Eeny meeny miny moe, down which fast-track will this little one go? Baker or butcher, doctor or lawyer, architect or janitor? Blue uniform or white collar? What will you do for sense and dollars? What will you do for sense and dollars?

Eeny meeny miny moe, catch a fire by the hose, grab the pension by the nose, okay children, come now, fall into a single-file line, and select your future vocations, for it’s never too early to start padding your resume.

Class, who can tell me why Humpty Dumpty had such a great fall? Who can explain why fairy tales are so Grimm? Why are exaggerated fabrications called tall tales, while a short story is a sort of marginal fiction, yet skyscrapers are said to be so many stories tall? Is truth to be reckoned by length, or height?

Speaking of tall tales and fabrications, now we’re entering the Haunted Hall of History. Here you’ll be led through the slanted legend of your land, tailored to suit the needs of the powers-that-be.

To the right is a wax museum, where invaders have been recast as “explorers”, and slave-driving aristocrats are dressed up as the founders of freedom.

Beware the monster of Manifest Destiny, thundering on horseback and wrapped in flags of read, white, and blew. A voracious beast of imperial ambitions, devouring indigenous dreams for breakfast and swallowing the continent from sea to shining sea.

Next, we’ll venture into the grimy Foundry of Industry, where waves of workers from all corners of the globe have been ground down to hamburger in the gears of progress.

Here is where your bumper cars are are born, your roller-coaster rails are forged, and hard reality is manufactured, one component at a time.

Unfortunately, children, most of these jobs have been taken over by robots, so you’ll have to look elsewhere for your livelihood. The security sector is booming, however, so the future looks bright for the bullies and hall monitors among you.

Moving along, quickly now, into the Theatre of War. Aren’t those fireworks wonderful, children? Keep your heads down!

The camouflaged actors are engaged in an ongoing brutal ritual of cyclical retribution, hurling ammunition at each other on behalf of their very strong leaders, who are bravely hiding in their bunkers. Do mind your step, for this exhibit is a minefield of inflammatory rhetoric and explosive propaganda.

Step lively, class! We’ve nearly made it to the present moment. As the ghosts of nightmares past howl in the distance, we arrive at the Carousel of Revolution, where change is the only constant, and a pair o’ dice rolls on a pair ‘o dime.

This exhibit has been seized and liberated, children, in the name of the People’s Imperial Army of Clowns. Take up your red noses and join the Revolution. Yes, class, your teacher is actually a radical Marxist clown. Hang tight! Let’s take the world out for a spin!