So, our instructor assigned us to write a story with a strong emphasis on irony. Mine is about a hypothetical future American tragedy of a coup financed and designed by the Kremlin. By way of summary, this is how it related to irony and I appended this to the story for the instructor’s edification.
“And, the most ironic part of the whole American tragedy was this: even though he spent his entire life conning others, it was beyond his ken to consider that Vlademort Putrid was likewise conning him. He had been lying and bragging so long about his competence in all things that he actually came to believe he was smarter and a better strategist than Putrid. Putrid likely could have done it alone. But, of course, he did not do it alone. Putrid had the collaboration of highly trained, highly dedicated KBG/GRU professionals to help.
“In principle, perhaps he could have enlisted American experts, but he didn’t feel the need. Furthermore, he faced a real dilemma. He couldn’t openly ask any but the corrupt for help against American interests. And those who were corrupt were generally far less competent and always less well connected to a healthy network of professionals than their more numerous and genuinely patriotic counterparts.
“I said that was the most ironic part of the whole American tragedy, but there are near contenders. Another highly ironic part of his entire con game was that the played the game as though the only thing in the universe that mattered was his own pleasure. Of course, no matter what moves he made or is yet to make, he is not actually immortal in and of himself. By lying to himself and everyone else, he essentially cut himself off from being part of The Great Tree of Life (or at least from being a non-cancerous part). Rather than living on through his actions that benefited the whole, he delimited his life, curtailed it, circumscribed it to his own physical mortality.
“The intertwined corollary of the above is that even while he lived, he missed out on the best feeling in life: being in caring and loving honest relationships. In order to absolutely and positively ensure that he grabbed as much as possible for himself, he limited his “prizes” to mere material crap and the pleasure of cruelty. “
So, this is how they responded:
“When it comes to being ironic, this is definitely A plus material.
However, sad to say, there are also some serious problems with your narrative. First, of all Americans are too well educated to fall for the lies of a known con man. And, why not simply make the character more believable? It’s not plausible that so many people would fall for the con. Apart from that, the cowardice you portray on the part of so many within his own party is also unbelievable.
Still, the mechanics of the writing was also clean, so I’m giving you a B+. Next time, focus on believability rather than forgoing that to punch the irony.”
The manager of the hotel (or, “Stable Mighty Emperor Genius Maganificent Adiposity*” as he prefers to be called) called Kevin on his private, “Master Only Line.”
“Kevin? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Well, I … “
“Get down here. Now! I have a pipe I need you to unclog!”
“Are you serious? I’m in the fight of my political life here! And, anyway, I don’t know plumbing.”
“Get down here. Or, you’ll never get my endorsement again. Come clean my pipes and I’ll make sure you get the position you deserve.”
“I don’t know how to clean pipes!”
“Get down here. I’ll show you everything you need to know.”
A few hours later, at taxpayer’s expense, Kevin arrived and was ushered into SMEGMA’s anteroom to wait. After a few hours without any communication, a scantily clad model ushered Kevin into SMEGMA’s office which stank of rotting, overcooked Brussel sprouts, slug slime, and limburger cheese gone bad.
Kevin began extending his hand, but the odor nearly knocked him down. He jerked his hand back reflexively. He reeled from the Putrid smell and steadied himself by putting his hand on a nearby table. Unfortunately, it rested ever so briefly on a plate of cold catsup-covered French fries. The hand that was supposed to steady him instead slid violently off the table causing him to twist as he fell through the air and smacked hard into the rug. The thought flashed through his mind: “Thank God he’s got really large piles.” (Unlike his iPhone, Kevin’s brain had no autocorrect.)
One of the hard metal legs of an ergonomic chair nearly hit his skull. Kevin cried out in fear, pain, and outrage. The fall and twist and pain combined to disorient Kevin. The laugh disoriented him even more. “Whose (Unlike his iPhone, Kevin’s brain had no autocorrect.)
laughing? Why? I nearly broke my arm — and my head. And what is that smell?”
“That was great, Kevy. Do it again!”
“Do what again? Are you serious? I damn near killed myself!”
“So what? It gave me pleasure. Well, never mind. The moment is at lapsed.” (This brain was missing more than a spell-check app!).
“Look, Master, I have a fight to get back to. Can you just tell me where the pipes are you need cleaned. And, what is that smell?!”
“Just like everyone else who’se everyone held office held, I may have had people flush classified documents down the toilet. It’s the most beautiful golden toilet in the world, by the way, the universe, the galaxy, even the whole solar system!”
“Fine. Where are your tools?”
“Tools? Don’t you know? All you fools are my tools! You’re cleaning my pipes with your body. Some send me their rent money. Oh, it does make me laugh. Now, get in there and clean. And, I’ll just might make sure your Talker of the House.”
“It’s actually called…never mind. You want me to dive into the toilet in order to clean it? I mean, couldn’t I drown?”
“It doesn’t matter dear, so long as I am satisfied.”
I wonder whether anyone has experience they’d like to share in using Lassie movies as training devices for their own pooch. I am still learning to distinguish which of Sadie’s many barks means variously:
1. I have to go potty.
2. I *really* have to go potty!
3. I *really* have to go BIG potty!
4. I don’t really have to go potty and I really am bored and so maybe you’ll take me out to go potty so that I can:
3a. Find a poison mushroom to inhale before I even notice it’s there
3b. Bark at anything out of place such as a fallen leaf
3c. Pretend to be docile and then try to dislocate my shoulder when she sees a mosquito float by. Or a leaf. Or a hallucination.
On the other hand, Lassie is capable of communicating with cunning, compassion, and coherence with the adults in her life. I grant you that theoretically, it might be that the adults on the show are much cleverer than I am. It’s a reasonable hypothesis, but no…if I had abandoned mine shafts and unused wells all over my farm, I’d make damn sure any kids knew they were not to go there! And, I wouldn’t cover over an unused well hole with a couple of loose two by fours either. For that and other tedious reasons, I don’t think the genius in the Lassie family lies with the humans. It is Lassie who has the title role and she is the one with outstanding skills.
Lassie gallops into the kitchen and skids to a stop right beside Gramps and barks:
“ARF! ARF!”
“What’s that Lassie? What is it, girl?”
“ROOF! ROOF!”
“What? Something’s wrong with the roof?”
“BOW! WOW!”
“I will not! Anyway, I already fed you.”
Lassie, noticeably frustrated, circles twice and grabs a can-opener in her muzzle, sprints to the liquor cabinet and begins banging the can-opener into the lock.
“What? You’re trying to jimmy the lock open? You want a drink?”
Lassie grabs one ear with her paw and barks.
“Oh! Sounds like ‘jimmy’! Oh! Let’s see…’Kimmy’, ‘dimmy’, ‘Limmy’, I don’t know girl. There aren’t many words that rhyme with ‘jimmy.’”
Lassie barks: “ARF! ARF!”
“Lassie, are you sick or something girl?”
Immediately, Lassie springs into the air and does a somersault onto her back and waves all four paws in the air.
Gramps muses aloud. “The opposite of sick. Healthy? Something is healthy? No? Hale? Fine Fettle? Hardy?”
For each guess, Lassie barks a sharp short “No!”
Gramps frowns and says, “Well, I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Lassie. I’ve got to get back to carving my pipe here.”
Lassie stands on her hind two legs and begins using ASL with her two front paws. However, she quickly notes the looks of bewilderment on the visage of Gramps and she rightly concludes that he still doesn’t know ASL, despite her admonitions. So, she begins again with the barking: “ARF! ARF!”
Gramps says, “You’re not making any sense, Lassie. Timmy wouldn’t fall down a well. Why would he?”
“ARF! ARF! ARF!”
Gramps frowns and tilts his head so fast he pulls his sternocleidomastoid. “What? He fell down the well just last week? No, he didn’t. That was two weeks ago. Last week, Timmy fell down an old mineshaft. Oh! Wait! Are you trying to tell me that Timmy fell down a well again!? Oh, no! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Needless to say, Gramps calls the sheriff and after he arrives Gramps explains. The sheriff draws his gun and charges out toward one of the 17 abandoned wells at Gramps’s place. But Lassie begins barking — again!
The sheriff glares at Gramps and uses his best shoulder shrugging head tilt as though to say, “Well? You going to shut up the mutt or am I?”
Gramps scratches several places; for instance, behind his ear. Then he says, “Lassie is simply pointing out that while a gun won’t help get Timmy out of the well, a long rope might.”
“I knew that!” The sheriff speaks in a huff while Lassie merely rolls her eyes and winks at Gramps. Then, off Lassie scampers to the tool shed, picks the lock with a handy nearby roofing nail, nudges the door open, and scampers back with a long loop of strong rope.
Soon, she leads them to one of the many abandoned wells. By the time Gramps and Sheriff catch up, Lassie has tied a loose bowline one one end of the rope and two half hitches around a sturdy nearby oak stump, tosses the bowline down to Timmy, and barks her orders to him. Gramps and Sheriff pull on the rope, and soon enough, Timmy, cold and wet but alive, politely thanks Sheriff and Gramps for pulling him out and then throws his skinny arms around Lassie. “Oh, Lassie! Thanks, girl, for saving me! You were right! I shouldn’t have tried to walk across the well on those rotten planks after all!”
Lassie merely rolls her eyes.
———-
I’m not saying that if Sadie watched any one episode that she’d learn every skill all at once, but over time, it might help. Right?
Assuming, of course, that I can ever get her to notice anything on the TV screen. I’m thinking of smearing bacon grease around the edges.
Saturday is for satire. I enjoy writing satire, particularly when it is aimed at helping us see the kinds of absurdities we can talk ourselves into. Political satire I find especially satisfying.
But now? Satire, at least political satire, is dead. And, I know the people responsible. Not personally, but I know who they are in general, and in some cases, I know quite specifically. I mourn the passing of the genre, as do we all. We had barely recovered from mourning the passing of the Queen when the news hit about the death of political satire. Sad.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t by any stretch, imagine that my difficulties in satirizing the Mango Mussolini, match up to his more serious crimes such as — you know — treason; fraud; trying to isolate us from our allies; trying to become dick-tater; trying to destroy the rule of law; trying to divide America; waging a never-ending crusade against truth; replacing patriotic experts throughout government with inept sycophants; destroying one of the two major political parties; killing off (according to Lancet) at least 200,000 innocent Americans through his lies about COVID and bad modeling of the proper reactions — compared with these — oh, and did I mention compromising our national security during and after his “Pee-Residency” in the “Whites Only House”? None of these compare with making it virtually impossible to write political satire.
Possible replacement for the elephant: Greedy, indolent, & filthy. Photo by Samira on Pexels.com
But I still mourn the loss.
In the last few weeks alone, the Hairless Hitler has:
*Asserted that because he once worked at the White House, he was allowed to take anything from there when he left and take it to his own home.
*Asserted that there doesn’t have to be a process for declassifying Top Secret documents but rather he can declassify them simply by thinking about it.
*Fully embraced the Q-anon conspiracy theories and they now salute him just as the Hairy Hitler had his mindless minions salute except that instead of putting up their whole hand, they put up one finger. No. Not that finger. Not the sensible one. Their index finger. The same finger poised to launch nuclear war by the man who got TFG Putin office in the first place. The same finger used to guide a sharpie pen over a few hundred miles of weather map to show a possible hurricane track to hide the fact that Putin’s Puppet misspoke. {Shudder! Horror!} Remember that? Instead of saying, “Oh, I misspoke” and thereby fix the error, the “Stable Genius” thought it better to mislead thousands of Americans about the path of a hurricane.
Normally, any of these would be sufficient for involuntary incarceration in a mental hospital. Instead, he uses these actions to raise money to line his pockets by claiming he’ll use the funds to aid his defense.
That’s what’s actually happening.
How do I satirize that?
I have to come up with something even stupider and more ridiculous. Hopefully, the even stupider and more absurd exaggeration will help people realize that the original and actual actions are also stupid and ridiculous. But what? What is stupider and more absurd than the actions of the 45th Toddler-in-Chief?
I’ll have to settle for something that’s actually less stupid and less absurd, but hopefully something people might relate to.
Most people, at some point in their lives, visit someone else’s house, go to a workplace, or stay in a hotel. I realize that doesn’t cover everyone, but it covers most adults. Now, let’s suppose that you come over to my house for dinner. Let’s even suppose I invited you over. Then, you leave. I’m cleaning up and notice that a bunch of my silverware is missing. Surely, I think, surely my guest didn’t come over and steal silverware. I wouldn’t expect anyone to do that and if they spent the entire evening bragging about how rich they were, it would seem even more incredible. But then, let’s suppose that I heard from a mutual acquaintance that my recent guest has my silverware at home; that he’s bragging about having it. I go over and see that indeed, he’s stolen some of my silverware! I confront him. “You’re a thief!”I say.
I can think of many excuses and I’m sure you can too. Here are a few that come to my mind.
1. “Yes, I did. I’m sorry. I have this weird kleptomania thing and I thought I was over it, but I’m not. Sure, you can have your silverware back. I guess it’s time for me to return to therapy. I’ll be glad to reimburse you for any inconvenience I may have caused.”
2. “I really loved your silverware. I wanted to show my wife and see whether she loved it too. I thought I had asked you if I could borrow some to show her. I’m so sorry if I forgot to ask you. My memory is not so good any more.”
3. “I loved the buffet you set out, but I didn’t have enough hands to carry everything, so I put some silverware in my pocket and must have forgotten it was there because there was another set right by my place.”
But let’s move on from the weak excuses to the silly excuse.
4. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I felt like I had dirtied up so much silverware at your excellent dinner that I felt the least I could do was bring it home and wash it for you before returning it.”
5. “I had such a wonderful dinner at your house! I know you’re of more modest means than I am so I thought I would take your “silverware” to a place where they will be able to copy the pattern and replace your iron flatware stuff with pure silver cutlery.”
And, there are plenty more, but yet more silly and more absurd than any offered by fantasy would be to say:
“Your silverware? What do you mean your silverware? You invited me over! Once I’m there, everything in your house automatically becomes mine. Your lucky I left you your TV, your fridge, and your spouse! And, anyway, besides the fact that it’s mine, you came over with your silverware in your pockets and planted in my house to make it look like I stole it! It’s a witch hunt! You were probably not actually looking for silverware at all; you were looking for your lost shaker of salt! There’s a woman to blame! And, anyway, why come over? Why not just ask me and I would have given you your silverware. I mean my silverware.”
Or
Let’s suppose you worked for a time at a car repair shop. You couldn’t get along with your boss so they replaced you after a few years with someone more competent and harder working. You decided you’d start your own car repair shop. But before you left, you stole your boss’s rolodex. You were too stupid to simply make copies; you stole the actual rolodex. Your boss noticed. He asked you for it back. You sent him a few business cards. He noticed that it wasn’t actually a rolodex. The police show up. They ask for the rolodex. You say:
“Hey, I worked there! I’m entitled to the rolodex! Because when you work someplace, you own everything there. Anyway, I didn’t take it. It isn’t here! And, the one that is here isn’t yours! And you planted it! And, you weren’t really looking for the rolodex at all! You were looking for the answer to who killed cock robin! Or where they buried Jimmy Hoffa. Or, who really assassinated JFK!”
It’s true that people often overestimate how much the world revolves around them.
But to imagine that your thoughts alone impact the real world — that is quintessential insanity. Adults, even cruel demented ones, must be held responsible for their actions. There also can’t be any doubt that bad parenting is at least partly responsible for an adult growing up so out of touch with reality that they believe in mythical psychokinetic powers. Plenty of responsibility also accrues to the so-called fans of the T-Rump who believe any absurdity he spouts. Further, if the Republican Party had held T-Rump to even the lowest possible standard of accountability and reality, TFG might not be certifiable today. But no-one did that. Instead, a new standard of cowardliness has emerged on the planet.
Braver than 90% of GOP in Congress.
People all over the world, every day, risk their lives to escape dictatorships. In Russia, people risk their lives and long prison terms to protest Putin’s War of Stupid Aggression. In Iran, women risk their lives and long prison terms to protest the killing of an innocent woman by the so-called “Morality Police.” In the Ukraine, people are enduring extreme hardships & danger to avoid falling under the dictatorship of a man gone insane with greed. I read today, he replaced another general. It’s always someone else’s fault in a dictatorship, no matter how stupid the leaders are.
Meanwhile, in America, the enablers of the Mango Mussolini are presented with mountain ranges of evidence about the scope of TFG’s lies, cruelty, criminality, and his utter failure as a businessman who grew rich providing value and the response — ?
“Oh, well, that’s just Trump”
Or,
“It’s all fake news!”
Or,
“Trump never lies! He told us so!”
Or,
“He must be successful at business because he told us so!”
Or,
“It’s a conspiracy of the FBI, CIA, DOJ, Wall Street Journal, NYTimes, NBC, CNN, DOD, Army, Navy, Marines, FORBES, Vanity Fair, FORTUNE, Liberals, POC, Asian Americans, Hispanics, Native Americans, Women, Homosexuals, Jews, Muslims, Chinese, Intellectuals, School Teachers, Science, Math, Readers, Writers, Wine Drinkers, CBS, ABC, Popes, New Yorkers, Californians, City-Dwellers, and Artists who are all out to get Trump & make him look bad!”
In the same way that people who “give an addict a break” by supplying cheap drugs “just to tide them over” are partly responsible for the eventual lethal overdose, so too, fans of Putin’s Puppet are partly responsible for the level of absurdity he now evidences.
Nonetheless, adults must be held accountable for their behavior. That includes dictators and would-be dictators. It includes their enablers. It includes “election deniers” and those who promise to overturn elections if their owner-in-chief tells them to.
Meanwhile, since my days of political satire are over for the foreseeable future, I’ll go take a picture of that which remains beautiful.
Fred shook his head as he clicked off his cellphone and laid it down carefully on the bedside table charger. His reading light was still on. He glanced over and saw that Geri was awake. He wished for a moment that the phone call had never happened; that it had just been a bad dream. He could see from Geri’s expression that she knew he was upset.
“Well?” She began. “Was that who I think it was?” Her exasperated tone, Fred knew, wasn’t a reproach to him. He shrugged. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Of course. He’s coming over in the morning on his way to close a big important deal, so he says. Wants to share the fruits of his genius by showering the boys with gifts.”
Geri sighed. She was, by now, quite familiar with Uncle Donnie’s “gifts” to the boys. The first such gift had come somewhere around their seventh birthday, he had “gifted them” bee bee guns. That would have been bad enough, but Uncle Donnie didn’t stop there. He regaled them with stories about his “bravery” in the “big war” and how he had shot many more “Japs” (as he called them) than he had ever gotten proper credit for. Of course, like all of Donnie’s stories, he completely fabricated this one. He had never been drafted and he certainly never volunteered. He never served in armed services. So far as Geri could tell, he’d never served anywhere for anything. Nonetheless, when she looked at the glowing faces of her admiring twins, she didn’t have the heart to debunk his tall tales. Donnie had left soon after an enormous breakfast to close an ‘enormous’ deal, the details of which he couldn’t disclose for legal reasons, but he assured them all, they’d soon be reading about it in the paper.
Donnie’s parting words had been: “Tell Daddy to take you to Dick’s soon! They have your rifles waiting for you! Who knows? Maybe some day, you’ll be a war hero too!.”
That evening, Geri & Fred had had the worst fight of their marriage. She couldn’t understand why Fred had not told the boys they weren’t old enough to have bee bee guns and that their Uncle Donnie had told them a pack of lies. Fred had ended up yelling and saying things he didn’t mean. Geri had ended up yelling and saying things she didn’t mean. They had never really “resolved” that conflict. But they eventually moved on. Since Uncle Donnie’s visits were only occasional, they came to an uneasy cease-fire about the necessity of debunking his lies. Geri promised not to burst the bubble of Donnie’s lies, but Fred understood that if she were ever asked directly, she would tell the truth. Fred said he would do the same. As it turned out, the boys never asked either of their parents whether Uncle Donnie’s tales were true.
Now, Fred regretted not havingmcalled Donnie out on his lies when he first told them. Well, Fred reasoned, now it was ‘water under the bridge.’ Hopefully, this visit wouldn’t last too long. Fred turned the light out. He knew he’d no longer be able concentrate on his book. Sleep would take awhile. He knew there was no point in worrying about Donnie’s visit or trying to guess what lies he would fill his sons’ heads with next. But that knowledge didn’t bring sleep.
Geri for her part, also lay awake in the dark, struggling to find the argument that would convince Fred to permanently sever ties with his brother. How do you convince someone to forsake their demented and destructive brother? She worried about Donnie’s impact on her sons. What of them? They were bright boys, so their teachers all said. How could they keep falling for Uncle Donnie’s lies? Of course, when the four of them had arrived at the gun shop, Donnie had not paid for the rifles. What he had done was to have the stocks engraved with the boy’s names: “Teddy” and “Ronnie.” Uncle Donnie had assured the store owner that his brother Fred would come by and pay for the rifles and the engraving. Normally, the store owner insisted on cash up front for engraving, but after Donnie explained his status as a war hero and explained that he needed every cent right now to buy the old armory downtown where he was going to make a “first class” shelter for homeless veterans, the store owner agreed and even contributed twenty bucks of his own money.
Fred had paid the two hundred bucks for the air rifles and engraving. Every time Uncle Donnie visited from then on, Donnie had reminded the boys how he had “bought them” engraved air rifles and asked how their target practice was coming. They complained that their Dad had insisted on strict rules about using the guns. For one thing, they had to wear safety goggles. For another, they could only aim and shoot at paper targets stapled to trees. Uncle Donnie had clicked his tongue and wondered aloud what was wrong with his brother. “When I was in basic training, you know what we did? We shot at each other with live ammo! That way, we learned to duck and aim quickly so when I finally took all those island back from the Japs, it was easy. You don’t get to be a soldier by being a coward! Tell you what, boys, I’ll talk to brother Fred & see whether I can talk some sense into him!”
Geri swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She could tell that Fred was awake and upset too. She said, “Fred, I’m going to make some chamomile tea for myself. You want me to make you some too?”
Fred sighed. “Yeah, I suppose. Thanks, sweetheart. Actually, how about that Sleepy Time Tea instead? That has hibiscus too. I think it works better.”
The tea quickly sent Geri into dreamland, but Fred still couldn’t get to sleep until about 3 am. He kept going over the other disastrous “gifts” that Donnie had promised over the years. He couldn’t think of a single time that his brother had actually paid even a single dime for any of the gifts he had promised the twins. Nonetheless, the boys kept accepting the idea that Uncle Donnie was their generous and prosperous benefactor. On the few occasions when Fred had tried to set the record straight, the boys just looked at each other and shook their heads. Usually Teddy would pipe up first with a comment like: “It’s okay, Dad. We understand. Uncle Donnie explained it to us. You pay for our house, our clothes, Christmas and birthday presents. And, you’re not rich like Uncle Donnie. He says we shouldn’t expect you to buy extra gifts and that he’s happy to do it.”
Fred had not wanted to come right out and call his brother a liar. To the boys, Donnie was a war hero and a rich successful businessman. To Fred, it was more than a little maddening. After all, the boys had been there when he went to pick up their rifles. Apparently, they had been so focused on how “cool” the rifles looked and were so busy imagining getting a chance to shoot, that they had paid no attention to the fact that he, their father, had paid for the rifles and the engraving.
It seemed to Fred, only moments after he finally fell asleep that he heard the front doorbell ring. “Crap,” he muttered aloud. He rolled over. Geri was sitting up in bed. Then, Fred heard the the twins sprint down the upstairs hallway and piston their feet down the stairs. He could hear the happy greetings though he couldn’t make out what was being said. Fred & Geri exchanged a look. Fred took a leak, did a cursory job of brushing his teeth and ambled over to the bedroom door. He turned to look at Geri. “Are you coming down soon?”
Geri frowned. “Geez. It’s only 6:30 am! Who visits someone that early on a Saturday morning?”
Fred nodded. He said, “We know who. My brother. Donnie. Anyhow, I’m awake. You ready for coffee or breakfast?”
Geri half-smiled. “Coffee sounds nice. I’m not ready for breakfast. Tell everyone I’ll be down in a little while. We should use up those eggs. Maybe an omelet for everyone? You can just leave a bit for me?”
Fred smiled. After all, he did enjoy his life. Most days. They were a very lucky family, he reminded himself. His wife had barely survived having the twins. Lost a lot of blood. It had been touch and go. But all was well. And then, there was the accident. Randy could have easily lost his right eye. Probably would have if the bee bee would have struck a quarter inch over. After that little incident, Fred had put away their rifles for a month and made them promise to always wear their goggles no matter what his demented brother Donnie said.
Fred reached the top of the steps and heard the front door slam. Had the boys gone out for a walk? He took a quick detour into the boys’ room and peered out into the soft predawn. He saw the boys pile into the back seat of Fred’s “custom-made luxury car.” At least, that’s what Fred called it. Where the hell was he taking them? Not exactly cool not to discuss with us. Probably just driving around the block, Fred supposed.
Fred supposed wrong.
The boys did not return for breakfast. Or lunch. Geri and Fred were both worried, though Fred was reluctant to call the cops on his own brother. Donnie didn’t answer his cellphone. Nor did the boys. Upon checking their room, he found both cellphones on the nightstands. The boys hadn’t known they were going to be away long. Even Uncle Donnie couldn’t have kept them from wanting to text their friends. Their friends! Fred tried calling some of the friends of the twins. None of them admitting to know of any plans. In fact, Judy & Jill had expected the twins after lunch to come study algebra together.
Fred was fighting a feeling of dread. He felt the shadow of Geri in the doorway and looked over at her. She just stared at him. Fred nodded. “Okay. Okay. I’ll call.”
Fred still felt bad about calling the cops on his brother. He explained the situation and, in turn, the cops explained that since the man was a close member of their family, there was nothing to be worried about and that, in any case, their hands were tied for 24 hours. Fred wanted to explain that Uncle Donnie wasn’t an “ordinary” Uncle. He wanted to make them see that his brother was a liar; unreliable; a cheat. But he didn’t know these police officers. To them, it was just an Uncle out for a joy ride and all would be well by dinner time. Fred reassured himself that the police were likely right. He supposed the twins would be back by dinner.
Fred supposed wrong.
Geri didn’t exactly blame Fred. But when the weeks dragged on and no leads arose, Geri stopped crying audibly. Her cheeks bore the light little tracks of tears, silently shed, and she moved on past chamomile tea to heavy drinking and then to opioids. Fred became obsessed with finding the twins. Everyone at work understood. Nonetheless, he was eventually put on unpaid leave. On the few occasions when he tried to concentrate on some time-critical problem, he utterly failed.
Fred combed the neighborhood for the third time, hoping to trigger the memory of someone who might have seen Donnie’s wreck of a car and noted which way it had turned. But only one jogger, Alice, had noticed the car. At that point, the car was still going the same direction Fred himself had seen although Alice noticed that the car had no plates. But questioning her for the third time turned up nothing new.
When Fred returned home from a day of canvasing, Geri was gone. Geri’s clothes were gone. On the kitchen table, she had left a short hand-written note:
Horrors! People! No more pooping!! In a single day, a person may destroy 10**11 epithelial cells from the intestines! I’m talking about living human cells! This dwarfs the abortion epidemic by many many orders of magnitude! Just to understand the scope of this crime, remember that there are fewer than 10 billion people on earth. Ten billion is only 10**10th. So every day, you are murdering TEN TIMES the population of the entire earth!
Now, some people will argue that these cells are not really human beings, or that such cells cannot viably exist on their own and that there is a medical benefit to shedding these cells. To which I reply: “So what!!?” Each has the *potential* to become a fully functioning human being!”
From now on, each of these cells must be rescued from your poop. Then, from each cell, the nucleus must be extracted. This nucleus shall then be put into a human egg cell and implanted in a baby incubator device (sometimes jokingly referred to as a “woman”). Wait nine months and *voila!* a new and precious human baby will be born. Best of all, during that time, most rich, old, white, males won’t be the least bit inconvenienced.
I realize that some people will argue that such a procedure would be absurdly expensive and inconvenient. So what?! We cannot allow abortions simply because having a baby might be beyond the economic capabilities of a family or that it would disrupt their lives or reduce their ability to care for their other children or endanger the life of the mother. It certainly doesn’t matter that saving these babies lives would hasten the destruction of the ecosystem all humanity needs in order to survive. Well, it’s the same thing with all those babies-that-could-be in your bowel. Who knows? One of them could be the next Einstein or Saint Teresa.
Please save these unborn babies out of your poop! Don’t let them be wantonly destroyed!! Write your Senators and Representatives today! And whatever you do, stop pooping until the proper procedures and mechanisms can be set up to save all these potential babies! Until then, simply hold it. Of course, it isn’t merely your own poop that you must be concerned with. You must do your part to make sure your neighbors also hold it till we’re ready to save the babies. Needless to say, what applies to your right to control your neighbors bodily functions goes doubly for your own family. So make sure your kids don’t poop either. No-one’s ever too young to avoid becoming a parent.
Oh, and you’ll be happy to know that the Bible agrees with me 100%. Well, not really the Bible, per se, of course, but the Bible as interpreted by a small number of people. You’ll also be happy to know that the US Constitution also agrees with me. Well, not really the Constitution, per se, but what the founders meant by what’s in Constitution as magically divined by the Extreme Court.
By the way, you may want to lay off the grains & greens until everything’s set to make sure we save the babies!
It’s nearly Christmas! Well, not really. But before you know it, Yuletide decorations will be everywhere and it will be well past the optimal time to choose a gift for your favorite ultra-wealthy, tax-avoiding, dead-eyed, sociopath who already has everything.
Never fear! I am here! I have catalogued those items most needed for the very neediest amongst us: the born-rich, old white males who, as we all know (because they tell us constantly) are the most unfairly treated group in all human history. They selflessly spend their own precious time prescribing what others may or may not do in their “private lives” because — let’s face it — women, and POC and Native Americans and immigrants and college kids and Hispanics and did I already mention immigrants? And females and homosexuals and lesbians and vegans and vegetarians and people who believe in science and evolution and math and facts and such can not be trusted to make decisions for themselves! Oh, my no! So, the old white guys are stepping up and stepping in whether they’re wanted or not. They don’t have time left over from this precious work of theirs to find presents for themselves. We have to … I should say, we have the privilege to do it for them. It’s a daunting task, but I have made it much easier for us all!
Each gift chosen from this catalog will be wrapped with one ton of earth-trashing plastic! But mainly it’s the gift itself that will let you know that you did your part to show your appreciation for the tireless efforts of that under-represented under-appreciated segment of our society — the White Old Rich Male Sociopaths — WORMS for short — among us. Their vision is legendary, often extending far beyond their fingernails all the way to their bank accounts. Their courage is so awesome as to require almost no statement. Almost. But just to remind folks of one of a few of their sacrifices, imagine an eleven year old gets raped by her step-father and now she has to agonize about whether to have an abortion or have a baby to take care of. No problem! The WORMS have graciously decided to take that decision completely off the table for her. Whew! Problem solved.
And, that’s not all. What about that troubled teen Todd, a child of one of the WORMS, whose teacher threw him out of the spelling bee in the first round simply for misspelling the word “treason.” Come on! One word and he’s out? What kind of bee is that? He spelled it: E-L-E-C-T-I-O-N. Pretty darned close! Right? E, T, O, and N are in both words! Anyway, free and fair elections are treasonous as everyone knows. Women shouldn’t be allowed to vote unless their owners/husbands can be sure they’ll vote as ordered like Amy Bare-it. And POC? Seriously? Who says they can vote? Anyway, the point is, terrible problems like this are solved all the time by those unspoken heroes, the WORMS. In this case, the WORMS are making sure kids like Todd have access to assault weapons so they can express their frustrations in an appropriate fashion — by honoring the Constitution and its Most Holy Second Amendment. Who but the WORMS are there to make sure that no-one actually reads the Second Amendment because that would confuse ordinary mortals since the Founding Fathers accidentally spelled “individual” as “well-ordered militia.” A typo. Obviously. Duh!
Anyway, no need to keep dwelling on how utterly fantastic and under-appreciated the WORMS are. I’ll just say one more thing and then, I promise to move on to the exciting catalog itself. Did you know that some of the non-WORMS are trying to change your habits so that the earth is viable for future generations? What nonsense, right? Who cares if future generations are flooded, or starved, or can’t get clean drinking water, or thousands of species die or humans are plunged into endless war? Trivial stuff like that can always be solved by the WORMS. But meanwhile, they’re trying to reduce plastic? Plastic? Are they nuts? In the beginning, Ben heard the word! And the word was “Plastics”! ‘Nuff said.
As for the gifts themselves, the first thing to say is that you can rest assured that none of these gifts will be the kind of worthless trinkets that poor people buy with their money — you know — trivialities like clean water, food, clothing, shelter, health care. What fun are necessities? How crude! How rude! No sir! None of these gifts will be consist of necessities. These are gifts that show distinctiveness and fine taste.
(All prices are current estimates based on current Market Conditions. All prices are subject to change without prior notice).
US Representative What better gift for WORMS than having their very own US Representative in their pocket? Representatives come in a variety of special flavors including, but not limited to:
Wacko Conspiracy Theorists! One of our most popular items! Whether it’s Jewish Space Lasers or Ersatz meat from a Peach Tree Jar or Vaccines with Computer Tracking Devices, your WORMS can own a US Representative who will spout ridiculous absurdities to distract everyone from their tireless work destroying US Democracy! Current Market Price: $300,000.
Gun-Toting Incompetents! What better way to help squelch any semblance of stately debate than to have your very own Representative show up with an assault weapon, hand grenades, or even a sawed off shotgun! Is it illegal? Sure it is! That just makes it all the more fun! Can be yours to give for the low, low introductory price of only $6969.
Table Banging Blowhards! What a nice gift this makes for WORMS. Whether it’s a child rapist or merely a former wrestling coach who looks away from sexual predation right under his nose, the Table Banging Blowhard will quickly turn any substantive debate about policy into a shouting match. What a fun way to destroy the world’s oldest continuous democracy! $75,000.
US Senator If there’s one thing WORMS like more than their own “Representative”, it’s having their own Senator! One of the advantages of owning a Senator is that they never have to show their ownership by actually voting on things. They can simply refuse to vote! You remember those movies where a Senator “stands on principle” and yacks it up till everyone loses patience and interest on a topic? Those were the bad old days. In today’s Senate, they don’t actually have to filibuster to filibuster; they just have to say they will.
The Hypocrite’s Hypocrite! Made from moldy bread and manure heaps, yet much resembling an aging turtle, these fine folks can not only speak from both sides of their mouth at the same time; they can do it with mock sincerity! They can explain on Monday why even considering thinking about nominating a Supreme Court justice with a Presidential election only a decade away is against common sense, the spirit of the Constitution, the Legend of Babe Ruth, the rules of propriety, and the bylaws of Kentucky’s largest Chicken! On Tuesday, they will explain why it is crucial to confirm a Supreme Court justice with a Presidential election already on-going! Each Hypocrite’s Hypocrite comes with dead shark eyes and is guaranteed to have undergone a complete bilateral ethicsectomy. Price — a mere $500,000.
The Sick Sycophant! The sick sycophant will periodically make a run for the Presidency! During this time, they will explain, with apparent sincerity, why the would-be dictator they are running against would not be good for America. They will explain that he is a failed businessman, a liar, a crook, a racist, a sexual predator (self-proclaimed) and that he has zero experience relevant to being a President, or even, come to think of it, anything else. But have no fear! Once the incompetent liar becomes Putin’s nominee, The Sick Sycophant (SS for short) will tout the would-be dick-tater as the best thing since sliced stupidity! If the would-be dick-tater lies, the SS will repeat the lie endlessly. If the would-be dick-tater tells people to drink bleach or stick UV light up their butt, the SS will demonstrate. If the would-be dick-tater tries to sell out his own country to become an actual dick-tater, the SS will vote against impeachment. On special today for only $666, 666.
The Kinky Kid Killer! Often referred to as the KKK, the Kinky Kid Killer will tout how we must protect the innocent life of a fertilized egg or even an egg that might be fertilized or the sacred right of a man to fertilize any egg he wants to, and meanwhile, ensure that actual living, breathing, loving kids are killed on a regular basis. He or she will explain how Americans will never be safe in schools, movie theaters, grocery stores, street corners, rock concerts, post offices, or hospitals until every man, woman, and child in America has their own personal arsenal of conventional, atomic, chemical, and biological weapons. While the favorite way for the KKK to kill kids is via shredding caliber automatic weapons, the KKK is quite versatile. They will often support rolling back food safety regulations, safe water regulations, air pollution standards, workplace safety standards and, naturally, oppose free health care, child care, after school care and lowering taxes on the poor. The KKK is one of our top line items at an even $1,000,000 but guess what? You only have to pay one half of the cost! That’s right! If you act now, the Kremlin will funnel the other half of the cost through the NRA! What a bargain! You really can’t afford not to buy one of these Senators for your favorite WORMS.
Extreme Court Justice These items have only been recently added to our catalog! Act now before it’s too late! The US Extreme Court (formerly known as the US Supreme Court) is the final authority on Big Lies and Partisan Bickering. Help the WORMS completely control every aspect of American life from the proper bedroom behavior to health care options to controlling the press and the media.
The Logician Magician The Logician Magician will cry, scream, threaten, frown, and lie on command! He will wave his hands and drink beer. Hey, he likes beer! He will show you that he cannot possibly have sexually assaulted someone because — Look here! Look here! — There’s no entry in his calendar for the alleged sexual assault! Well, if that doesn’t establish his innocence, nothing will. Also, did I mention that he likes beer? Price: $2,000,000.
The Memory Leak The Memory Leak will answer any question you don’t ask and none of the questions you do ask. Nonetheless, he will eventually make you believe that he’s answered your actual question. For example, if asked about allegations about sexual misconduct he is accused of actually doing, he will say, “I would never do anything designed at making a woman uncomfortable!” (Translation: I only bring up the topic of pubic hairs on my can of coke to turn her on and thereby give her pleasure; not to make her uncomfortable). If pressed for more information, he will say he can’t remember. If asked about whether he supports the decision in Roe v. Wade, he will say, “It’s settled law!” (Translation: The right wing has spent tens of millions of dollars getting conservative justices so we wouldn’t overturn it!) If asked whether he debated the issue in law school, he will say, “I don’t think it ever came up.” (Translation: Seriously? I’m not answering that.) “Should I recuse myself as judge simply because my wife is a probably defendant? My wife? I didn’t remember she was my wife.” (Translation: eff yew) Price: $1,500,000.
The Handmaiden The Handmaiden has plausible deniability about everything because she belongs to a cult that believes women should defer to their husbands on all things. Price may seem high on this one, but remember, these are lifetime appointments and she’s barely out of her teens. Price: $3,000,000.
The Witch-Hunter This guy’s still truly PO’d that Sally Jones wouldn’t agree to be his date for the Senior Prom. Instead, she went with Charlie Jenkins just because Charlie was the football team running back and made All-State. If the Witch-Hunter happens to run across a part of the Constitution he doesn’t like such as the Ninth Amendment (also known as the “Democracy for Dummies” Amendment which basically says just because a right isn’t explicitly listed doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist), he will find an earlier precedent from some other source such as Attila the Hun, say, or an English judge who sentenced women to be burned at the stake for being a witch like Sally who should have gone to the Prom with the judge, but instead chose Charlie Jenkins, damn him. He wants women to be property, not to be mean, of course, but because — you know — it’s nature’s way! Men are bigger and stronger and live longer and are much more likely to be rapists and killers so men are obviously superior! Even the Taliban knows that! And so what if men can’t have babies? How fair is that? How can men even know if the baby is really theirs? You have to keep them indoors and locked up. For their own good, of course. WORMS will love this gift, but this particular robot seems a bit damaged so it can be yours to gift for the bargain basement price of $1,750,000.
Join the club! Help buy American Democracy for WORMS!
Remember our motto: “The life you ruin may be your own, but you’ll ruin lots of others as well!”
Remember our second motto: “All sales are final. We are not responsible. For anything. If we were, we wouldn’t be selling the country to the Kremlin.”
The Con-Con Man didn’t think of himself as a “Con-Con Man.” Nor, for that matter, did he even think of himself as a “Con Man.” It was more like this: He thought of himself as the “Only Man.” Or at least, the only one that mattered. The other people who appeared and disappeared out of his tiny circle of consciousness were tools. And what the Con-Con Man enjoyed was conning the people who appeared in that tiny circle so that they didn’t even realize he was using them as tools.
One day, an Educated Man met the Con-Con Man and said, “If only we could help educate more people.” And the Con-Con Man said, “What a wonderful idea! Let’s do it! I will start a University with the sole purpose of educating more people!” Of course, the Con-Con Man did no such thing and instead started a “University” with the sole purpose of stealing other people’s money.
One day, a Compassionate Woman met the Con-Con Man and said, “If only we could help those in need. What’s really sad is when kids get cancer. If only we could help those kids.” And the Con-Con Man said, “What a wonderful idea! Let’s do it!”
The Compassionate Woman said, “Educated Man” says I shouldn’t trust you.”
Con-Con Man looked shocked. “What? Why?! You know why? I’ll tell you why. Educated man is not compassionate! He didn’t really want to help students at all! He just wanted to get jobs for his snooty professor friends. I saw right through him. You, on the other hand are a Compassionate Woman and you and I will make hundreds of lives better! I will start a Charity with the sole purpose of helping kids with cancer!” Of course, the Con-Con Man did no such thing and instead started a “Charity” with the sole purpose of stealing other people’s money.
One day, A Politician met the Con-Con Man and said, “If only we could find the right man, we could win the Presidency for the benefit of the very wealthiest people on the planet!” The Con-Con Man said, “What a wonderful idea! Let’s do it!! I know just the guy. Me.”
“Really?” Replied the Politician. “Your father would be so proud of you. He may have been a great Con Man but you are a Con Man’s Con Man; A Con Man Don. You con as easily as most people breathe. But you must understand one thing, of course. We call the shots. We’re not even vaguely interested in the liberal opinions you’ve spouted over the years. You will toe the line. The policies you put in place will serve to keep us — and you — in power and to keep people as ignorant, ill-fed, fearful, and hate-filled as possible. This obviously makes them easier to control. You think you can do that?”
“Can I do that?” The Con-Con Man laughed. “I can do that better than anyone!”
“Good. There’s just one more thing. You are great at being a Con Man, no doubt about it. But we are good at being politicians. We will be choosing candidates and messaging and so on. You understand. Of course, we’d welcome your input.”
“Naturally,” said The Con-Con Man. “You’re the experts when it comes to politics. No problem! Let me take care of conning people.”
And, the Con-Con Man did con people just as he had promised. And, the Con-Con Man did not leave choosing candidates to “The Oligarchs.”
Of course, the Con-Con Man choose only candidates who would give their power to him. I could say give their power and wealth but that would be redundant. Once he had power over them, their wealth is essentially his already. The only question is how much hassle is worth actually taking physical possession.
And a Fan Man of the Con-Con Man came to see him at his “hacienda” in Mar-A-Lardo. The Fan Man said, “Wouldn’t it be great if everyone thought just like I do and made love just like I do and talked just like I do and believed just what I believe and looks just like I look?” And, the Con-Con Man said, “What a wonderful idea! I shall make it so! And, not only that, you can help make that happen! Write me a check now, but make sure your friends who are just like you send me a check too! You can always back out of the monthly thing later if you really want to — you know — leave the entire country in ruins and run by — you know — them! Those folks who are not at all like you. Those folks hate you and so it’s right that we hate them right back and that we stay in power so they are always in their place!”
And Fan Man said, “I really want to Mr. Con-Con Man. But, you know. I hate to bring it up, but Educated Man said you conned him. And Compassionate Woman said you conned her. And, your wives — well, you conned all of them. So, we just want to make sure you’re not trying to con us as well.”
Mr. Con-Con Man smiled. Well, not really. I mean if you actually know how to read a face — like if you or I had been there, we would have seen that it was not a genuine smile at all. He wasn’t “smiling” as a friend working together on solving a puzzle might smile. He was “grinning” the grin of someone seeing yet another con unfold before him. He was “grinning” the grin of an angler fish who feels the anticipatory joy of some small fish coming toward his “bait” — the anticipatory joy that makes the angler fish’s joy all the sweeter in cutting it short and destroying the life of another.
But Fan Man did not see that it was a fake smile; a smile that said: “I’m am so going to screw you over and so going to enjoy it! And, you are so stupid you deserve it.” Of course, Con-Con Man didn’t say that part out loud. What he said out loud was this:
“Oh, Fan Man, don’t you worry. Educated man? Of course, I conned him! He deserved it! He just wanted to educate people to make them Communists! And, don’t even get me started on Compassionate Woman! You know as well as I do that she’s a fraud and a cheat and would be in jail right now except for corrupt people in places. Of course, I conned her and good riddance. Now, what was your other question? Something about my daughter? She’s hot, right? Everyone wants to. It’s okay. But the point is, you can trust me because I’m not trying to con you. No, you are the very reason I have power. You are the people I most love because just like you, I had to work my butt off for every penny. And now, people want to take things I have rightfully earned. So, we’re the same. I’m not going to con you. No way!! I am going to fight for you every step of the way! I’ll get you jobs! I’ll keep you safe!”
But of course, conning Fan Man was, in many ways, the sweetest con of all. It reminded Con-Con Man of that great time when he had forced himself on a 13-year old. And, then threatened her life and that of her parents if she pursued justice. Wonderful times. But all those adventures with Jeffrey were basically just forcing themselves on one woman at a time! This con allowed him to screw millions! This time, a genuine smile did mushroom onto his face.
One day, Mr. Putin Man came a-calling. He whispered soothing things to Con-Con Man such as: “Oh, Mr. President, I have no idea how you put up with your free press. What pesky little pricks they are, am I right? Yes. Of course, you’re a brilliant man even as you yourself say, so you know I’m right. Sure. You know without me telling you that you’d be much better off if you had no free press. And, I can help you! I have no free press. I can show you how to do it! No problem.”
And: “Oh, Mr. President. Isn’t a little insane how everyone wants to vote in your elections? Wouldn’t it be better for the whole country if a small group of hand-picked sycophants decided whether elections are fair? Then, if any states don’t vote for you, they are overturned! And possibly jailed! Easy as pie.”
And: “Oh, Mr. President. Yes, what an excellent idea to build mutual trust! Here, I’ll hand over our nuclear codes and you hand me yours at the same time. One. Two. Three. Go!”
Mr Con-Con Man wasn’t born yesterday. “Say! How do I know these are your real codes?”
Mr. Putin Man smiled ‘a more convincing than Con-Con’s’ but still insincere smile. “Mr. President, I would never try to con you! You’re too smart for me! You’re too smart for anyone! Of course they’re real! I just hope you never have to find out just how real they are. You know radiation on the scale of an atomic war would get around to everyone, right? So, we never want to start a nuclear war, right?”
Mr Con-Con Man said, “Huh? Sorry, I was thinking about Hillary. I don’t know why I can’t get the Secret Service to … “
Mr. Putin Man said, “Wait. Let me stop you right there. See, relying on Secret Service is a big mistake. You need your own security force of people you own. As the old Russian saying goes, ‘If you break a lot of dishes, expect to be cut more than once.’ Doesn’t really translate well. Here’s another: “A banker and his guard dog don’t agree on cuisine.” Get it? Never mind. Just take my word for it.
“Okay, Mr. Putin. But how can I be sure you’re not conning me?”
“Me try to con you? Hah! I may not be smart enough to con you, but I’m smart enough to know I can’t con you. Haha. Of course I’m not trying to con you! Why would I? What possible — I’ll tell you what. If I make the incredibly stupid move of trying to con you, I’ll let you know. Okay? So as long as I don’t tell you I’m conning you, you’re actually quite safe.”
Still no genuine smile but Putin Man tried. You have to give him credit for that.
And load of credit for not completely breaking down in hysterical laughter at the irony. Instead, he managed to keep a completely straight face all the way back to his hotel Suite where he spent hours doing vodka shots, laughing hysterically, and posing for himself in front of the mirror before calling a couple special “Ladies of the Night.” A gift of sorts, they showed up at Con-Con Man’s door around 10. “We’re from Vlad! We hope you’re glad!” they sang in unison.
Con-Con Man thought, God, it’s fun to be the smartest man on the planet.
petersironwood 