On the nature of paranoia, Messianic complexes, bats in the belfry, and other dysfunctions masquerading as argumentation.

In bucolic Trogland, the “little people of New Albany” are going about their daily tasks, blissfully accepting their purely apocryphal “rules,” and are forever unencumbered with considerations of modernity, higher education, the post-Coolidge era, and commonly accepted rules of grammar.

At the Luddite Bar and Grill, late model tricycles are tethered to a fire hydrant, cocktail wieners crafted from Asian potbellied miniature/a> pigs are vended as “foot longs,” and wee thimbles of liteweight swill are hoisted as the denizens sit atop upholstered cigar boxes and discuss the “big” world that keeps them downsized in their middle-class, lily-white squalor.

Suddenly the beige plastic saloon doors, which in their previous incarnation had functioned as pet portals, swing violently open, and into the room strides the mystical Trog Shaman – the self-appointed intermediary between the material world and the haunted, other worldly realm of ghouls, ghosts, devils and evil planners.

In other words, those detested public figures who in the absence of necessary information and prescribed ritual electoral sacrifice are intent on wreaking havoc and depriving the “little people” of their right to wear sacks over their heads and do the Sewer Dance, the Stormwater Shuffle, and other cleansing rituals.

The denim-clad Trog Shaman is accompanied by her loyal scribe, the frighteningly androgynous CT, whose change purse backpack is filled with spittle-encrusted crayons, postage stamp post-it notes and vials of populist venom.

“I’m the ‘Bitch on Wheels,’" screams the Shaman, “Go ahead and hook your carts to the wrong horse boys, where will you be then?”

The bar erupts in the throaty wailing of tiny voices: “Praise East Ender!”

(The house band strikes a chord: “You’re the meaning in my life/You’re the inspiration/You give meaning to my life/You’re the inspiration.”)

“I’ll write. That down. And obey,” whispers CT. “Because we are. The Little People. And we’re mad as HELL.”

“But, don't dare assume you know me. I will NOT stand still for this, and I will NOT go away,” bellows the Trog Shaman, wagging a finger at the throng.

The crowd erupts in joy.

“NOT! NOT! NO! NO!,” they chant, while across town, a disheveled Li’l Stevie peeps out from beneath his security blanket and says, “hey, wait – that’s my line … somewhere, they’re playing my song.”

“If you want to hear me do my thing/Pull my string,” sings the councilman.

Meanwhile, the Luddie Bar and Grill grows ominously quiet.

Ceremonial hatchet in hand, the Trog Shaman breathes deeply, fixes a medicinal, hazy gaze on the panting crowd, their thimbles hoisted aloft, blue veins bulging, wee minds inflamed with malaprops and rhetoric, eager to be told which external symbol of their own inadequacies and failures must be assaulted first.

Panties and sewer board minutes are tossed at the feet of the Trog Shaman, who fondles the hatchet and mysteriously murmurs, “That is more of a reflection of the collaborative cooperation and growing structural integrity of the systems that have come into operation in our intents to inform the public to the best of our abilities, and support efforts to protect the best interest of the taxpayers and their obligations to the City.”

Overcome with emotion, the “little people” spontaneously fall to the floor and do the Alligator.

“I’m Mad as Hell. And I have A Clue. For you,” cries CT, nervously crumbling spent crayons from behind the soiled Rally’s bag with the greasy pie hole slit: “These are some of New Albany's finest elected. Office Holders. As well as some Appointed Department. Heads.”

Bottles are shattered in the feverish pitch of the evolving lynch mob.

“Yes, indeed,” demands the Trog Shaman, “Show me any sane person out there who truly believes this administration is not a train wreck, and I'll show you a person with a vested interest.”

"Eeeecccck!"

A blood curdling scream comes from the corner, Tim enters the room, and …

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Back to the real world, says NA Confidential, which herewith issues a challenge to the Trog Shaman.

Ms. Laura Oates, here’s your big chance.

I, Roger A. Baylor, truly believe that this administration is not a train wreck.

So, tell me, Laura, what’s my “vested” interest?

Think carefully. Either you must accuse me of insanity, and be prepared to prove it, or you must identify my “vested” interest in feeling the way I do about this administration.

To be fair, here are the relevant definitions of “vested interest.”

1. A special interest in protecting or promoting that which is to one's own personal advantage.
2. A group that seeks to maintain or control an existing system or activity from which it derives private benefit.

Your accusation of “vested interest” may not have been directed at me, but no matter. You’ve made the accusation, and now you must prove it.

Or retract it.

To do so, you’ll probably have to focus on the nature of “personal advantage,” and whether such an advantage couldn’t be a simple interest in bettering the community. Conversely, you might seek to explain my “private benefit” as it is somehow derived from the “existing system.”

Remember, don’t make the mistake of confusing facts with opinions, as you've made a self-aggrandizing career of doing up to this point.

Have fun.

(Disclaimer: The author apologizes to the songwriters of Chicago and the Fifth Dimension for putting your words in these mouths, but it was in my vested interest as a writer to do so.)