the end,” said the ghost of John Adams to the original George W, as the pair – along with the revenants of Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin – place the finishing touches on their high altitude message to the masses.

“Now John, no need to be too harsh,” said Washington. “It’s a tough world down there these days. And it’s not their fault we didn’t specifically say don’t follow our words verbatim for all of time because that would be crazy.”

Muttering that surely that was implied, Adams quietly nudged the remaining clouds in place to spell ‘you idiots,’ and stepped back into the upper atmosphere to admire their handiwork. 

“I really can’t believe this is necessary,” said Jefferson, rolling his empty eye sockets. 

“Seriously. You’d have thought that basic common sense would have told them that a bunch of old guys from the 1700’s who owned slaves and didn’t think women needed to vote wouldn’t be the go-to source for solving the problems of the 21st century. Certainly not when it comes to deciding how to handle muskets capable of killing more people in a minute then there are seconds.” said Ben Franklin, as he measures out pails of lightning for later.

“The Bible. Need I say more,” says Adams from a cumulus couch he’s pulled his spectre up onto, 10,000 feet above the Mississippi delta. “God told me the other day he’s been trying to get amendments and updates down to the them for years, but no one wants to listen to a bush anymore, burning or otherwise.”

“Well, this cloud formation should sort things out,” says George cheerfully, crossing his arms in satisfaction. “And just look at all those kids down there. They really don’t give any fucks, just like me when I cut down that cherry tree.” He pauses then, watching the millions of American teenagers flinging messages at each other across the ether as they organize to rally, fed up with waiting for needed changes, that never come.   

“It gives me hope,” the first president says quietly in the rarified air. “That maybe this next generation is finally ready to stop memorizing the notes, and start listening to the tune we played, all those years ago.”

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