Wednesday, May 25, 2016

chapter1.11 - an offer you can't afford

the mCsituation

The sound of text alerts suddenly rang out through the group. "My husband, he's alive!" shouted one survivor. "My child is alive!" cried another. As it turned out, everyone was disappointed, as they had all received the same spam text:

Support the Eevellary Bintonion presidential campaign by offering will give them a discount on "Uterus Card" t-shirts*.*5% discount on all purchases made through****Discount does not apply to sales tax, shipping costs, or transaction fees, or any other costs******Discount only applies to orders over 10,000**********No guarantee on availability of size, color, durability or quality, so expect a freight train of XX-small orange and purple tees which will stain all of your other clothing before the fabric itself dissolves water****************100% 'handling' surcharge on all ordersKudos! #YouAreWithHer!

Van Bilge was puzzled by the message. "Hmm, what's a 'uterus card' and why do I want one? Is that like an organ transplant because, you know, I'm pretty sure I don't need one. In fact I don't think anyone needs one. Or do they? Kudos! (whatever those are, you can have all of my kudos as they seem to be invisible and functionless) (might be like neutrinos but I'm not sure what those are either but they are very very small, I've been told so they could be like the same thing or, um, some thing. Hmmm.)"

Fortunately, no one was paying any attention to him, due to what just had appeared on the monitor.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

#chapter1.10 - radio haze (iii)

the mCsituation

Subsequently,  a long drone leaked out of the monitor's speakers, much like a bagpipe's lower register. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."
"What fresh new devilry is this? Is someone dying on the radio? Is it some fiery beast risen from hell?" asked Lockjaw.
"No, Captain," said Mr. Schlock. "It is one of your Earth-human audio programs, "That Ummerican Life."
All of the survivors went silent, listening carefully. Lockjaw cocked his head, dog-like. "Oh, now I hear it," he said. "It's a man. Talking. Sort of."

Indeed, it actually was a human voice of some sort. "Hell...o. Welcome..." Then a long pause. Then what might have been a prolonged  inhalation. "UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

Then the speech began again--and again, barely audible.  "Welcome.." Lockjaw checked his watch. ""  He then began mixing a martini from what was left of the bar. "Okay, who wants more booze?" Everyone raised their hands including the children.  "Hey, what the hell, we're all going to be dead soon, eh?" "...That..." "Just let me shake this up like Taylor Swift on meth." "...American.." Lockjaw continued shaking the container. "...Life." "Finally, we have a title! Hey, let's see what's in here." The captain opened the container. "Just enough left for me, sorry everybody."
it said. A sad sigh went through the little crowd.

Or perhaps the sadness was caused by the voice droned on its low, barely audible, yet somehow annoying monotone. "Today...let'-- talk--about--anger. Not--just--any--anger. [long pause]No. Buuuuuuut [deep inhalation] the worst type of all: The--things--people--say--about--my--show. Let's start with Dave. Dave, you insulted a woman by calling her a, and I quote, and our listeners should probably cover their ears at this point or set down their cup of non-caffeinated herbal tea or just turn off their hearing aids, assuming they can still hear at all--"

The voice of a man, high-pitched and filled with rage, interrupted him. "Yes I did, Jeebus just get to the damn point. You said you were going to call for an ambulance if I answered your questions!"

"And he's being rude by interrupting me. But I will ask the question: Did you call this woman a 'fat bitch'?'

[Somewhere, on another far-off planet, a bearded mystic intoned, "I just felt a disturbance in the Farce, like the sound of a million cups of chamomile being spilled at once. Followed by an outpouring of angry emails, internet postings, text messages, text messages sent as emails, and even letters hand written and sent via post."]

The voice of the angry man filled the room. "Yes I  called her a fat bitch, she's eating my goddamn arm off. Please call an ambulance or do something! Arrrgh."

"Now let's get her response. What do you say to that, madam?"

A woman's voice spoke in response. "Braiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiins!"

The angry man"Dammit my arm is gone! I'm bleeding out here! Please somebody help me! I think  I'm--" There was a crashing noise, like a body falling out of a chair and hitting the floor.

"So there you have it, Ummerica: A rage-filled misogynist; a woman who simply wants to feed upon human flesh. Next up: A story about unappreciative and most likely bigoted, misogynistic leeches who refuse to be guilted into sending money to support this show and other terrific programs on National SomethingSomething Radio."

"For the sake of Jeebus turn it off!" shouted Lockjaw.

"We can't find the remote!"

Lockjaw clenched both fists and sank to his knees cried out: "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

#chapter1.09 - radio haze (ii)

the mCsituation

'Excellent,' thought Miranda Lund (Senior Stewardess Extraordinaire). Her self-congratulatory stream of consciousness for accomplishing precisely nothing was quickly interrupted as National SomethingSomething Radio resumed over the aircraft's audio system: 'Welcome to Something Less Interesting', said a smooth, plangent voice. The motley crew and motley assorted passengers assumed positions of hopelessness and despair, ranging from the classic scream of "Nooooooo!" to resigned shrugs of "Oh fuck it."

"Oh, fuck it," muttered Miranda. She realized that the alliteration of herself 'muttering' was awkward, cloddish, and plebeian, but then she thought, 'Fuck that too, we're almost dead.' 

"So," continued the disconnected (in more ways than one) voice, "we're here with Profeessor Sally Exculpator, a leadshipologist of the University of--well who really cares? Now, Professor, you've done a good deal of research on leadership. So tell us: Will Secretary Bintonian be the best president ever? Or the bestest president ever?"

"The answer is obvious--she will be both. But make no mistake: A woman is judged more harshly for her past mistakes. And if she makes the same mistake over and over and over and over and, you know, over say a period of three decades, she is, for some strange and no doubt sexist reason--well I won't say it's sexist because I can't say with certainty even when it so obviously is sexist as hell that a woman is judged for this war or that war or leaving the garage door open, I mean no one complains that when a man leaves a garage door open but leave the door open and your child runs out into the street or somehow ended up in the washing machine or playing with the neighbor's pit-fighting dogs, yeah a woman does that and then it's all 'indictment this' and 'prosecution that' just because a little incident happened and someone's child sort of died. Well I'm sorry you don't have a granddaughter any more, Mom but boohoo life goes on, you know?"

"Wow. Just so much wow. How unfair."

"Precisely, and let's not forget that a woman is judged for her past and future mistakes. Mistakes that have not even happened!" 


"For example you lose one or two children and suddenly people are telling you you're a bad mother!"

"Ah ha. So you are saying that Eeveellary Bintonian is being judged not only for what she has done, but what she might do? And men are not?" 

"Correct. Though we might judge them if we know what they will do. But that's a whole freaky area and can't happen. Unless the space-time continuum breaks down in some previously unknown fashion and the past and future start to collide in some crazy kooky but hilarious way."

"Well there you have it. Bintonian, don't judge her judgments, past, present or future. Forgive or forget or forget the future or whatever. So a few people died who shouldn't have. A few soldiers came back bit by bit in used matchboxes and sandwich bagggies. So I put a screaming child in the washing machine. That's no reason to become alarmed." 

"So true. Next up: Will rampant zombieism bring back vinyl records? One industry spokesmen says it just might. Really? That's our next story? Are you fucking kiddding me? Oh, is this still on? Sorry, listeners, it seems that our engineer just ate the producer and is munching on his intestines as we speak. Oh fuck I forgot the fucking trigger word. Zombies. There, are you happy, trigger people? Feel better now! Dammit all why did I ever go into radio?" 

Friday, May 6, 2016

#chapter1.08 - radio haze

the mCsituation

Tragically, someone then changed the channel. (We shall never know whom, in all likelihood, although scholars will continue to debate this for decades to come.)  "Hello and welcome to our live video feed from our studios in Washington," intoned a pleasant, reassuring voice.

"There's a lot going in the world. Reports are coming in from all over the nation that civilization itself is collapsing. Mysterious disappearances have reached untold numbers. Strange and highly disturbing reports of murder and cannibalism permeate the airwaves. So we open this GoodGood Morning Edition with a hard-hitting interview. With my dog, Oedipus Rex." The camera pulled back to reveal a dog sitting in the studio. "Arf!"

"Now Rex, there are many horrible things that are happening. Or, seem to be happening. Videos of accidents, explosions, humans devouring other humans alive in ghastly orgies of blood. So let me ask you, Rex--and please allow me to apologize in advance if this question is too harsh or direct or probing or substantial in any way--I hope you will understand-- but here at NPR, we try to take an objective approach.

Rex nodded his head "Arf."

"Thank you for understanding. Now Rex, here is the question I must ask, which all of America is doubtless asking. Rex: Are you a good boy?"

"Arf!" Rex exclaimed. The news anchor/host tossed Rex a biscuit. "Very good!" she exclaimed.

"But Rex--and I have to ask this--are you sure you're a good boy? And before you answer,  remember that this is being recorded and transcribed for posterity."

Rex wagged his tail. "Arf!"

"And will Eveellary Bintonian be the best president ever? Or the bestest ever?"


"That sounded to me like 'bestest'. And so it stands, America. Rex is a good boy, and Madame Bintonian will be the bestest president in history. Next up: A hipster folk band is here to debut a song they've just written called, um, 'Braiiiiiiiins!'. Hey guys I'd like to welcome you to Good Morning Edition and goddammit I even own a vinyl imporession -aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiedeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
The news anchor protested mightily as she was torn limb from limb by a heavily bearded folk trio.
 'Great inteview,' thought Miranda. 'Wish I could get paid to talk to a dog and be eaten by a hipster folk trio.

Friday, April 29, 2016

#chapter1.07 - a new coke (part ii)

the mCsituation - a new coke (part ii)

Video monitors everywhere showed the same thing: Eveelaree basking in the worship of her disciples.

"Hail The New Coke! Hail The New Coke!"

"Yes!", she shouted, "yes! Me me meeeeeee!"

The devotees shouted in response: The New Coke!"

"I'm going to fight for everyone!

"Welcome to Eveellaree's America, we are all equal!"


"I'm going to fight for every American!"


"Mysanta Corp! Generalz Electrons! Patent Protectorate LLC! Fapple Incorporated! Alllll the Americans!


The list went on. "The Oily & Gassy Conglomerate! Unnatural Fumes Inc.!"


"And my favorite person in the world--what the hell?"

She was interrupted by a loud whistle which was increasing in pitch rapidly. Then there was the sound of a rather quiet explosion. Eveellaree pointed upwards and shouted: "The Sandman! Destroy him!"

The camera pulled back to reveal an elderly, balding man wearing spectacles and a jet pack, circling overhead. The hooded figures reached up futilely to stop him to no effect; apparently their sycophantic ways had given them no experience in brining fl ying old people out of the sky. Otherwise, they might have realized that their arms were too short to grab anything that rose higher than the height of their extended arms. "There are things higher than I can reach, who knew?"Eveellaree was apparently not one to tolerate whining as she instantly blasted the whiner with red laser beams shooting out of her eyesockets.

"Suck on my truth bombs, toots!", shouted The Sandman. Lie-seeking missles were fired out of the jet pack, landing with ear- splitting pew-pews!

Eveellaree raised both arms and cried, "Media of Mainstream, protect me!" Instantly a wall surrounded her: A wall of tweets , twitters, twatters, posts, soundbites, and condescenion arose to shield her. A truth bomb of "inequality" exploded against a tweet of "It was like that when she got there", and exploded harmlessly. Then another and another rose, rendering the entire barrage harmless.

Within seconds it was over. Eveellary stood, smiling and unscathed. "Ha! Take that, Sandman!"

"Truth will out and I shall return, or something," retorted The Sandman. He jetted up and out through a skylight, which did shower everyone below with broken safety glass.

Back on the lounge of Air Force Two, Miranda raised her eyebrows at the sight. 'So that's why they're so loyal. By John Daltrey's haircut I'm beginning to like this woman. A lot. Now if I can just shoot lasers out of my eyes, I'll be the queen.' Glancing about the lounge's survivors, she then thought, 'Of what exactly, I'm not sure. Probably not worth the bother. Meh. Some day I'll find a mob worth eliminating with my laser-beam powers of destruction. Just as soon as I aquire them. Soon, yes, soon, heh heh.....

Friday, April 22, 2016

#chapter1.06 - a new coke

the mcSituation - a new coke

On the lounge's monitor, George 'Shrubya' Shrub cleared his throat loudly: "Okey-dokey now. My first order as new president will be--"

In the lounge of the aircraft, the screen went blank. The survivors, crammed together in their small refuge, looked on at the television spectacle before them in disbelief. "So who's the president now?", asked one. "We're on Air Force Two? How exciting!" cried another.

"Not. So. Fast." A woman's voice, hoarse from age but still loud, interrupted the newly self-declared president. Another frame inserted itself with a woman. Standing on a stone pedestal, she was surrounded by hooded figures in black robes in a scene lit by torches.

"Well well well, Evellaree Binton--you have a nasty habit of surviving," said Obtuso.

"Your drone t'was not quite so strikie as you thought, Mr. President. Or should I say, Mr. Soon To Not Be So Presidential."

"And your keen sense of wit remains intact."

"I, um, it, er, has, or has not, depending on the context. Wait, are you being sarcastic? Never mind, I don't care. Point is: I did not die. Indeed, My powers have miraculously increased! Vote for me, Amer I'm the new president!" she cried. As if to prove her point, her frame expanded to cover 3/4 of the screen. The others diminished to small squares.

"And why in the Charles Dickens would they vote for ya?", shouted Shrub. "My dad day was the president. Yer daddy sold life insurance!"

"Because! Only I can do things. I do things. Then--and this is a critical point so please remember this--I then make those things done."

George scratched his head. "Eh?"

"For it is in the doing of things that things are done. Monumental accomplishments of having-gotten-done-ness."

Obtuso interrupted. "Well, we're just sort of wondering, um, what have you ever really, you know, done? Because my mind is a blank."

"What have I done? What have I done? I've put more people in prison than any other American politician in history! I've cut off more benefits to the undeserving moochers than Saint Reagan. And I've helped kill way more people than that dickless old pee-pants ever did."

Her disciples chanted as one: "All praise Old Pee-Pants!"

"--and I've helped start three disastrous wars! I've helped create the greatest refugee crisis in recent times!"

Obtuso replied. "Okay, I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that those are not really positive accomplishments which have made the world a better place," said Obtuso. (Which he stated in his reasonable-let's-all-compromise-on-something-we-can-agree-on voice."

George cut him off. "Wait a second, I'm starting to like this woman. She's like me, except she's a Donninator. Not as good as 'Deciderino' but it's still pretty good." said Shrub.

"You've known me for 20 years!"

"Oh, right, now I remember. You helped me become a war-time president-y!"

"Damn right. It was a good war," she said.

"Damn good war," replied George emphatically. "And some damn good bombs."

"The best." They both sniffed, perhaps feeling a bit sentimental at the thought of together, how many people had been exploded. Or about how many had not. <i>So many bombs but so little time,</i> thought George.

Shrub nodded in approval. "Damn good. But yer daddy wasn't the president so fuck you."

"Goddammit, I've outlasted New Coke, I'll outlast Old Coke, and I'll outlast both of you. All of you. I am <i><b>Brand Binton</b></i>"

"All hail me, Brand Hillary!"
The hooded disciples began genuflecting towards their leader. "Brand Binton is our new soda! Old Coke is dead! All praise The New Coke!"

In the still-cramped space of the aircraft's lounge, the crowed began shouting: Hail the New Coke! Hail the New Coke! he new soda!
Why is she wearing a yellow raincoat indoors?, asked Mr. Schlock.

Miranda shrugged. "Easier than a liposuction," she suggested.

Sunday, April 10, 2016

chapter 1.05 - #thanksobtuso

the mCsituation 1.05

A voice crackled the audio system of the pressroom. "Hello, this is George from Dallas. Long time listener, first time caller. I have a question and a comment."
"Hey George, how's the weather in Dallas today?" asked the president.
"Actually I'm trapped in a plane over the Atlantic Ocean right now," replied George.
"Ah, I see. Well I look forward to visiting Dallas soon," said President Obtuso. He quickly added, "After my term is up. Not when I'm president, oh hell no."
"No, we don't much care for presidents who are still alive, heh heh." There was a long pause. "Heh."

"Seems to be the case there in Dallas. Alrighty, go ahead with your question or comment George."

"First of all, my comment: Guess who's baaaaaaack? It's me, George! Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh "

"Are you one of the ghosts living in the television static?", asked the president. Because I gave that TV to the Salvation Army."

The caller did not respond but merely kept on chuckling. "...heh heh heh heh heh heh heh..."

"Did you have a question, George in the plane from Dallas?"

"...heh heh heh heh heh heh heh..."

"Alrighty then, thank you for the call George but we have to move on."

Another voice, one of an old and man, interrupted. "Shut up and get on with it George! "

Obtuso's tone became incredulous. "Hold on! Is that--Dick Vice? I mean Vice Dick?"

""That's correct, the Trickster Dickster is back. Now you listen up here, Obi-wan Keyan."

"I'm from Illinois, dickweed!"

"Nairobi, Chicago, same-same. George is back. Or I'm back. At least one of those two. The nation needs my vast experience in making decisions terrible decisions in a crisis. I mean George's decisions. He makes all of the decisions. Right George."

George piped up. "That's right! Mah country needs me. And you're going to be calling *me* El Presidental El Presentiment. Presimentos. Whatever. Dig? Now get outta' mah crib.
Obtuso became furious. "Not a chance. You are both wanted criminals and must turn yourself over to federal marshals immediately. The people decide who leads this nation."

ViceDick spoke again. "You mean the sheep believe what they're told to believe for they're own good. Mostly for mine but also their's. How do you think George became president twice?"

"That's right, I'm the Decidonator. Now. I mean, again. Again and now. Or whatever. Air Force TWO out. Oh, and my first order is to the Air Force: Shoot down Air Force Uno. Unless I'm on it. I'm not on Air Force Uno, am I, Dick? "

"Goddamit George just hang up."

"Yes sir."Connection terminated", came an automated voice over the loudspeaker system.

"Phone, dial star-6-9," ordered President Obtuso.

"Sorry," replied the automated voice. "That service will not work for calls made from the stratosphere."

"Very well, then, who's our next caller?"

"Hi, this is Jedediah somewhere in the Sovereign State of Appalchia and I am thrilled that you have been fired.
Go freedom!"

"Next caller."

The voice of a man sobbing into the phone filled the auditorium. "This is Jeb Shrub from Florida and I was supposed to be El Presimentos! Dang it all bro!"

"Oh, sorry to hear that Jeb," said Obtuso.

"Really, you are?"

"No." The president hung up.

The monitors to the sides of the pressroom were suddenly filled with an image of George Shrub.

At that moment, there was a static noise from a monitor, and then a face appeared on the one of the giant monitors.

"Hello my fellow Americans. Say hello to you old boss who is now your old boss again. Wait,let me start over...Greetings fellow americans, say hello to the bossa nova, same as the old bossa nova. Is that right? No? Well screw you. I'm the president. Again."