Ben Carson watched as that malicious bird circled overhead. The thing so clearly suffered from the direst of malaise—an illness of the brain. Ben knew this, of course, because Ben specialized in all things mental. A world-renowned brain surgeon, Ben often brought up his specialty at parties, with no intention to impress. He simply liked to remind himself of what he did during the day. It was so easy to forget when lost in the task at hand. To him, an open brain was like a vortex—squiggles upon squiggles, a spinning illusion, like a merry-go-round of pink tissue. It made him dizzy to look at. He admitted to his wife, in apology after several spontaneous during-dinner spin-outs, that this funhouse effect was the hardest part of being a neurosurgeon. The vertigo it gave him was extreme. But it was a small price to pay to know you were a God. And Ben Carson knew he was a God.
Ben felt that he could do or say anything with little consequence. After all, he was the divine shaper of his own world, dizzy as it was. But sometimes this power teetered. Ben found himself saying things he didn’t always mean. His mouth would run faster than his common sense, and in that race his tortoise-statements would not always be winning. But what could he do? He couldn’t exactly go back on his word. He was a God, after all. And Gods don’t make mistakes. Read the bible!
But apart from the times his words got away from him, Ben felt very much in control. That was what bothered him about this terrible falcon. He couldn’t get it to do what he wanted. For weeks it had tormented the inhabitants of his backyard, those spritely chipmunks that Ben affectionately nicknamed “Chews” for the way they diligently devoured their nut-meals. He loved to watch as they worked tirelessly on the casing and then the core, swallowing their bounty with delighted, hollowed cheeks. He felt the Chews were a true example of the perfect American—hard-working and always looking for their nut.
So it made sense that Ben was flustered, alarmed, and all together shocked by the presence of this Chew-eating falcon. With plans to bring the bird to the court of his operating table, Ben had many times failed to capture the felon. One plan had involved a pulley system. Another required the aid of a net. His wife several times suggested simple diplomacy, but Ben wished to share no words with this thing of evil. And with that realization, Ben Carson knew what he must do to save his tiny, furry friends. He had to arm the Chews.
Ben set up shop. He converted his home O.R. into a blacksmith’s tiny dream. His nimble fingers, trained for years from work on that pink, vertigo-inducing brain, easily adjusted to the job of making miniature guns. In a few weeks, Ben had a small armory. When he tired of glocks, rifles, semi-automatics and the like, he moved on to greater leagues of terror. Tanks, explosives, he even managed to craft a multi-Chew helicopter.
Creation was not a problem for Ben, who you may remember, was a God. Ben’s real problem came about when he tried to train the Chews. Used to working with much larger and adapted (though no less nut-seeking) human brains, Ben simply had no aptitude for the pedagogical issues of arming chipmunks. He did, however, have the enthusiasm. Like the omnipresent yet passive deity he now fashioned himself, Ben dropped weapons onto the Chews like manna form heaven. This had crushing effects. Ben had underestimated the weight of his creations, which crushed many of the Chews. Worse yet, in the time Ben had been away, a faction of squirrels had entered the yard. Ben watched in horror as the squirrels, whom he nicknamed Nutzis (he found this very clever), picked up the glocks and the semi-automatics and massacred his beloved Chews. In the end, the Nutzis were defeated by the poor design of Ben’s weapons, which misfired almost as often as Ben’s own dizzy synapses. In short, Ben was disappointed with his results.
Worse yet, after all the bloodshed, that maligned falcon benefited. Ben screamed as the bird swooped in and carried off the lifeless bodies of the Chews. He found it to be terrible sportsmanship, and let the falcon know it. He shouted insults into the sky, but they were so drawn-out and breathy that the big, bad falcon couldn’t hear them.
Unable to watch the end to this ordeal, Ben retreated to his armory and began converting it back to an O.R. As he shined scalpels and drills, Ben Carson thought that perhaps he should have left the whole thing alone. He wasn’t qualified to make such blanket decisions for an entire community of rodent. He was barely qualified to speak his mind, thanks to all that vertigo. As Ben came to this realization, he felt a spill coming on and called for his wife to bring him those chewable, bear-shaped gummies his doctor had recommended. They treated his dizziness with a speed and simplicity that Ben admired. He only wished they could treat that other ailment from which he suffered—his campaign for president.