No, the Image Nation is not a bastardization of the imagination. The pun-spewing derelict's monologue near the end of the relevant script encompassed an array of such language so as to indicate this poor person's having succumb to the deception that the nation of images is the result of the free mind, i.e. an ostensibly willing imagination, i.e. not just yours or mine, but yours and mine entirely uncoerced. The reality of your inner realty is quite different.
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(At bottom) pictured's an interjection. A chain's refrain. A Ruddy Kipper's-worthy affirmation of belly bedding bepackaged fit for a king.
Remember Colonial bread? Today labeled good Bread, should you confuse them with the bad guys, what I remember best is an hourlong session with its gooey moistness in my mouth making me gag while the other kids had already gone out to play.
The first grade greatly aped an axiom applied to us by Miss Winzenried, the gist of which was that if you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding. I'll sub American cheese & mayonnaise for the meat of this memory, and though I might have had a cup of pudding in my bag that day (or any first grader might find the deferral of recess the more rotten application), it was the gross texture at the time applied to the roof of my mouth that was both my crime and punishment.
What could be a more befitting burden than eating Colonial bread on orders of an anglicized Winzenried in accordance with a dictum brought to us one way or another by the greater grunt force?
Note the German branding. American Sandwich (pronounced zendwich for you un-accosted (a reverse Winzenried!)). So this is what they think of me. Or maybe it's grains of Carthaginian peace. Or a mutual appreciation for Bismarck's Africa. Whatever. Just know that I don't know the cost. The depicted was purchased by someone else.
Pfft, Europeans.
