It all started with a glass. Just an ordinary drinking glass. You know, like the kind you put juice or soda or water in. Come on! Surly you know what a glass is! You people astound me! I got up the other morning to find an empty glass sitting on the kitchen table. My first thought was that I had left it there the night before. My second thought - and this is the one that struck me as more plausible - was that it was a revolutionary. No longer were glasses content with their lot. They had decided they were fed up with mundane fillings of juice, soda, water or what-have-you. They were after stability and they were willing to die for their cause - to choose what liquid filled their various glassy forms. Quickly, before the uprising could begin, I grabbed the glass, ran to the door and threw it to the concrete. But wait! I thought. It was just one of many. The scouting party, if you will. I immediately ran to my cabinet and began hurling the glasses out the door as far away as I could shouting, "Out damn glasses! Your revolution will never take this house! I will not be tyrannized by crockery!" And with this, I proceeded to throw the last glass from my door. Strangely enough it landed with an "Ahhh!" instead of the usual shattering sound. I peeked out thinking one of the glasses had survived my onslaught to carry on its subversive action in other kitchen cabinets. It turned out, however, to be my neighbor. Upon further inspection, it appeared that the last glass had attacked him in a final effort, for he was lying, bleeding and unconscious, on my sidewalk. Either that or, while watching dumbfounded as his neighbor, screaming and raving, threw glasses on her lawn, he was struck in the head with one the the flying projectiles. I discounted my latter theory as unlikely and consoled myself with the knowledge that his death was not for nothing. He was a martyr to the fight against subversive glasses that refused to be filled with different delicious beverages day after day. Stability my arse! I thought. Looking down at my fallen friend, I decided there was only one sensible thing to do, so I set fire to the body. It seemed odd that the man's clothing caught fire so quickly. I seemed odder still that a dead man should writhe and scream as much as this one did. Well, two garden gnomes, three pink flamingos and one iron plant holder later, the burning corpse finally lay silent. I stood there for nearly ten seconds shedding tears for yet another victim of this vicious kitchen utensil war. Suddenly, a thought struck me. "Oh yeah," I said aloud, "I did leave that glass on the table last night. Then, something all together different struck me, only this time it was a policeman's truncheon. And the moral of the story is: Don't believe in revolutionary glasses because you might just set fire to your neighbor.