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The homogenist celebrates his triumph.
And often, the lantern--or whatever it is--is on sale, so the would-be revolutionaries can't resist. Instead of committing an act of defiance against corporate duplicty, they walk sheepishly to the counter and hand over their Visa cards to the waiting clerk.

While all of this is transpiring, I imagine, the homogenists are meeting in a boardroom somewhere in the corporate headquarters of the Pottery Barn, sitting on chairs that no doubt echo "some venerable English design," and studying the profit and loss sheets for the last quarter. And their faces, like the classic faces of 18th century European aristocrats, all show faint smiles of triumph.