LipStick It Couture Du Jour

Because Extraordinary Times Require Extraordinary Adornment

 

By Tracy Rose Stamper

Welcome to RevlOff’s Lip Couture Counter, where science blends with art, topped off with attitude, to bring you colors to carry you through dizzying days.

Our makeup counter’s mission is to challenge the slippery slope into post-truth society. By offering an honest line of honest products, we aim to create an oasis in this world gone off its axis. Like you, we wouldn’t have made it this far without attitude, an ingredient as important as science and art. Sometimes, attitude shows up as color play therapy. Other times, admittedly, we’re throwing shade. Because today’s many shades of fustercluck require many shades of lip armor.

With science under attack, we begin with  highlighting our Scintillating Lip Science Line. Our distinct shades—Moderna Woman, Pfizer Fly, J&J Vim&Vigor Violet, and Fully Vixenated—are recognizable, helping take the guesswork out of navigating this partially vaccinated world. Thirty-nine percent of proceeds from this line go towards public health education.

Our Levity Line is curated for comic relief: Frosted Snowflake, Commie Bastard Berry, Cashmere Coastal Elite Crème, Scintillating Socialist, Luscious Lefty Lavendar Lustre, Flaming Liberal Lilac, Bleeding Heart Burgundy, and Radical Rosé. You will be called all the above. May as well dress it up!

Our LipStick It line’s Pop Off Pink, Ragin’ Red, and Apoplectic Purple coordinate well with feeling feisty. Piehole Plum works wonders when venturing places where you’ll wish to tell folks to shut it. Warm, inviting Pumpkin Smasher Spice is popular on Wednesdays when we smash the patriarchy. Another smashing shade is Vagalante Lavender. (We’ve been asked if that’s a typo. No, it’s not.) Our newest addition, Pro-Roe, is a bold blood red. Enough said.

Lip Armor Liquid Courage Collection comes to the rescue with extra oomph! Impressive science merges a lip stain offering 8-hour staying power with a satiny liquid look. These blends have you covered across the board, from situations where it’s best to just walk away, to those times when you’ll have to say something to maintain any semblance of self-respect. Talk for 8 hours straight ‘til you’re blue in the face, with lips remaining radiant, although we don’t recommend wasting breath trying to change minds committed to closure. Red&White&True, Pink Patriot, and Coral Compass encourage standing for what is real and right. Think insurrectionist thugs eager to decapitate politicians, thus threatening our democracy’s very survival. Consider this collection your armor against gaslighting claims that what you saw didn’t happen.

Lip Armor Liquid Courage Collection mainstays are Crimson Courage and Seeing Red. These trying days require courage. Liberty Lover Lapis invites speaking the truth, because asserting individual liberties can sometimes adversely affect the collective, and empathy always matters. True Blue is for those of us who have earnestly spent six plus years trying to understand hearts of loved ones living in an entirely different world, despite residing mere miles away. Googling “cognitive dissonance” is your clue that this one’s for you. Striking shades draw foci to lips, away from puffy eyes. We’ve all had moments of dissolving into tears, leaving us looking as weary as we feel.

On Second Thought All-Out Orange is our collaboration with the common sense gun safety movement. With a nod to the Second Amendment and law-abiding citizens’ rights to own guns, this also represents the rights of our children to simply survive an America riddled with epidemic gun violence. Deep orange emboldens the user to take on stale assertions that “the government’s coming to take away your guns.”

Our Glow-Getter Glam Line celebrates bright spots with shimmering finishes. We have Yes We Candied Plum, Georgia Peach, Blunami, and V(I)P Pearlescent, in honor of our first POC and woman VP. We wish to expand this line in years to come.

Our True Colors Collection reflects the revealing of folks’ true colors. Spiraling up each tube are the words: “We’re only going to get browner and queerer and witchier and louder and stronger and prouder (author unknown).” Top-selling Browner is a rich maroon that beautifully celebrates the browning skin tone of our country’s trajectory. Black Sheep comes with a gift enclosure that reads: “For the black sheep of families dangerously close to falling off the edge of their flat earth if they lean the tiniest bit further right.” Pussy Hat Pink is quite popular. Pride gloss features rainbow sparkles. #RubySlipperRed represents the dreams of a compassionate homeland that lives up to its ideals of democracy, equity, and unity for all.

Finally, for the end of those days that last for months, we have our Lip Therapy Line. Designed as therapeutic balms to soothe and restore lips overnight, many customers reach for these around the clock. One of our regulars dubs our therapeutics as the “Homebody Cluster, since it feels less lonely given today’s isolating climate.

Whether staying home or venturing out into these most curious times, RevlOff has you covered. Though this concludes our makeup bar tour, it is just the beginning of the important work we will do, alongside customers like you, doing right by the world.

To thank you for being part of a bright future, our complimentary gift is a tube of bRight Side of History. Apply liberally.”

 


Tracy Rose Stamper dances with words. Her recently acquired middle name is the most significant word she has written lately during these days asking us to rise. She lives in a home on a hill in St. Louis with two beloved humans, two rescue beagle boys, and two whimsical wind sculptures. She is a contributing author of Anna Linder’s ‘The Book of Emotions,’ and has had work appear in New Feathers Anthology, Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality & the Arts, Dime Show Review, Drunk Monkeys, and borrowed solace, among others. You can find her dancing with words at Facebook.


Photo credit: he who would be lost via a Creative Commons license.


A note from Writers Resist

Thank you for reading! If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.


 

Deputized

By Holly A. Stovall

 

Congratulations! You are Deputized!

Abortion after 6 weeks is illegal in Texas.

Help enforce the law by reporting an illegal abortion in the anonymous form below!


How do you think the law has been violated?

I’ve had three spontaneous abortions (that’s doctor lingo for miscarriages) in three years, each at 8 or 9 weeks, and that’s illegal. I know this sounds CRA-A-A-AZY, but my Yankee cousin in Chicago says that multinational fossil fuel corporations are poisoning my babies in my womb, and this is causing my babies to self-abort (that’s practically suicide)! I don’t want to sound like I’m not a good, patriotic Republican or anything, but why can’t I stay pregnant? These companies must be arrested under this great new abortion ban, and then you can make them pay for the cleanup of the chemicals they leave in the air and then maybe my babies will want to live. (Not only that, my family and friends got bad cancer. My aunt died. Everybody knows someone who died of cancer.) Here in Texas, we believe in pro-life through and through. I know you agree.

How did you obtain this evidence?

I found blood and red sinewy stuff on my panties. And then I read a report from some OSHA website (I think they meant to write “OCEAN,” because it’s probably some society that doesn’t want chemicals in the ocean) and the Mayo Clinic (that Yankee hospital), that everyday chemicals the multinational corporations put out there are causing my uterine babies to abort themselves. I know. Cra-a-a-azy, right? Except that I’m desperate for one of my womb babies to live. I’ll try anything, even reporting them for suicide so maybe you can do something to stop them.

Clinic or Doctor this evidence relates to:

Clinics of Hydrocarbon Gasses. Clinics of Mining, Quarrying, & Oil & Gas Extraction.

I’d add, in addition, The Clinics of Plastic Water Bottles, The Food Packaging Clinic, The Fossil Fuel Clinic, the Paper Mill Clinic, the Toxic Dyes Clinic, and the Off-Gassing Mattress Clinic. Clinic of White Male Lawmakers.

Don’t mess with Texas.

City Crowell
State Texas
Zip 79227
County Foard

 


I’m an MFA student at Northwestern University. This spring, I published my first short story in Litbreak Magazine. I’ve published essays, literary histories and criticism, and scholarly research in various news outlets, scholarly journals, and blogs, including Letras Hispanas, Peace and Change, In These Times, and Inside Higher Ed’s “University of Venus Blog.” I hold a PhD in Spanish literature and an MA in Women’s History. I was a tenured professor of Women’s and Gender Studies at Western Illinois University until WIU eliminated my department and my position with it. I went to high school in East Texas, where my mom’s family is from. Now I live in Macomb, Illinois, with my spouse, son, and poodle.

Photo credit: Deputy Enforcement Officer Blanche Rogers, 1913, Dewey, Oklahoma, from the U.S. Library of Congress, restored by sixpounder and used via a Creative Commons license.


Note from Writers Resist: If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.

2020 Summer Olympics: Tokyo Games Medal Count

By Tara Campbell

Table reflecting those harmed b y the 2020 Summer Olympics and the lack of recognition they recieved in the form of medals—none for any of them.

* as of July 13
** as of September 8

 


Tara Campbell is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse. She received her MFA from American University. In addition to Writers Resist, previous publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Wigleaf, Jellyfish Review, Booth, Strange Horizons, and CRAFT Literary. She’s the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and four collections: Circe’s Bicycle, Midnight at the Organporium, Political AF: A Rage Collection, and Cabinet of Wrath: A Doll Collection. Connect with her at www.taracampbell.com or on Twitter: @TaraCampbellCom or IG: @thetreevolution.

Photo by Sam Balye on Unsplash.

Note from Writers Resist: If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.

Nobody Likes Spock

By Sarah Colón

 

Spock scrolls through his Facebook feed in the early hours of the morning. He hasn’t been sleeping well, and the blue light from his phone shining upward reveals dark circles around his eyes.

Today, someone is posting a long description of the origins of the virus. “PROOF that it was created by Chinese Communist conspiracists who want to take down our government,” it says: “The virus has been present in a LAB previously to it ever getting out in the public. It originated in CHINA. A certain wealthy philanthropist stands to gain a lot of money by inventing a vaccine. FOLLOW THE MONEY, PEOPLE.”

Spock springs into action, posting helpful comments. “Perhaps you should look up the word proof in a suitable dictionary. Your use of the word in this context shows you have gravely misunderstood its meaning. Your post does not include sources or footnotes, but I can say with certainty that this particular virus was only ‘present in a lab’ in fecal samples of bat guano. The philanthropist you mention is actually projected to lose billions of dollars on vaccine research. Hope this helps.” He includes links to relevant scholarly articles.

His comment gets one like and five angry faces, followed by several comments calling him a communist, an elitist. He scratches his left ear. He’s not as vulnerable to this stuff as most people, but the human half of him still feels hurt. He writes a post on his own wall about fact checking.

One of his Facebook friends PMs him. “What was that post about?” she asks aggressively.

“Fact checking,” he replies.

“Yeah, but in response to what?” she asks.

He sees what she is driving at. She wants to know his political stance on the subject. “In response to statements that were not fact-checked,” he clarifies, helpfully.

She unfriends and blocks him.

Today, the leader of the country tweets he has the virus. Spock reads another post by a documentary maker that says it’s probably a lie; this particular leader lies all the time, so the most likely truth is that he is lying to gain traction in the upcoming election. Spock corrects him that this is the least likely of possible scenarios, considering the number of additional people—staffers, housekeepers, and medical professionals—who would have to be involved in the lie.

His comment is ignored, so he posts it on his own wall.

“Dude, whose side are you on?”

“Defending the liar, huh? WOW this is beneath even your low standards.”

“COMMUNIST FASCIST!!”

“Clearly I cannot be both a communist and a fascist,” Spock replies, “the two ideologies being in polar opposition.”

“Then what, exactly, is your position?” another lady comments.

Spock does a facepalm. He knows he is sometimes too slow to read the hidden messages and nonverbal cues in language and social situations, but he realizes he should have understood this sooner. People want to know which side he is on. He quickly composes a post to remedy this. He types it in all caps, as he has seen others do when they want to be especially assertive or clear.

“I AM ON THE SIDE OF THE FACTS.”

“Which facts?”

“All of them.”

“Okay, but what about when the facts contradict each other?”

“Your language is misleading. If two pieces of information contradict each other, at least one of them must be false. False information is, by definition, not fact. Therefore, it is impossible for two facts to contradict each other. In the scenario you suggest, there exists either one or zero facts. If there is one fact, I would be in agreement with the one fact, or, if there are zero facts, I would be in agreement with neither of them, instead taking the side of the omitted, but still extant, fact.”

“DUDE.”

“Way to avoid answering the question.”

“This guy is a coward.”

“WHICH CANDIDATE DO YOU SUPPORT?”

Several memes pop up next: a picture of a dog licking its own eyeball captioned “Durrrrrr,” a GIF of Charlie Chaplain goose-stepping in parody of Hitler, and another of a well-dressed black woman spitting the contents of a wine glass straight at the camera.

Spock is unsure what to make of these, but he has learned from a great deal of time spent with humans that, when involved in confusing social situations, mimicking the behavior of those around him is usually the answer. He posts a GIF of Ace Ventura wearing a pink leotard and tutu, running with a football.

“WTF?” someone asks.

“Is there some hidden meaning here? What are you trying to get at?”

Spock knows the answer to this one, having discussed it thoroughly with a coworker. “This image is a well-known reference to a popular movie from the 1990s about a pet detective who uses unorthodox research methods and has a particular competence with adjusting the muscles of his face. It is humorous because in the 90s this outfit was considered feminine, subverting the expectation of male/female costumes, accompanied by the comedic tactic of adjusting facial muscles into unnatural positions.”

Spock is pleased with himself. It took him years of research to understand humor and jokes, but now he feels he has a grasp on it. He even knows that there is a specific unnatural adjustment of facial muscles that is not included in the category of comedy that includes severely downturned mouth corners accompanied by flexion of the neck ligaments, strong tension between the eyebrows, and short, choking sounds. This particular expression is sometimes called an “ugly cry” and is not intended to be funny. The expected reaction to the ugly cry is to pat the person on the back and say there twice, followed by it’s not so bad. This is one situation where lying is acceptable, because humans with their neck ligaments tightly flexed are temporarily in a state of reduced intellectual capacity, so lying to them that it’s not bad helps relieve the neck tension and return them to their usual, albeit low, level of mental acuity.

He considers writing a post analyzing Ace Ventura’s facial arrangement in comparison to the ugly cry, but decides against it. Most humans have an uncanny ability to know what facial expressions signify without explanation or analysis.

Someone says he has Asperger’s. He thanks them, having met several autistic persons who have high levels of logic for a human, but adds that it’s unfair to compare him to even this best type of human, his abilities being so markedly different from theirs.

Someone calls him a troll. Someone else accuses him of making fun of autistic persons. He assures both of them that he lacks the cruel impulses to engage in either activity, cruelty being motivated entirely by emotion.

This inspires him to compose another long post about the baser emotions, like terror, rage, and hatred, and compare those responses with the logical, thereby drawing the conclusion that they are all the product of illogic. Terror, rage, and hatred, he posits, are the emotions of idiocy. This is not a condemnation, he explains. Humans, who evolved without discarding their lizard brains, are always going to be susceptible to this part of themselves when faced with something they don’t understand. The remedy, however, is to know that this is happening and then seek to learn more about it, thereby circumventing the emotional response and re-wiring it into the logical portion of their brains.

He has solved both stupidity and negative emotions in one fell swoop. Feeling as though he has just unlocked the secret, hidden meaning of human existence, the answer to all philosophical questions and difficulties, he sits back and waits for the likes to come pouring in.

 


Sarah Colón is a poet, fiction writer, and educator from the American West who spent her childhood in Montana as a second-generation member of a religious cult preparing for impending nuclear disaster. She currently teaches high school and lives with her partner and their blended family of six children in Largo, Florida. Previous publications include The Examined Life,  Just Words Fallacy, Madness Muse Press and Flash Fiction, and work is forthcoming in The Account, Swamp Ape Review, and 32 Poems.

Boilermaker

By Kari Gunter-Seymour

 

In January Australia caught on fire. Was that fire put out?
Who knows because America decided to play Russian roulette with Iran, then
Prince Harry & Megan flipped off the Royal Family shortly before 45’s
impeachment debacle, John Bolton trading his testimony for a book deal
& just as Corona Virus began to whisper its ugly name the U.K. stepped out
of the European Union. Somehow, in spite of himself & his sleezy
law team, Harvey Weinstein was found guilty & wonks & dweebs
started asking if Corona  beer was safe to drink & everyone on Facebook
became a flu expert or zealot.

In a shocking Hail Mary before Super Tuesday,
Buttigieg & Klobuchar decided to pass, then Warren accepted the inevitable
& Sanders did a jig, but the flip-flopper poles gave Bernie no choice
but to leave it to Biden, fence-straddling in his basement,
Viva la Revolución! via Zoom. Italy shut its whole self down & pandemic
became a scary word but not a motivator until the DOW took a dump
& then even the wealthy were washing their hands. NYC became Zombieland
just as it dawned on us there were no face masks, ventilators, or toilet paper,
then the Pentagon released videos of UFOs & has anyone seen Kim Jong-Un?

With predictions of murder hornets & millions of deaths,
we locked down & model citizens rebelled, middle fingers at full salute,
plus camo & AR-15s.  Sports events were cancelled & Koby Bryant flew
forever into the mountains & one sleepy, dusty, Minneapolis afternoon
a police officer kneeled a man to death, smug as any school yard bully,
yes, I said it & the new word was protest, all colors marching incognito
behind totally hip masks & the president made arrangements to gas
a peaceful gathering for a photo op.

Somewhere in the ruckus, a giant asteroid
narrowly missed earth & a troop of monkeys in India snatched Corona Virus
blood samples as if they were Bertie Botts Every Flavor Bean Candy & what
the hell with the trans hate J.K. Rowling? Suddenly not wearing masks
&/or protecting certain statues became a God-given right to the same clan
who think Gone With the Wind is fiction.

Meanwhile, the Congo’s worst-ever Ebola outbreak is over & I
personally am like, There was an Ebola outbreak? & a strange radio signal
is being broadcast from somewhere in the universe & I’m almost certain
James T. Kirk or Mr. Spock already took care of this back in December 1979.
To prove a point & wrack up points with the Prez, Florida was like, Hold my beer,
opened beaches & bars, made it all the way to number one on the virus hot spot map
& that self-same Prez picks the middle of a pandemic to urge the Supreme Court
to strike down Obama Care.

It’s only July & if this is not enough for you rough & rowdies,
a massive dust cloud came straight at us from the Sahara & Iran just issued an arrest
warrant for “Mr. Trump” & do you know, people in America can actually buy beer
that is purposely mixed with fruit-flavored seltzer? I will warn you straight up,
if you drop a shot glass full of whiskey into one of those carbonated beasts, you better
be ready for more than a boil-up.

 


Kari Gunter-Seymour’s current collection is titled A Place So Deep Inside America It Can’t Be Seen (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions 2020). Her poems appear in numerous journals and publications including Rattle, Crab Orchard Review, StillThe LA Times and on her website at www.karigunterseymourpoet.com. She is the founder and executive director of the Women of Appalachia Project, at www.womenofappalachia.com, and editor of the project’s anthology series, Women Speak, volumes 1-5. She is a retired instructor in the E.W. Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio University, the 2020 Ohio Poet of the Year, and Poet Laureate of Ohio.

Photo credit: Copyright © 2020 K-B Gressitt.

Monarchy

By Matthew Nelson Hendryx

The warrant for my informant’s arrest meant meeting in a public place where we could keep track of anyone approaching. We settled for the revamped carousel on the National Mall. He could watch in all directions as we rotated. I, freelance reporter Stacy Prickelton, was meeting with a prominent member of the Operation Zap opposition, who suggested I refer to him as “Crazy Cake,” to protect his identity.

He arrived carrying a Bugs Bunny mask. “A good disguise for a children’s area, don’t you think?” he said.

“I don’t think the mask is necessary.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“We’re safe,” I said, not interested in debating the pros and cons of a bunny mask.

The informant was in his early forties, dumpy build, and wide-eyed as a Jack-a-lantern, but he looked scared instead of scary. With my notepad resting on the top of a horse’s head next to his camel, we quickly got used to the fact that he was up when I was down.

“Start the story from the beginning,” I said. “Don’t worry about repeating common knowledge. It’s important for me to hear it all in your words.”

“It started,” he said, “with President Rump’s press conference, the same day the New York Times exposé came out about bug zappers installed on Rump’s Wall. When asked about the Times piece, the president said, ‘I’m taking action to stop the largest wave of undocumented Mexicans of any president.’”

Crazy Cake paused to look around. “At the time, no one knew what he was talking about. Then came the ‘Eleven O’clock Tweet’: ‘The Oyamel forest should be bombed.’ It puzzled everyone. Finally, Jan Gather realized the Oyamel forest is in Mexico, where monarch butterflies stay each winter. Then they fly north, across the border, in the tens of thousands, possibly millions.”

“So, butterflies created a policy problem?”

“An inside source, called ‘Tuning Fork,’ leaked the White House position. None of the monarchs applied for visas and they constituted the majority of undocumented immigrants coming into this country. To stop them required Operation ZAP—Zap All Pests.”

“What do you know about Tuning Fork?”

“The Post knows the details,” Crazy Cake said, “but the scuttlebutt is she’s young and attractive and fed up with his groping. Wants revenge.”

“And your take on the Posse Comatosis?”

“It’s one of those sleeper militias. No surprise they issued a statement that it was about time a president took a stand against wet-back butterflies. But Press Secretary XXIV calling them a reputable organization shocked a lot of people.” Crazy Cake paused for the carousel to do one rotation as he peered across the mall before continuing “That’s when the U.S. Butterfly Society—actually the Lepidopterists Society—pointed out that in the Monarch’s life cycle exactly three generations are born in the U.S. Each Fall the third returns to Mexico. Those three generations are U.S. citizens. Zappers would be killing American citizens returning to Mexico.”

“The Secretary of the Interior sounded befuddled when he announced the On-in-Spring-and-Off-in-Fall policy. What was that about?”

“According to Tuning Fork the Secretary believed the policy was for safe passage of all children of exiled Kings and Queens living in the U.S.”

The merry-go-round stopped, and I went over to give the attendant another couple of tickets.  When I returned, I said, “Give me more background on this visa thing.”

“Monarch butterflies, if they were citizens, were to acquire and carry visas.  All monarchs would be stopped, and those without documentation would be treated as illegal immigrants and deported immediately, without appeal. A sub-committee of the Lepidopterists Society formed the Committee Opposed to Monarch Eviction.”

“They didn’t know that people would abbreviate it to COME?”

“It was intentional—‘COME’ as in ‘welcome.’ COME pointed out the documents were beyond the lifting capacity of any butterfly. The administration countered that monarchs could purchase small drones to perform the task.”

Crazy Cake studied someone in the distance, then his face relaxed. “That’s when I joined COME, just as they filed for an injunction in the Minnesota District Court—their state insect is the monarch. The court issued an injunction against ‘stop and detain’ measures, but the rest of Operation ZAP was allowed to proceed. In other words, the bug zappers would stay in place.”

“Tell me about February thirteenth.”

“The administration announced the success of Operation ZAP. All the zappers were up and running. On the 14th, COME wanted to bring a massive number of monarchs across the border. That’s why the announcement, ‘Valentine’s Day Massacres ZAP.’ The San Antonio Express reported numerous sightings of monarch butterflies and included a photo of one sunning itself on a statue of Sam Houston. The monarchs had obviously found another way across the border.”

“The administration didn’t comment?”

“No. Tuning Fork said they knew it would be a public relations nightmare if the multi-billion-dollar wall failed to prevent the largest wave of immigrants.”

“Do you have any proof that COME was responsible for the smuggling?”

When his camel was in the down position, he grabbed his satchel. Fumbling around in it, a granola bar and a pair of soaks fell out. He was a man on the run. Ignoring the spilled items, he extracted three crumpled pages.

“Here’s a transcript.”  He handed it over.  “You can read it.”

Crazy Cake: Do you know how we’re bringing the monarchs in?

Secretary: Oh, yes. I’m good friends with Mary [Fuddleston]. COME needed a container that had air holes and was big enough for butterflies. Just after we elected Mary for president, she came up with the idea while helping her daughter, Frizzy. Frizzy was in tears because her Suzuki violin teachers said she played “Twinkle Little Star” out of tune. Anyway, Mary realized Suzuki violins would provide the perfect solution. Did you know violins are made with a glue that breaks easily to allow repairs?

Crazy Cake: No.

Secretary: I didn’t either. But it meant taking the back off and putting it back on was easy. Mary experimented with five volunteer monarchs and found the ‘f’ holes allowed sufficient oxygen for the butterflies to remain comfortable. We diverted all Suzuki violins coming from Japan headed for the U.S. to first go to Mexico. The operation started on Valentine’s Day.

Crazy Cake: Didn’t Immigration become suspicious with hundreds of violins coming across the border?

Secretary: It was thousands. They didn’t bother to look inside because each violin had a different shipping address. We pulled it off by having supporters across the country start Suzuki classes. Every time Customs checked to see if the sale was legit, they found a kid’s parents had actually purchased it. The kids loved the fact they were supporting the cause.

The carousel made one of its periodic stops, and five children with birthday hats got on.

Crazy Cake pointed at the kids and whispered, “Spies.”

“Not likely,” I said, “although they might be Suzuki violinists.”

“Then they should be careful.” He gave them a final check and returned to me.

“So how did the administration learn of the smuggling operation?”

“Rump ordered the FBI to investigate. We spotted the agents too late to cover out tracks.”

Crazy Cake scrutinized the Mall as we revolved, his right hand in a nervous quiver. “It was mid-March when Rump surprised everyone with his executive order making owning a violin illegal. All violins were to be turned in at the nearest police station. People found owning a violin after April 1 would be arrested. Most people thought the president was pulling an April Fool’s joke, but given his tweets, it became clear he wasn’t. The FBI acquired warrants for suspected violin owners—orchestra violinists and violin teachers. There was confusion whether the order covered violas, cellos, and basses, but Rump amended the order to include all stringed instruments. Then amended it again to exclude pianos and harps.”

“What was COME’s response?”

“We organized the parade of Suzuki violinists marching up and down the Mall and around the White House playing ‘Twinkle Little Star.’”

The carousel stopped, and I was out of tickets, but the attendant indicated we could stay on. “COME was responsible for the march?” I asked.

“Definitely. I was in a meeting with Mary Fuddleston in the final planning stage.”

“You’re willing to go on the record as a source?”

He hesitated. “Yes, but you can’t use my name until I’m out of the country.”

“Go on.”

“COME thought they had the administration cornered. How do you oppose fourth graders? What a mistake on our part. The Washington D.C. police arrested over one thousand of the violinists until the jails were full. The AP released photos of the police cuffing fourth-graders and smashing their violins. President Rump brushed it off with a tweet: ‘Liberal parents are cowards making their kids break the law.’ We sought support from other organizations around the country. Numerous groups started petitions against ZAP—even the AFL-CIO, which argued there was not one instance of an American worker being replaced by a butterfly. Within a day of Rump’s executive order, members of the House raised objections that the president’s actions were the equivalent of legislating laws, and therefore under the purview of Congress alone. The president tweeted ‘Fuck Congress. See if I care.’ Everything sped up then. The House and the Senate introduced bills to eliminate the ZAP policy. Opposition was limited to the members of the RARE caucus.”

“The Rump is Always Right on Everything caucus?”

“Yes. Despite the caucus, the Speaker and the Senate Majority Leader guaranteed passage before dinner. Rump vetoed that evening, and the next morning, the vote to override passed.”

“Then the courts got involved?”

“Not yet. It was the infamous Black Wednesday tweet: ‘They can’t make me stop ZAP.’ The Congressional leadership asked the Supreme Court to address the constitutional breach without going through the appeals process. The Court didn’t want to do it, but COME found evidence that some justices had recently engaged in sexual harassment. We went to the Chief Justice and said, ‘Hear the case or we release the evidence.’ We never expected the 9-0 decision against the President. At that point everyone thought ZAP was dead.”

“That’s when Rump said he’d ignore the court?”

“Yes. And the Supreme Court ordered the U.S. Marshals to use the bug zappers for target practice.”

“The TV coverage was brilliant.”

“No one in COME or Congress or anywhere else expected President Rump would call up the Posse Comatosis to defend his policy against U.S. Marshals.”

“When did COME members know they needed to go underground?”

“It was the tweet, ‘COME members are terrorists.’ We issued a general warning to the membership. Then the FBI arrested the first dozen or so members and any children violinists, including Mary and Frizzy, and sent them to the detention center on Guam. The administration won’t say how many. Nearly all COME members decided to disappear. I’ve been on the run ever since, but they’re closing in on me.”

At that moment, the carousel tune went ‘Pop! goes the weasel,’ and I saw someone looking our way through a pair of binoculars, from the other side of the mall. “We need to leave,” I said. “Put on your Bugs Bunny mask.”


Matthew Nelson Hendryx writes short stories, novels and poetry. He studied at Indiana University, London School of Economics, and the University of Wisconsin. Currently, he is focusing on short stories, but plans to dive into redrafting his first novel. Although he is a resident of Fort Wayne, Indiana, he spends a couple of months a year in New York City. His best writing occurs when one of his four cats is in his lap.

Photo credit: Catseye Pest. Really.

Permission to Procure Birth Control: U.S. Government Form BC-451

By Tara Campbell

 


U.S. Government Form BC-451: Permission to Procure Birth Control

In accordance with the Maternal Priority Act of 2020, any and all requests for contraception must be approved by the U.S. Department of Health and Fetal Services. To that end, please complete the following questionnaire:

Name of Infernal Harlot (Last, First): _________________________________________

Citizenship status

  1. U.S. Citizen
  2. Naturalized U.S. Citizen*
  3. Dual Citizen*
  4. Permanent Resident*
  5. Spanish-speaker*
  6. Olive-skinned*
  7. Otherwise suspicious*

* This is the incorrect form for your use. Please submit Form 4827: Voluntary Forfeiture of Citizenship Status and Form 3453: Requisition for Repatriation to Country of Ancestral Origin.

Race/Ethnicity

  1. Caucasian or White
  2. African American or Black*
  3. Asian*
  4. Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander*
  5. American Indian or Alaska Native*
  6. More than one*

* This is the incorrect form for your use. Please submit Form 3453 Requisition for Repatriation to Country of Ancestral Origin. Alternatively, submit Form 3423, Requisition for Federally-Funded Sterilization.

I, Infernal Harlot (First name, Last name) ___________________________________________, am requesting permission to procure birth control for the following reason(s); check all that apply:

  1. __ I choose not to have children at this time.
    Please report for six-month Re-Acculturation Training for self and husband. Be advised, failure to do so will result in a filing with your state’s attorney general.
  2. __ My family cannot afford to have additional children at this time.
    Please be advised that per the Find A Way Act of 2020, the right of the child to be conceived supersedes any and all other potential concerns, such as present ability to feed, clothe, house, or protect current or future children. Potential parents are legally bound to procure such means should conception occur, and as such, all petitions for birth control lodged upon this basis will be rejected.
  3. __ Bearing a child will disrupt completion of school/my ability to work.
    Per the 2021 Patriot Mother Act, an approved and notarized Form 1426b: Justification for Continuance of Educational/Professional activities must be attached. Please note that applications filed under this justification will be investigated and may result in termination/expulsion from your educational program.
  4. __ Health risks associated with pregnancy.
    Per the 2022 Valiant Vessel Act, you must attach a statement from your pastor attesting that the benefit to the world of any potential child that might have been conceived was considered coequally with the value of its mother’s survival. Please note, physicians’ statements are no longer considered valid.
  5. __ I’m too young to have children.
    Please consult the 2023 Budding Young Future Act, which revised age of consent with parental or assaulter’s permission, and harmonized it with appropriate childbearing age on a national level.
  6. __ To regulate my periods.
    Attach a statement from your husband along with form HOLI-1: Certification of Training: Understanding God’s Plan for You. Please note, physicians’ statements are no longer considered valid.
  7. __ Treatment for ovarian cysts, endometriosis, or other health conditions unrelated to pregnancy prevention.
    Attach statements from your husband and your pastor, along with form HOLI-1: Certification of Training: Understanding God’s Plan for You. Please note, physicians’ statements are no longer considered valid.
  8. __ Risk of sexual assault.
    Attach proof of address; most recent crime report from your precinct, certified by a reliable male law enforcement official; notarized letters from any potential assailants granting you their permission to not bear their children; and form HOLI-1: Certification of Training: Understanding God’s Plan for You.
  9. __ I am dating a married CEO or Member of Congress.
    Attach copy of text messages and current mailing address for immediate shipment of contraceptives.

IMPORTANT NOTE: All petitions based on reasons 1 through 8 will be rejected per the Fetal Host Act of 2024.

________________________________________________________________________
Name and Social Security Number of Infernal Harlot (print)

________________________________________________    ______________________
Signature of responsible party                           Date

________________________________________________
Relationship to Infernal Harlot (Husband/Father/GOP Elected Representative)

By signing this form, you acknowledge that you have given your wife/daughter/mistress permission to procure birth control, which may render your household subject to additional surveillance. Please be advised that per the Purity of Penetration Act of 2020, all carnal activity, including that between husband and wife, but with the exception noted in point 9 above, is purely for purposes of procreation. Anyone who knowingly commits fornication (sexual contact for purposes other than procreation, with the exception of point 9 above) may be subject to prosecution under federal law, potentially resulting in fines and/or jail time, and forfeiture of present and/or future rights to erectile dysfunction therapy.


 

Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and Strange Horizons. She’s the author of a novel, TreeVolution, a hybrid fiction/poetry collection; Circe’s Bicycle, and a short story collection, Midnight at the Organporium. She received her MFA from American University in 2019.

Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash.

Want Fries With That?

By Jon Wesick

 

The smell of reused, vegetable oil made Uncle Sam’s mouth water as he examined the backlit menu above the brushed-steel counter. When the cashier in the multicolored baseball cap motioned, Uncle Sam stepped forward.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries, and root beer.”

“That’ll be $6.25.”

The harsh overhead lights exposed the acne the cashier had tried to cover with over-the-counter zit cream.

Uncle Sam reached into his striped trousers, found his wallet empty, and whispered, “May I see your manager?”

The assistant manager approached the customer in the star-spangled suit, fingering his sparse mustache, something he did when annoyed. He needed to shut this down quickly so he could return to his office and complete his algebra homework.

“Help you?”

“Listen, that $3 trillion war to eliminate those nonexistent nukes left me a little short, so,” Uncle Sam removed a yellowed parchment from his lapel pocket and unfolded it, its handwritten words flaking from the surface and falling to the linoleum floor, “so, how about I trade you for this?”

The assistant manager squinted at the document. Even a first-year, community-college student knew you don’t spell Congress with fs.

“It’s the last copy of the Bill of Rights,” Uncle Sam said. “Freedom of speech and religion, your right to protest and to a fair trial—I’ll give up all of that for just one of your tasty burgers. Hell, I’ll even throw in a woman’s right to control her own body. I sure do love those burgers—the juicy meat, golden cheese, and tart pickle!”

The assistant manager told the cashier to give Uncle Sam what he wanted and slipped the Bill of Rights into a FedEx envelope addressed to corporate. They’d surely reward him by taking him on full-time or maybe even promoting him to manager.

Uncle Sam carried his meal to a fiberglass table. In his eyes, the rights that soldiers died protecting were not even worth lobster or steak Delmonico but only a gray hockey-puck of previously frozen meat topped with processed cheese, “secret sauce,” and wilted lettuce, all on a stale bun.

When the assistant manager heard the last slug of soda burble through Uncle Sam’s straw, he approached with a proposition.

“Care for dessert? How about sweet apple filling wrapped in a tender, golden-brown crust? I’ll give it to you for the low, low price of your schools, libraries, and the codes to your nuclear weapons.”

 


Jon Wesick is an editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Metal Scratches, Pearl, Slipstream, Space and Time, Tales of the Talisman, and Zahir. The editors of Knot Magazine nominated his story “The Visitor” for a Pushcart Prize. His poem “Meditation Instruction” won the Editor’s Choice Award in the 2016 Spirit First Contest. Another poem, “Bread and Circuses,” won second place in the 2007 African American Writers and Artists Contest. “Richard Feynman’s Commute” shared third place in the 2017 Rhysling Award’s short poem category. Jon is the author of the poetry collection Words of Power, Dances of Freedom , a short story collection, The Alchemist’s Grandson Changes His Name, and several novels. Visit his website at jonwesick.com.

 

Milk Duds

By Marleen S. Barr

 

Baby cages were the last straw for Professor Sondra Lear, a feminist science fiction scholar par excellence. She had tears in her eyes whenever she thought about children wrenched from their parents’ arms. Desiring to drown out her sorrows in a morning cup of coffee, she boiled water and placed a skimmed milk carton on her kitchen table. There was nothing unusual about the boiling water. Not so, the milk container. It disappeared. A person-sized breast leaned against the table in its place.

“Okay, I get it,” said Sondra to the breast. “You’re a graduate student engaged in a publicity stunt to garner interest in a Philip Roth memorial event. Great idea to dress up as the sentient breast protagonist in Roth’s ‘The Breast.’ Wonderful breast costume.”

“I am not a costume,” responded the breast.

“Enough already. You can come out of character. I will attend the memorial service.”

“I am a breast.”

“Are you making a #MeToo statement against the harassing male professors in the English department? Attending a department meeting dressed as a breast would be a good protest strategy.”

“Professor Lear, you are a feminist science fiction scholar. You must believe me when I state that I am a breast.”

“I’m open to believing you. But what are you doing in my apartment?”

“I have come to Earth to help the immigrant children Trump is imprisoning. In order to be effective, I need your cooperation.”

“Why?”

“I am a denizen of the feminist separatist planet Mammary. Mammarians patrol the galaxy in search of children whom fascists victimize. Our Maternal Council mandates that we must work in conjunction with at least one native of a planet that requires our intervention. Are you on board?”

“Yes. Certainly.”

“Good. My name is Lactavia. Since I would cause a ruckus if I bounced along Manhattan streets, I would like you to drive me to the Lincoln Tunnel’s entrance.”

“Glad to help. But please understand that I need to cover you with a trench coat. I live in a conservative New York co-op apartment building. I don’t what to incur the wrath of the co-op board. Even though New Yorkers keep to themselves, you would be beyond the co-op pale.”

Sondra drove to the Lincoln Tunnel with the trench coat-shrouded breast in tow. She parked and waited after Lactavia exited. Lactavia knew that Air Force One had landed at Newark Airport and Trump and his daughter Ivanka were en route to Trump Tower. When the president’s motorcade emerged from the tunnel, Lactavia positioned herself in the middle of the roadway.

“I have to stop the car,” said Trump’s driver. “We are being blocked by a huge breast.”

“Huge? Huge is priority one in relation to breasts,” Trump said. “But huge or not, breasts do not belong in the street. This must be some sort of feminist protest stunt trap. I’m not going to be stopped by fake news publicity. Keep going!” he bellowed as he looked out the window. “Wow. Big tit. Bigger than Melania’s.”

The limo full frontally hit Lactavia and bounced back. A cascade of milk emerged from her nipple and turned the black limo white. Before the Secret Service agents could stop Trump, he bounded out of the limo and confronted Lactavia.

“I won’t be intimidated by no huge tit.”

Milk covered Trump to the extent that he appeared to be white instead of orange. He was whiter than the homogenous population of Russia.

“People know about your Russian hotel golden shower. Now meet your white shower,” said Lactavia.

“This is a witch hunt,” screamed Trump as he wiped milk from his eyes.

“On the contrary, I am engaged in a fascist monster hunt. I am a feminist extraterrestrial charged with hunting down fascists who hurt children. I am here to close down your baby jails and rescue the children who are suffering for your political benefit.”

Sondra, risking a parking ticket, left the car and walked toward Lactavia and Trump. “I am Professor Sondra Lear, a feminist science fiction expert. You are closely encountering an all-powerful alien from the planet Mammary. It’s in your best interest to do what she tells you.”

“That tit alien is a rapist,” shrieked Trump. He slid his hand inside his oversized suit jacket, drew a gun, and shot Lactavia. The bullet bounced back and fell harmlessly to the asphalt.

“Okay, ya got my attention,” said Trump, as Ivanka stepped outside the limo. “Ivanka, meet an extraterrestrial from Mammary.”

“Daddy, I’m scared,” Ivanka whimpered as milk drenched her. “The milk is ruining my outfit and getting my hair wet. I had a bad hair day yesterday. I can’t face another. Do something!”

“You’re supposed to champion mothers,” said Sondra. “Don’t you like milk?”

“I like my appearance and my brand.”

“Why aren’t you doing something to help the imprisoned children? I will echo Samantha Bee: You’re  a ‘feckless cunt,’” proclaimed Sondra.

Ivanka jumped into her father’s arms.

“This isn’t such a bad day,” he said. “I get to grope my daughter and ogle a huge tit.”

“Oh no, you are not,” Lactavia said. “I am going to remove your daughter from your custody.”

“On what grounds?”

“You are illegally crossing the border separating New Jersey from New York. You are subject to arrest. You have to turn your daughter over to me.”

“There’s no such law.”

“I just made it up. I can enforce whatever law I want. I am more powerful than you.”

“Ivanka,” said Sondra, “I suggest that you detach yourself from your father immediately, if not sooner.”

“Daddy, Daddy, help! I don’t want to go god knows where with an extraterrestrial breast. If the alien deports me to another planet, I will never see you again. What if the breasts on Mammary have a poor fashion sense and wear stretched out bras? I won’t be able to live there. Where will I be taken?”

“I don’t know what Lactavia plans for you,” Sondra said. “She might put you in a freezing cold cage and cover you with a foil blanket.”

“Foil blankets are not in style. Daddy, save me. I don’t want to be put in a cage without you.”

“I am not going to cage you,” said Lactavia. “Two fascist wrongs do not make a right. When Trump goes low, Mammarians go high. I am merely going to force you to live in the housing your husband rents to poor people. You will stay there until all the immigrant children are reunited with their parents.” As soon as Lactavia finished speaking, Ivanka disappeared.

“Where’s my daughter?” shrieked Trump.

“She’s residing in a Kushner rental property.”

“Which one?”

“I am not telling. The better for you to feel the pain you inflict upon the immigrants.”

“OK, well, I don’t care. I have another daughter. Tiffany is hot, too. I’ll just have to start paying more attention to Tiffany.”

But Ivanka was already phoning Tiffany to tell her that the Kushner rental property was tantamount to hell.

Unwilling to suffer the same fate and not at all like her half-sister, Tiffany actually proved to be effective. She saved the day by convincing Trump to reunite the immigrant children with their parents.

Lactavia released Ivanka, who kissed the ground when she crossed the threshold of her mansion, and the Mammarian and Sondra returned to the co-op.

“I never had a chance to drink my coffee. Would you like some?” asked Sondra.

“No. Coffee is not healthy for breasts. It was nice to meet you. I’ll be returning to Mammary. By the way, your milk container will always be full. You’ve got milk forever.”

Sondra raised a glass of skimmed milk to toast the real fact that Lactavia had turned Trump’s baby jails into one huge milk dud.

 


Marleen S. Barr is known for her pioneering work in feminist science fiction and she teaches English at the City University of New York. She has won the Science Fiction Research Association Pilgrim Award for lifetime achievement in science fiction criticism. Barr is the author of Alien to Femininity: Speculative Fiction and Feminist TheoryLost in Space: Probing Feminist Science Fiction and Beyond, Feminist Fabulation: Space/Postmodern Fiction, and Genre Fission: A New Discourse Practice for Cultural Studies. She has a piece in the anthology, Alternative Truths, ( B Cubed Press, 2017), and she has edited many anthologies and co-edited the science fiction issue of PMLA. She is the author of the novels Oy Pioneer! and Oy Feminist Planets: A Fake Memoir.

Photo by Mae Mu on Unsplash.

Breitmark News

By Mark Ozeroff

 

Breitmark News
1/24/17

President Trump has officially declared the day of his inauguration a national holiday, filing the paperwork on Monday. The proclamation read:

“Now, therefore, I, Donald J. Trump, president of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim Jan. 20, 2017, as National Day of Patriotic Devotion, in order to strengthen our bonds to each other and to our country—and to renew the duties of government to the people.”

In the background, counselor Kellyanne Conway sang D, O, N  –  A, L, D  –  T, R, U, M, P to the tune of the Mickey Mouse Club, whilst simultaneously twirling two batons.

•     •     •

Breitmark News
12/13/17

Judge Roy Moore took the high road last night, conceding defeat like the gentleman he is. He noted: “That &*#! *!&}*! I told that ^*%#@ he couldn’t &*$!< his *%@ if his own &?@ was +$#%!”

•     •     •

Breitmark News
12/26/17

Almost a year into his presidency, Donald Trump has firmly established himself as the Fast Food President. He has no discernible taste, adds nothing nutritional to the political diet, and is mostly composed of fillers and strange colorings. He is The McDonald.

•     •     •

Breitmark News
4/30/18

The Nobel Committee today undertook an action it hasn’t performed since 1969, when the Economics Prize was added to the original five awards. In response to a Michigan campaign rally, where the president led calls to be short-listed for the Peace Prize, the Committee has created a seventh category. Thus far, Donald Trump is the only nominee for the Ignoble Piece Prize.

•     •     •

Breitmark News
5/10/18

News from the Mideast for President Trump is mixed today. On the plus side, the new U.S. Embassy will be open for business soon in Jerusalem. On the minus side, Jerusalem may no longer be standing.

Summary: At this point any Trump supporters left are, in actuality, athletic supporters.

•     •     •

Breitmark News
6/18/18

Some children are born with silver spoons in their mouths; others shiver beneath silver space blankets.

•     •     •

Breitmark News
7/10/18

Presidential advisor Stephen Miller recently picked up a large takeout order of sushi from a Washington restaurant. While departing, a bartender reportedly extended both his middle fingers. Miller “protested” by throwing the entire order into a trashcan.

Irony in life is rich and ever present: Witness a poisonous blowfish throwing away an order of poisonous blowfish. It even turns out that Miller’s middle name is Fugu … At least that’s what it sounded like the other protesters were yelling at him.

•     •     •

Breitmark News
7/12/18

Fox News political editor Chris Stirewalt yesterday predicted the course that Donald Trump’s upcoming NATO meeting would take. He claimed the president would “fly into Brussels like a seagull, defecate all over everything, then squawk and fly away.” Every now and again, the pressure builds up in Fox newscasters until the truth just explodes like a grenade.

•     •     •

Breitmark News
7/19/18

Well, it’s been quite a week for the president. First, he stirred NATO up like a hornet’s nest, before fleeing Brussels for a quiet visit in Britain. But the only silent object on the entire island was a balloon he preferred to avoid, so he took flight to Finland to visit an old, dear friend. By the time Trump touched down on American soil, even Republican senators were scowling and muttering under their collective breath. Welcome home, Benedict Donald.

•     •     •

Breitmark News
7/28/18

President Trump is considering the nomination of Thomas Tramaglini to replace the unpopular Betsy DeVos, as Secretary of Education in his cabinet. Tramaglini became famous in his last job as the Superintendent of Kenilworth, N.J.’s school system, when surveillance video caught him with his pants down, defecating on a high school track. The so-called “Pooperintendent”—who has filed a million dollar lawsuit for the staining of his reputation and invasion of privacy—recently relieved himself of his duties.

Trump was quick to take up his cause, tweeting: “I think we’ve all done something like this. Trumita…Tremijal…Tom will help us drain the swamp! MAGA!”

 


Mark Ozeroff holds an MBA and a Commercial pilot license. He is a ravenous reader, one who believes that fiction can sometimes tell a more profound truth than history. Mark may be the most undisciplined author since Jack Kerouac—he writes slower than a glacier descends a fjord, and his first drafts are rougher than forty-grit sandpaper. Mark’s debut novel earned a gold medal from the Military Writers Society of America, just in time for his first publisher to go belly-up. He relocated to California, to lick his wounds and write In the Weeds. Follow Mark on Facebook at www.facebook.com/mark.ozeroff.

Photo credit: Kit Niederer via a Creative Commons license.

 

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

By Gary Laitman

 

Listen, as your friend I feel it is time for us to openly discuss something that’s been bothering me for a while, but it’s a somewhat delicate matter. Please understand I am only bringing this up because I feel that you have been taken advantage of and I do not want you to get hurt any longer. I know this is not what you want to hear, and I promise I am not going to say “I told you so,” but the time has come for you to face facts … he’s just not that into you.

Don’t get me wrong, I totally understand how you fell for him. He promised he was going to be different from all the others, and Lord knows we all wanted that. You’ve been through some tough times in recent years, and it must have felt good to have someone recognize that. He certainly sounded sincere when he spoke and embraced your struggle. It’s not difficult to see why you believed him when he said he wanted nothing more than to stand by your side and help you make a better life together. This makes a lot of sense when you look back on it. But the bottom line is—and you must realize this by now—he was using you. Yes, I’ve said it, he was using you. He did not care and he does not care about you. All along he was using you.

Remember how he railed against the deficit all through the months leading up to the election? You know those tax breaks that he said are going to help bring back jobs and raise our collective incomes? They are going to add $1.5 trillion to the deficit!

Did he tell you that? Did he maybe mention the fact that he and his family are going to receive millions of dollars as a direct result of this new tax law? Maybe it just slipped his mind. Oh, sure, he might have thrown you a few extra bucks in your paycheck, but that’s just like buying your wife a cup a coffee at the local diner while taking your goomah out for a fancy steak dinner.

There’s also the matter of his hotels and country clubs, raking in the dough from people who just want to spend some quality time with him. What a strange coincidence that the fee to join Mar-a-Lago doubled last year. Could he be enriching himself? Not to mention Jared‘s businesses getting half a billion dollars in loans from people with whom he met while in the White House.

Are you starting to see the pattern here? There is no “us” in his “USA.” It is all about him and his family.

I don’t mean to belabor the point, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that there were plenty of red flags you chose to ignore. You certainly heard the rumors. We all knew there was something going on with the Russians. No doubt, he had cheated in the past. There was also the constant bragging, not to mention the compulsive lying.

Why were you so willing to overlook this? Did you really think he was going to change his ways for you?

I’m sorry if I sound angry, but this has gone too far, and you deserve better. I don’t care what your other friends say. I’ve heard every excuse in the book including those who justify his behavior by saying he’s a businessman with no government experience.

Really? You and I have been working for more than thirty years: Have you ever seen a successful business run like he and his cronies are running the government? The turnover rate in his administration is worse than a bad year at one of Ivanka’s sweatshops. He hires and fires remarkably unqualified people at an alarming rate, and, quite frankly, the Gambino crime family is more organized than our federal government right now.

I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point. Again, I want you to know that I value your friendship and I’m only saying these things because I want what’s best for you. So please reassess. Take a fresh look. Open your mind and join the movement to resist his agenda. Also, if you’re done with it, would you mind returning the shovel you borrowed last spring? Thanks.

 


Gary Laitman is an international man of mystery and a proud member of the resistance who has previously written opinion pieces for the Bucks County Courier Times, where this piece previously appeared.

Photo credit: Nicolas Raymond via a Creative Commons license.

A Dystopian Declaration

By David H. Reinarz

 

Following close on the heels of a surprisingly resurgent 45th President and the disappointing turnout by the Resistance in the 2018 mid-term elections, due to chaos fatigue and disorganization, the extremist wing of the Republican Party swept into even greater power in Washington, D.C. This document was issued by the Congress in joint session.

 

In Congress, July 4, 2019

The unanimous Declaration of the united States of America, and when we say America, we don’t mean Canada or Mexico, because those places are full of the wrong kind of people and they are not really America because America is us. And we don’t mean Hawaii and Puerto Rico and Guam because those are islands surrounded by water and not really very American anyway, but Alaska is definitely in. And when we say States we have to exclude California and Western Oregon and Western Washington because they are too liberal and left Congress in a self-righteous huff last week, and New York and Massachusetts and Connecticut are arguing against this Declaration and might refuse to sign it, so we might have to do something unpleasant with them. And then there are all those big cities in otherwise really fine States that are filled with rabble who threaten the upstanding citizenry, so we will have to figure out what is going on there and deal with it. So this is the unanimous Declaration of the really Good People in the really Good States of America who are United in defense of their rights.

When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with others, and by others we mean Indians and Negroes and Arabs and Mexicans or other Hispanics and anybody who doesn’t look White enough, unless maybe they want to be submissive and deferential and not be all scary and threatening and will act like they are White as much as they can, and by others we also mean Muslims and atheists and anybody with a weird non-Christian religion and we are on the fence about Catholics and we are still discussing whether Jews are OK, and then there are all kinds of liberals and tree-hugging environmentalists we don’t think belong in our country, and really chronically poor and sick and homeless people who are just a burden and generally useless, but women are mostly OK as long as they know their place and respect the primacy of men and we especially like Asian women and Eastern European mail order brides but those crazy feminist bitches have to go, and the gays, so we are reasserting our assumption of all the powers of the earth to secure our separate and superior station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s entitle us, The God Fearing Christian White Men of America.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are not really created equal, there are differences between men, and our Creator made these differences intentionally, and only the Best Men, meaning The God Fearing Christian White Men of America, are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

To secure these rights and to control the behavior of women, children, and men of lesser status in our eyes, Governments are instituted among men, deriving their powers from God as he invests them in the Best Men and therefore the Best Men are worthy of the loyalty and submission of the governed.

The previous Form of Government in the United States of America established in the 18th Century, became destructive of these ends. It is therefore the right of the Best Men to alter or abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes. When a long train of abuses and usurpations and attacks on the White Christian Culture, which is the bedrock of America, by the rabble who undermine our economy, limit our ability to acquire and retain wealth, commit acts of carnage against us, spread immorality, disrespect our flag and anthem, teach ideas contrary to The Bible, and redistribute the hard-won assets of our society to the unworthy, we declare that these evils are not sufferable, and we will abolish the Forms to which these purveyors of cultural treason have become accustomed.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the Best Men of these States, solemnly publish and declare a New Order and a New Form of Government. With a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

 


David H. Reinarz was born in Minneapolis and now lives in Omaha, Nebraska, and he has a BA in Philosophy and Religious Studies from the University of Nebraska, Omaha. Retired from a career as manager of retail professional bicycle shops, he is an alumnus of the 7 Doctors Writers Workshop (2015) and has been writing short stories and poetry since 2015. Dave is the author of two collections: Story City: Ten Short Stories and One Long Story in the Middle (2016) and The Sweet Jesus Trilogy and Other Stories (2017). His books are available in paperback and Kindle on Amazon.com.

Photo credit: Image of John Trumbull’s Declaration of Independence by Purple Communications via a Creative Commons license.

Heaven Can’t Wait

By Dean Liscum

Less than 48 hours after the mass murder of 26 people in a church in Sutherland Springs, Texas, investigators are pursuing a theory that the attack was planned by the congregation itself. They were tipped off by Fox News host, Ainsley Earhardt.

During an interview with Texas Governor Greg Abbott, Earhardt suggested that she and her co-workers of faith thought a church was the best place to be shot. She reasoned, as much as a Fox News host can, that being shot in a Christian sanctuary was the best of all possible scenarios. “We’re all going to die,” she pointed out, “so it doesn’t get any better than dying while close to Christ and asking for forgiveness.”

That comment got the local sheriff to thinking. “The proximity to Jesus makes this scene a perfect place for a self-assassination,” he said enviously.

According to the department’s latest theory, the attacker was actually managed by Heaven Can’t Wait LLC.

Our researchers have found that Heaven Can’t Wait’s incorporation papers state it is an organization that traffics in end-of days and rapture fantasies. It advertises that it is uniquely qualified to “hurry you to Heaven.”

The company website, recently shut down, indicates their only product offering is “Expedition to Eternity,” product code E2E.

The E2E kit includes detailed plans for:

  • How to recruit a member, or friend of a member, or a disgruntled ex-in-law to be the “hero”
  • Where churchgoers should stand to receive their hollow-point blessings
  • When the deliverance should take place.

The offering also comes with several package add-ons, including:

  • A choice of weaponry: AR-15, AR-15 with banana clip, AR-15 with automatic firing kit
  • Costume options including: Disgruntled Postal Worker, Black Ops Wannabe, and Open Carry White Guy
  • Pre-scripted social media post packages designed to throw investigators off the real motive behind the attack. Options include: Domestic Issues, Hillary’s Emails, and Failure to Apply Oneself in School, Thus Unable to Get the Job They Didn’t Work Hard Enough to Earn and So It’s the Immigrant’s Fault.

The plan outlines how the shooter should prepare for and execute the “mission of mercy.” It also provides tips for “recipients of eternity” to ease the process.

Once the “expeditor” has performed his duties, the white male leaves the sanctuary by foot or automobile. When alone, he’s instructed to dial into the company’s private confession hotline, which is outsourced to Bangalore, India; confess to “hurrying along to Heaven” his fellow churchgoers and the suicide that he’s about to commit; ask for and receive forgiveness prior to the act; and then finish the job by shooting himself with a silver bullet that has been pre-blessed and disinfected.

The lead investigator is certain that his theory is correct, but he says it will be hard to prove. The owner of Heaven Can’t Wait is one of the alleged “willing victims.” Authorities suspect that because of shooting’s finality, it was conducted as an exchange of services and not a monetary transaction. Thus, no money changed hands, which makes it difficult to trace.

“Worst of all,” added the town comptroller, who also serves as its coroner, “it’s not taxable.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” said one of the junior detectives and a member of the congregation who skipped church that day. “The perpetrators get to escape prosecution and all the evils of this mortal coil. They expedite themselves and their loved ones to an eternal reward, and the rest of us have to clean up the mess.”

Law enforcement organizations and Chambers of Commerce across the country worry about copycats. “This could get bigly.” The comptroller/coroner said. “Once this heavenly business model gets out, we expect it to flourish in Texas, Florida, and anywhere else that people love god and guns, and hate taxes.”

 


Dean Liscum lives in Houston, Texas and writes fiction. Sometimes it works. Other times, not so much.

 

A Modest Proposal

By Dina Honour

 

From Business Day:

A big name greeting card company today announced a launch date for its highly anticipated new range of greeting cards. The Second to None cards were designed in response to the increase of gun-related casualties, and specifically targets consumers looking for a way to reach out to friends or relatives affected by gun-violence.

The range differentiates itself from normal sympathy cards, the company said, by addressing the tragic unavoidability of gun-violence rather than focusing on grief or loss.

“We noticed the words ‘tragic’ and ‘unavoidable’ had reached a saturation point in the media, particularly among politicians and media outlets,” said the company’s spokesperson S. Wesson. “Our thinking was there was enough of a gap in the market to warrant some research into how such a range would go over.”

“Our research showed that a large percentage of Americans view gun violence as an unavoidable fact of life in the United States. We wanted to give the public a way to express their feelings about gun-violence in a non-confrontational, non-denominational, non-threatening way,” Wesson continued.

A limited test run of a card featuring a tasteful black and white copy of Second Amendment text, with the message “Our thoughts and prayers go out to you,” proved to be successful enough that the company expanded the concept into a full-blown collection, including a number of original designs.

“It’s a uniquely American problem which deserves a uniquely American solution,” Wesson said.

The company is quick to point out its goal was not to make a statement about gun-violence, but merely to offer an alternative.

“We don’t hesitate to send a birthday card as a way to acknowledge an important day. This is no different really. With victims of gun violence on the rise,” Wesson added, “it’s important for our customers to feel like they have a way of reaching out.”

Wesson is most proud of the company’s More Guns is the Answer line. The creators worked closely with designers to develop a collection of high quality cards, each featuring red, white and blue drawings of eagles and American flags. The cards open to reveal messages such as “May you find peace in knowing that, had your loved one been armed, he would surely have saved lives.”

Other sentiments, rendered in Comic Sans font, include “Guns don’t kill people, Planned Parenthood does” and “This wouldn’t have happened in a concealed carry zone” and “I hope your loved one’s death isn’t politicized. It’s too soon,” a personal favorite of Wesson’s.

The company is exploring plans for a lighter assortment of cards with such lines as the Right To Bear Arms, which features a heavily armed grizzly defending his front porch against a government militia and Stuff Happens, featuring cartoon drawings.

“Those cards,” Wesson said, “are obviously aimed at consumers who have had a more light-hearted experience or accident with guns. Think destruction of property rather than death or disfigurement.”

The most controversial of the company’s planned range includes what Wesson refers to as Victim Blaming cards. “The market research we’ve done has shown us there is a significant portion of our customer base who find it difficult to blame guns under any circumstance. For many, death by shooting has become an acceptable consequence for actions we used to take for granted. Talking or texting too loudly. Driving. Going to the movies. We’re simply giving our customers a way to express those feelings.”

The company has critics who have raised concerns that the card collection is capitalizing on the misfortune of others.

“America is a capitalist country,” Wesson responded. “For over 200 years we have rewarded those who have profited on the backs of others. This is no different. We are proud to be an American owned corporation.”

Wesson added, “A greeting card has always been a safe and acceptable way to express your feelings to another human being. Right now posting or delivering a greeting card doesn’t often result in getting shot. Though as recent events show, we can’t rule that eventuality out. If and when that time comes, we’ll revisit the products.”

The company is partnering with big-box retailers who have open carry policies in place. Cards will cost from .99 to 3.95 and will be available as of October 1 in time for the holidays.

 


Dina Honour is an American writer living in Copenhagen, Denmark. She writes about feminism, politics, relationships, and life abroad. Her work has appeared in Bust, Paste, Hippocampus, among others, and on popular parenting and expat sites. You can find her serious author persona at DinaHonour.com and her more profane blogger persona at Wine and Cheese (Doodles). Or if you prefer morsels, follow along in statuses and characters on Facebook or Twitter.

Image credit: Donkey Hotey via a Creative Commons license.

Take This Memo by Tara Campbell

From: Director of Market Research, Irrational Fears Division
To: Executive Director, Enough Already with the Guns, USA (EAWG USA)

I’m writing to follow up on our discussion about whether any lessons can be learned from California’s speedy abolition of open carry after the Black Panthers’ armed protest at the state Capitol building in 1966. I understand your reticence about the tactic I suggested, but when repeated mass murder doesn’t prove to be an effective incentive for change, perhaps we need to speak in a different language to be heard.

Here are my suggestions for new civic associations that might “trigger” additional action on gun control in the United States:

  • African-American Bump Stock Acquisition Fund
    Motto: A shooter is a terrible thing to slow down.
  • National Latino Ammo Exchange
    Motto: Together we are better armed. ¡Unidos!
  • Muslim Skeet-Shooters of America
    Motto: Train for your future, shoot for the sky!
  • Arms for Immigrants, USA
    Motto: Open hearts, open arms, open carry
  • Gun Enthusiasts of the African Diaspora
    Motto: I am my ancestors’ most heavily-armed dreams
  • First-Generation Pistol Patriots
    Motto: We are the new face of the firing range

We didn’t discuss the following angle at our meeting, but given recent events, I’ve taken the liberty of suggesting one more:

  • Armed Actress Guild of America
    Motto: Keep your hands where we can see them and no one will get hurt

I look forward to discussing further steps at your earliest convenience.

Until then,
Stay safe

 


Tara Campbell is a Washington, D.C.-based writer and an assistant fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Litbreak, Masters Review, b(OINK), Queen Mob’s Teahouse, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and Writers Resist. Her novel, TreeVolution, was released in 2016, and her collection, Circe’s Bicycle, with be published in fall 2017. Visit Tara’s website at www.taracampbell.com.

Image via artparodies.com.

The Grand Old Hanging Party

By James Butt

 

Nate supposed it’d been the circus owner Charlie Sparks’ fault, with his hanging of old Murderous Mary, but that’d been a hundred years ago and Nate couldn’t understand the wisdom of doing such things today.

“I like the card stock it’s printed on,” Elijah said. “Something you’d see for a carnival, or a fancy show.”

Nate snatched the Order from his nephew and tossed it in the trash. “Time to focus. I want to get this over with.” He’d only been given the past week to prep the old rail derrick, it being the only thing strong enough to hold the weight.

“Hey! I never seen a presidential decree before,” Elijah said, rooting in the garbage after it. “Why’d he choose Tennessee for the hangings?”

“The man’s got an affinity for the past, I’d say, or maybe he’s making a liddle point.”

All week, Nate had unloaded shipments coming in from every corner of the country. The military escorts would always ask, “Where you plan on storing them until the hanging?” Nate would simply nod toward the abandoned factory along the rail yard.

“Bet you pass out from all that stink, having them stuffed in there like that.”

“You get used to it, like you do everything,” he’d reply.

The last truck had been yesterday morning. For a job huge as it was, Nate had been surprised at how smooth things had gone. When he argued he wouldn’t have chain large enough for an elephant’s neck, it wasn’t a day later before a special delivery arrived with the anchor chain of the USS America. He was thankful Elijah stuck around to help, too, what with Paul getting canned due to his moral objections.

The crowd had begun to gather the night before, milling around outside the rail yard fence.

“Come help with these extra barriers. Crowd’s getting too big,” Nate told Elijah.

The media started to call supporters, Pro-hangers or Anti-phants, not really agreeing on which one better suited the occasion. Nate figured them all for crazy.

“I don’t get this part,” Elijah said, staring down at the decree.

“Which part is that?”

“‘It takes true daring and acuity to ensure the safety of all, and therefore, by decree, all elephants must be hanged until—.’ Seems odd, talking about elephants that way.”

“You can’t ever know what an elephant is apt to do, is all that means. They’re too unpredictable.”

“You poke at anything long enough and you never know what they’re apt to do. Take Keddy, at Jim Mitchell’s party last year. Everybody kicking and swatting at him, no wonder he went savage. Ain’t no one decreeing to hang him for it, though.”

“Keddy’s a dog. Ain’t nobody going to hang a damn dog. Especially a dog from around here.” Nate headed over to the derrick. “You gonna hold, old girl?”

The platform vibrated underfoot as the throng of onlookers pushed forward. It was nearing showtime, and nothing drew crowds quite like a hanging.

The first elephant was booked to be hanged at noon, and a chant had started to float out from the masses: “Let them hang! Let them hang!”

“Almost time, Elijah. Let’s start bringing them out before the crowd gets too wild. I’ll get the chain ready for the derrick.”

“What are we doing with them, when, you know … after?”

“Order was to burn them, so their ash can be taken out to sea. That way no more elephants would come here searching for their bones.”

“Jesus. I’m not sure I can stay for that, Uncle Nate.”

“Let them hang! Let them hang!”

“Never mind your whining. Just go get the first one before the crowd rushes us.”

Elijah hopped on the flatbed, while Nate climbed into the cab of the derrick.

“Let them hang! Let them hang!”

As Elijah pulled up under the crane with the first elephant, the crowd erupted. They screamed and jeered, hurling bottles, rocks, signs and garbage.

“Just stay in the cab, Elijah!”

“What?”

“Just stay there!” Nate moved quick to loop the chain around the elephant’s neck. The roar from the crowd shook the entire platform, but the elephant made no move to flee.

He started the winch. The slack slowly disappeared as all lines went taut. One elephantine foot lifted from the bed of the trailer, followed closely by the other.

“Hand her! Hang her!”

All feet soon cleared the truck.

Above the frenzied crowd rose the mournful wail of the suspended elephant. She sobbed deeply, her cries much too human. Nate stopped the winch.

Some in the crowd screamed in horror and covered their ears, shielding them from the sorrowful bawls.

Frozen, Nate left her hanging as she was. She continued to wail, the sound fraying against her chain. She swung in a circle, and the suspended weight proved too great a strain for the old derrick. The wooden frame buckled, and the arm holding the elephant cracked forward, tumbling down, narrowly missing Elijah below.

With her feet back on the ground, the elephant escaped her noose and rushed toward the factory. People fled in all directions, their screams overcome by the pounding of elephants slamming against the factory walls. The sheet metal bowed from the weight pressed against it, collapsing outward. The elephants ran into the streets.

Freed from his cab, Nate moved to help Elijah from the truck.

“So that’s it, then,” Elijah said. “Maybe they can just go be elephants, now.”

Nate watched the remaining herd slip out of sight. “I’d like to think so. But I just don’t believe we’ll let them.”

 


James Butt lives in Nova Scotia, spending his days attempting to reconcile the realities of the News world order within the framework of his past perceptions.

Photo credit: Fraser Mummery via a Creative Commons license.

Breaking News: He Fakes His Orgasms

Psychologists detect pre-existing conditions. A spokesman for the silent majority replies.

By Andy Blumenthal

 

Bunk. What crap. Another pathetic dig at our elected president. At least make it credible, the way normal fake news spins around real events like a murder or WMDs. Though he could probably easily fabricate ecstasy, it’s a bizarre slur that diverts his attention. Blow it off, life’s tough enough, why chew on more baloney?

Suppose the orgasms are faked. It’d be a boost for us, whirlwinded by his flogging insults and surefire promises, only to have soured some, suffering a little buyer’s remorse, dismayed as he dismantles the checks and balances that promote mans evolution. Faking orgasms rouses the rally cry of “The rascal can really stick it to ’em”.

Make-believe orgasms won’t help those already stunned in slackjawed horror, who fear civilization rests on his success at feigning euphoria. What if, in the middle, his voice cracks and, deranged, he attacks Utah?

This ‘Fakes His Orgasms’ story spread like eczema across social media, the brunt of talk show hosts, landing 22 seconds on prime time networks. He scoffed, tired of being called “an aberrant blowhard crackpot,” tweeting “Not saying I fake them, but if I did they’d be better than anyone’s.”

There’s talk of an audiotape with explicit male LUFFing (slang: Loud Unusual Fauxgasm Flouting). Rumor is he’s not praising her sexuality, but bellowing for his benefit. Huh? Traditionally it’s a male ego lift from the female partner. Apparently the wailing, moaning and heaving is he glorifying his illustriousness.

Orgasmic Fraudulence is the specialty of world-renowned sexologist Dr. Oral Flitzerkacke, called to put down this cockamamie falderal. Rarely is there concrete evidence, so his clinic relies on circumstantial proof brought by insecure husbands. Melania was invited to testify. She declined.

Dr. Flitzerkacke published his findings in Big O Quarterly. Possessing an orgasmically trained eye, he saw the first indicator—Insufficient Weaning.

Note his pucker shaped mouth; his penchant for grabbing birth canals; he was a thumbsucker ’til age 12. These symptoms, seared in infancy, reveal a love/hate psychosis—he wants to, and refuses to, nurse. Anger and joy blend as hostile entitlement. Hence, the symbiotic reveling with belligerent dictators Putin, Sisi, Erdogan and Duterte; the violence-laced speeches akin to Brown Shirt bash fests; wanting a big-bombs parade at his inauguration and Leni Riefenstahl to film it; men who reach for congratulatory hugs are repelled with a don’t-touch glare while women are eye-groped; extoling walls for their racial/ethnic internment camp security; the comb-over hairstyle with a full head of hair.

So he’s wired funny. Who isn’t? End of story.

Unfortunately, if he’s oblivious to his rush/roar ejaculates, we must conclude he suffers the overarching psychopathy, PSSS—Premature Slurp Separation Syndrome.

What?

Yes. He’s attempting to override the spoor of his upbringing. The cascade of bellicose accusations and self-inflating lies serve to breach the void of intimate contact. Drinking from full mammaries promotes humane emotions, what the other children absorbed, like a reverence for discovery, being silly, humility to admit mistakes, compassion for suffering.

Interesting. So faking orgasms papers over lost values like honesty, as alien to him as self-loathing?

Indeed. The burst of brouhaha propels him to the far side of his psyche ravine, to the rescue salve of winning. Leaping emotional building blocks lets him celebrate feeling whole. Faking orgasms is his bridge to normalcy.

Well better, right? Better to extol victories than flounder in the chasm of doubt. No wonder he’s calmer after a methadone dose of inciting-to-riot rallies.

Weighing in, Dr. Keister Rasch from ASS—Anchorage Sexaholics Society.

Careful. The malady demands insulating. Without an ethical net foundation, his abyss of distrust fosters paranoid hallucinations. He must beat back telltale flaws and anyone who paints him as “a warped catastrophe.” Ergo, the prejudiced Mexican judge because he’s Mexican; the woman he couldn’t have groped because “just look at her” (body shaming versus moral grounds); declaring McCain isn’t a war hero after standing up to torture; spotty attendance to his dirge-like inauguration leaves out those watching on TV; he won the popular vote when you subtract the 3 million fraudulent ones; the staged 77-minute press conference meant to browbeat reporters for having outed his ineptitude; labeling the free press as the enemy.

Hmm. Maybe this PSSS explains his occasional mislandings, like twice suggesting Hillary should be shot; or the famous spasmodic body-shaking mock of a disabled reporter (an action so humiliating and lewd that even Jared looked away); resorting to a child’s tactic of misdirecting blame by lobbing pre-emptive denouncements (the concocted wiretap accusation to deflect Russiagate; the finger pointing of McCarthyism to avert his own resemblance; the attempt to taint the election as rigged, unless he wins).

Dr. Flitzerkacke adds:

Wealth is the traditional ruse. Money and property are vault-over veneers that validate—a Lear Jet or a Mar-a-Lago says “Made it.” as opposed to “Made of.” He outshines the dearth of love with material con job propellants. Therefore his single behavioral drive is to score profits, no matter what end. Like selling warplanes to Nigeria, known for human rights abuses, on the guise they’ll fight the Boko Haram; releasing the sale of cancer-causing pesticides; opening up California’s coast to drilling; repealing Dodd-Frank after mankind’s worst global financial meltdown; cashing in presidential graft by getting China to grant his company 38 lucrative business trademarks in a day, what takes years.

Really.

FLASH! Associated Press has the audiotape, delivered by a KGB officer dying of plutonium poisoning. Experts authenticated the bed squeaks found in the tower suite. Transcript: Argh. Ooooyah. Gruglurrrg. Nayeheydoy. OOOuu. RawblinBWAH. HIGHmenhem. FLAdinding. WAYYY. HAYYYYYY. MEEEEEEEYEAH! Phew.

Fine. He fakes his orgasms. Treatment: S & M For Dummies suggests Primal Scream Therapy while watching Barney & Friends.

Gee. Impersonating orgasms almost flips actuality into question, except for when he looks vacuous reading from a prompter, or shoving the prime minister of Montenegro at a photo op, cheering the vainglory success of a tax payoff disguised as healthcare reform. I should have figured when he was unwilling to consider Earth’s atmosphere that’s thinning. Perhaps it’s amoral to discount another country’s meddling in our democracy (aimed at, and resulting in, dividing us against ourselves). Gosh, if PSSS is treatable then let’s treat us for falling lockstep to the confidence of pomposity. Guess we have to be vigilant, break the cycle of hopeful and dependent, listen closer for the Mussolinic ring of “Me, I, great.” Hurry, because last week he authorized rolling back nutrition standards for elementary school children. It stifles profits of high-salt, high-fat food manufacturers.

LIVE BULLETIN: Dateline Bulgaria. PhD Heinie Schlongdor of the Mind To Groin Institute has discovered an ancillary marker. Bed-wetting.

The bladder is pressured by his mounting gall, thus the name of the organ on top of the bladder, the “gallbladder,” creating the need to urinate.

Included were photos, gained from the White House housekeeping staff of the first 100 days’ bed sheets. All stained.

 


Andy Blumenthal writes short stories, essays and screenplays. He likes Phil Ochs, Federico Fellini and Stan Laurel.

Photo credit: limmurf via a Creative Commons license.

 

‘2017’: The Letter and The Review

By Miranda Outman

 

2017: The Letter, 1977

Tom,

Terrific to see you out at Montauk. A shame Helen couldn’t make it, but you managed to whip up a nice spread. Diane couldn’t stop talking about that fondue.

At any rate, Tom, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ve read through 2017. It’s different, it’s interesting as hell, it pushes the envelope right off the desk. But I can’t sell this one.

Now before I go on, Tom, you’ve got to know I think the world of your work. Hell, the day you stop writing, that’s the day Pan Am stops running those coast-to-coast flights. You’re the businessman’s traveling companion, and I couldn’t be prouder to be working with you.

But, you asked for my feedback, so I’ll tell it to you straight. With this new direction, your readers walk away. And when they walk, they don’t come back.

Thing is, the premise is solid. It’s a departure, sure, having the good ol’ boys in cahoots with the Russians and the longhairs up in arms. But you made it work, Tom, though I don’t know how you did it. The lady candidate, even the Black former president. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but you did. And the details—the toupee, the supermodels, that hulking Nazi with the gin blossoms—it’s a hell of a lot of fun, although I have to confess, I suspect you’ve been smoking something that’s not strictly on the up and up with the law. Not your average reader’s bag, of course, but he’ll forgive you for it.

It’s your president where you go out on a limb, Tom, and that’s where you lose your reader. What you’re saying, in the end, is America voted for this guy. This bloated, failed businessman with the runaway toupee. This fellow who, from your manuscript, wouldn’t know the end of a sentence if it bit him in the keister. Not that, not just America, Tom: You’re saying St. Louis voted for this guy; Phoenix and Raleigh and Dallas Fort Worth. Tom, where the heck do you think your books sell? It’s one thing to flip the script, make the Manchurian Candidate a red-blooded Republican. It’s another thing to lay the blame on the man who buys your books. And bad enough you make your guys the villains. But what you’re saying, and why I’m telling you this: You’re making your guys out to be rubes.

Now I sure hope you don’t just tear this up, Tom, because there’s a heck of a lot of potential in this thing. We’ve all got big ideas, and you know better than anyone, they’re the devil to carry out. So keep your premise, keep the architecture of the story, but give us a president who’s handsome. Give us a guy who knows how to talk, give us someone with taste. A villain we can believe in. How’s that for a slogan? So take a week or so, get a little R&R. If you’ll forgive my saying so, take it a little easy on the drink. Work up another draft and send it my way. Dinner’s on me this time. Sheila can get us a table at a terrific steakhouse uptown. Drop me a line, and we’ll talk.

Rick

 

2017: The Review, 1987

In the dark days of 1977, the story has it, a master of the American thriller, alcohol-sodden, reeling from a nasty divorce, dashed off a manuscript that “broke all the rules.” The thing proceeded to gather dust in his agent’s filing cabinet for the better part of a decade until Paramount Pictures, with money to burn and a reputation to squander, brought 2017 to a theater near you.

If you find that difficult to believe, well, you don’t have the credulity for five minutes of this thing.

The thing begins reasonably enough. America has elected a Black president, there’s a woman campaigning to succeed him. That the Republican is a Soviet stooge, even that comes off as credible enough. Really, the acting and directing aren’t bad, if you take your popcorn and flee for the exits after the first ten minutes or so.

Because it’s pretty much a spiral to the bowels of Las Vegas from there.

In 2017, by Paramount’s lights, America will elect a seething and bloated mass of real estate chicanery as the leader of the free world, a slovenly rambler with a scotch-taped tie, victim of a most aggressive tanning parlor, topped by a runaway toupee.

Want more? Paramount thinks you do. Enter a cavalcade of Nazis—as in, Nazis with swastikas, whispering sweet nothings in the President’s ear, running roughshod over the silver screen. Subtlety? So 1986.

The unfortunate thing is, the conceit is rather clever. America has won the Cold War (though Paramount never sees fit to let us know how—or, for that matter, to share the apparent cure for AIDS). But wait, the Russians have been manipulating the U.S. electoral system, so look who’s sitting pretty now. We thought we won the Second World War. But the Cabinet is thick with Nazis in 2017. Given the profusion of Confederate flags on set, the outcome of the Civil War, too, is very much in doubt. From the intimations of global warming and a crazed addiction to fossil fuels (yet another half-developed subplot), even the dinosaurs win in the end.

But all that is buried beneath a welter of gold leaf, skimpy dresses, an overdone soundtrack, and a never-ending series of high-speed car chases. 2017 gives us a future drowning in our own worst vices: gilt, powder, and greed. It’s an indictment, with a side of bathroom humor, of everything we’ve become, served hot, beneath a dark cloud of contempt for ordinary Americans and the votes they cast.

There’s still more, if your tastes run to leggy blonds and enough gold leaf to bury Vegas in the desert for once and for all. Stick around long enough, and there’s some genuine, terrifying suspense. By the time the president dismisses the head of the FBI and whispers sweet-nothing nuclear secrets in the Russian foreign minister’s ear, you’ll be on the edge of your seat—if you haven’t stormed away from said seat an hour before. There’s a warplane, there’s the nuclear football, there’s a park ranger turned Secret Service agent turned savior of the Western world, but do you really want to shell out $3.95 to see this thing?

 


Miranda Outman is a writer and editor in the Boston area.

Photo credit: Dave Bleasdale via a Creative Commons license.

An Open Letter to the People Beyond the Fence

From David H. Reinarz,

 

I am writing to you from the Political Re-Education Farm, which I believe is somewhere in Southern Idaho. They won’t tell us exactly where we are. It’s part of the New Regime’s disorientation/reorientation technique. They’re trying to change our minds. There is a big fence around the farm—President 45 likes walls and fences. The Internal Border Patrol is on guard.

I don’t have a lot of time to write. It’s after bedtime, but it’s midsummer, so there’s still enough light to get this done before the guards do head count. One of them gives us scraps of paper and stubs of pencils he cadges from the supply room. He says his wife is Muslim and is in a camp in Alabama. We write down our resistance words. He says he will get them to the outside. I don’t know if he does. If you see this, know that we have not given up. We are not dead, yet.

We are poets, writers, playwrights, musicians, artists, dancers, actors, some college professors, a few politicians. America’s dangerous intelligentsia!

I was part of a group rounded up in Omaha, a blue spot in a red state. What we’d been writing and publishing was not only making the president crazy, his clones in the governor’s mansion and mayor’s office were angry and embarrassed that we wouldn’t be controlled. Even in the Midwest, there were voices of resistance.

We were held in the public baseball stadium, named after the governor’s family business. We were interrogated. We were given a chance to recant our views and sign a loyalty oath to President 45. It was the same loyalty oath you have to pledge to get a voting card or receive any government benefits since the New Regime initiated Level 2 of Making America Great Again.

Bowing down and giving in wasn’t going to happen. That night, we were handcuffed and hooded and put on a train headed out of town, destination unrevealed.

We do potatoes here. They have de-mechanized the agricultural practices, so there’s more work for more intellectuals to struggle with. Our struggle! On top of that, we are force-marched and receive regular beatings. Not so much that we are injured and can’t work. No, just enough to make us hurt a little more, make our farm work a little harder, know that our thoughts and words have brought us here and are the source of our suffering.

How is your health? How is your physical strength? How is your endurance? Did you ride a bike today? Did you do your yoga? Did you run up the stairs to your office?

You will need this, my friends. You will need this.

After we are done working in the hot summer sun and are physically weak and exhausted, there is interrogation. “What is your name? Where are you from? Who are your friends? Who did the publishing and distribution of your pamphlets? What books and newspapers did you read? What social media did you use? Give us your logins and passwords!”

Then dinner. Potatoes. Always potatoes. Potatoes and road kill.

After dinner there are three hours of re-education. “Who won the election? Who were the losers? How do you demonstrate loyalty to President 45?”

It’s brutal, listening to this guy from the Propaganda Ministry drill us on White Supremacy theory and Creationism and the need for a strong leader in a dangerous world. I think I would prefer another beating. Every day I make the point that whites are not supreme. I remember the Supremes. They were not white, but they were supreme. I also make the point that the only thing created here is a stronger Resistance. And I make the point that the world is only dangerous for those who support the leader, because the people will rise up and take back our country.

I get another beating.

I know you don’t want to hear, “I told you so,” but I don’t mind saying it. “I told you so.” Many people who’ve studied the history of the world and the history of America told you so. It doesn’t take long to take apart a government when you have a self-obsessed president surrounded by a few hard core ideologues, a few bad hombres working for them, a complacent Congress, and a de-fanged judicial system. You can’t just hope that everything is going to be OK. I am telling you this from a political prison farm in Idaho. They should have been stopped early on, before they got rolling.

If this gets to anyone on the outside, all of us here tell you: “Now is the time to resist!”

If this gets as far as the UN Headquarters in Berlin or The World Bank Headquarters in Tokyo, don’t be afraid to help us. We need the whole world to work for justice and to affirm the human rights of our wonderfully diverse population.

Time for dinner. Tonight’s menu: potatoes.

After lights out: Dig the tunnel. Dig, dig the tunnel. Before the hyenas come.

Yours truly,
David H. Reinarz

 


David H. Reinarz lives in Omaha, Nebraska. He recently retired from a long career as a retail bicycle shop manager. He is an alumnus of the 7 Doctors Writers Workshop and the author of a Story City: Ten Short Stories and One Long Story in the Middle. Published in 2016. It is available on Amazon.com, and he will donate 100 percent of Amazon royalties from all 2017 sales of Story City to the ACLU. His poem, “Album Cover: Songs from the Country Western Café” was published in the Winter 2017 issue of Plainsongs, Hastings College Press.

Photo credit: Ben Dalton via a Creative Commons licesnse.

Alt-Majority Nursery Rhymes

By Marvin Lurie

Every time I think I’ve gone too far,
I read the paper and realize I haven’t gone far enough.

Baa Baa Donny
have you any money?
Yes sir. Yes Sir,
full banks many.
Some for my gold door,
some for my pompadour
none for the little boy
stranded on the shore.

Donny Donny quite contrary
how your orders do grow,
with midnight tweets, rash deceits
and craven Republicans all in a row.

Chatty Donnie
sat with his cronies
predicting a terrorist doomsday.
When big bad Putin
started shootin’
he frightened Chatty Donnie away.

Pussy-Grabber pudding and pie
groped the girls and made them cry.
When the lawyers came out to play,
Pussy-Grabber ran away.

Donny had such little hands
they couldn’t help but show
and everywhere that Donny went
his hands were sure to go.

They grabbed a woman’s crotch one day,
which is against the rules.
He said it’s just locker room talk
besides they’re minuscule.

Old mother Hubbard
went to her cupboard
to get her blood pressure meds.
She didn’t have any pills.
There weren’t more refills.
Obamacare was repealed by the feds.

 


Marvin Lurie is retired from a career as a trade press editor, president of an association management and consulting firm, and senior executive in an international trade association. He began writing poetry as an undergraduate at the University of Illinois. In 1998, anticipating retirement and with the desire to reinvest time and effort writing poetry, he took several week-long and shorter poetry workshops taught by established poets and started over. He and his wife moved to Portland, Oregon in 2003 where he has been an active member of the local poetry community including service on the board of directors of the Oregon Poetry Association for two terms, as an almost perpetual poetry student at the Attic Institute of Arts and Letters in Portland and as a participant in several critique groups. Visit his website at marvlurie.com.