Barry was a whack-a-mole. Traveling from town to town in county fairs, Barry would spend his days and nights getting (or trying to avoid being) whacked on his furry little noggin by a large mallet. As dreams go, this was never high on Barry’s list.

But his father had been a whack-a-mole, and his grandfather before that. A long and proud legacy, even though they had all retired young, spending their evenings befuddled on a recliner rocker, howling spittle at contestants on Wheel Of Fortune unable to solve even the simplest puzzles...

Barry would look around every time he poked his head through the hole - and see a world of wonder. A world where LOOK OUT - HAMMER TIME a world where couples walked hand in hand, and MALLET - DUCK!! cotton candy wisped gaily along in children’s hands.

Barry began to plot. Plot anarchy. He hissed to his fellow whack-a-moles while they went below the surface of the game. “Why are we doing this to ourselves? We can be free! There’s a land right outside of this game, where pleasure awaits, and Tylenol is not necessary!”

The spring beneath Barry propelled him up at that moment, where a savvy game player lay in wait. Barry never even saw it coming. The mole was whacked...

Please supply the moral of this tale:____________________________________

Chow for now!