Monday, June 13, 2016

chapter 2.02 pre-victorious


Like a three-legged camel crossing the vast emptiness of the Gobi Desert, the National SomethingSomething Radio reportage of the pre-victory pre-acceptance victory acceptance speech lurched onwards towards nothing at all.

"Hello, this is Jack Werthless in Washington. Anonymous Intern, can you tell us what is happening?"

The intern reported what she was seeing. That way, every listener would have a rough idea of what  talking looks like. She spoke with hushed excitement. "Jack, I can tell you that Queen Bintonian is now opening her mourh. Air is appearing to move into her lungs, yes, air is somehow being displaced by a pressure gradient into her lungs. Oh, now the pressure gradient has been reversed. Air is being forced out of her lungs. Repeat! Air is being forced out of her lungs! Hark! She speaks!"

"My name is Eevellary Bintonian." A roar of thunderous applause was heard.

"She has created speech! She has created speech by passing air through her vocal mechanism, stimulating the vibration of the vocal cords themselves! Amazing! And what a profound statement. She has told us her name!"

"Because my name is Eevellary Bintonian." More thunderous applause.

The intern continued. "It appears that her plan is to continue the cycle of alternating pressure gradients to force air into and out of her lungs! This will allow her to speak many words!"

"Amazing," said Jack Werthless in D.C.

"Excitingly amazing!" replied Anonymous Intern.


"Ah! She's about to create another amazingly exciting sentence!", said Intern.

"And furthermore, unlike my opponent, Burning Sandman, my name is Eevellary Bintonian!"

The crowd roared again. "Braiiiiiiiiiins!" they cried in unison.

"What was that, Anony?", asked Jack Werthless in D.C.

"It appears," replied Anonymous Intern, "that many of the those present are the zombie-like undead creatures. Which should have been obvious from their blood-soaked clothing, the bits of brain and intestines clinging to their mouths, their slow, clumsy movements, and the fact that none of them seem to be able to clap their hands. They keep swinging and missing, hitting the zombie next to them, and then they begin eating one another. However, their enthusiasm for Ms. Bintonian is very evident, very amazing, and very exciting!"

"And as my mama used to tell me..."

"Oh, she's winding them up with a 'my mama' anecdote, the cheering and excitement is unbelievable."

"Ahem, as my mama used to tell me, the best meal is meal of human brains!"

The crowd roared. "Brainsssssssssss!"

Anonymous Intern had to shout over the noise of the crowd. "Jack in D.C., the crowd is eating this up!"

"Wow! Tell me, are there any, you know, people who are still alive in the audience?"

"It does appear that there is one--oh wait, she panicked and they got her. They got her."

"What happened, Anony?"

"Well Jack in D.C., they ripped her apart and are now feasting upon her flesh and guts. Oh wait, now one has cracked open her skull cavity. Yes, the creatures are going in for the gooey mess that is the human nervous system. They are very excited!"

"Are there any  other--"

"Wait Jack, she is about to make another word. Perhaps another sentence. Oh Jeebus this is exciting and amazing and stuff!"

"That's right, there you go, feast upon those delicious nutritious brains. Vote for me and you will never want for brains!" 

"Sounds like she's really pandering there to the undead voters," said Jack in D.C.

"Well Jack in D.C., that's politics. Oops, buckle up kids, here comes the big finish!"

"Yesterday, my name was Eevellary Bintonian! Today, my name is Eeveellary Bintonian. And tomorrow my name will still be Eevellary Bintonian! Unless I legally alter my name or get a divorce, my name will always be Eevellary Bintonian! And this year I'm going to go to Washington  D.C. and people will call me Eevellary Bintonian!" 

"A powerful message," said Jack in D.C., "but will her promise of more human brains resonate with the supporters of Burning Sandman?"

"If they have half the love for human brains that this crowd does, no doubt about--oh hell, they spotted me. Gotta' go."

"Good luck, hope you don't get eaten, heh heh. Next up: Why won't the Sandman just do us all a favor and drop dead?"

Friday, June 10, 2016

chapter 2.01 - pre-acceptance acceptance of the pre-victory victory

the pre-acceptance acceptance of the pre-victory victory

From the speakers came more annoying, pointless speech. One voice was somewhat human, but at the same time sounded completely spineless--invertebrael, one might say. "Hello, this is National SomethingSomething Radio with Ari A. Lapdog. And this is another overpaid lapdog."

"I'm just an intern," came the voice of a young women. 

"Oh boo hoo. You're here because you're a girl. So what do you think about this momentous occasion of a corrupt, war-mongering narcissist who is about to accept her pre-acceptance with victory speech for a victory she has yet to win? You must be very excited about this momentousness. I mean, you're both girls!" 

"Let me check the script. Okay, it's um, where's my line, oh screw it--this is the best toothpaste ever!"

"We're selling a candidate here, not toothpaste. Yet. This is journalism, remember: So just read the script."

 "Oh, right right, it's a public service. We only sell brands. Like the best brand of all, Brand Bintonian!"

"I think you're getting it!"

"I'm so excited about this motherfucking toothpaste dammit! Keeps your teeth white as fuck!"

"Bintonian, Brand Bintonian."

"The candidate?"

"Yes, the candidate!"

"She will keep your teeth white! Also: Send us your money, don't be a free-loading cunt!", exclaimed the intern.

"Now you've got it!"

"But if you want my honest opinion, as a woman, I believe that I really cannot support Eevellary Bintonian for president because--"
Ari A. Lapdog cut her off with a line usually only heard in pornograpic videos: "Shut up you stupid bitch here she comes here she come oh she's coming!" he squealed. He began stomping his feet, Unable to contain himself, he stomped his feet in anticipation. 
A curtain parted, revealing a golden throne upon a dais. And on the throne sat the prematurely victorious not-yet-a-queen queen, Eevellary Bintonian herself. 

"A thunderous applause is going through  the crowd of vetted Bintonian supporters! The people who loved her five minutes ago still love her!", cried Lapdog. "Okay, the throne is levitating forward to the microphone. And her mouth is opening--she's about to speak--and oh godddddddddddddddddddddddd!" Ari Lapdog then passed out cold. As his body slumped to the ground, the intern snatched the microphone from his hand.

"Ha, now it's my time to shine!", she cried. "She appears to be inhaling air into her lungs. And now the first word is coming out now...any second now...and here it is!"

And then, clearly reveling in non-victory, Eevellary Bintonian emitted a word. The word resounded throughout the crowd. 


"Braiiiiiiiiiiiins!" roared the crowd.

Sunday, June 5, 2016

chapter 2.0 - radio haze (iv)

notes of future  past

To: The Desk Of Dr. Glyxxzzitt Borg, Professor of Human & Earth Studies, Earth University

Dear Professor, 
Enclosed is the file you requested of this thing known as "public radio" or "pubic radio" (we had long hours of discussion about the proper spelling. In fact a bout of fisticuffs broke out! Our expert on Americanese, Dr. Fryxxzzitt Borg (no relation) attempted to punch the professor of Australianese right in his external orosensory gland. Instead it ended up smashing into one of those strange metallic Earth artifacts which clutter his office (I think it he calls it a "blender", some sort of useless ceremonial gift handed out at weddings), and ended up shattering several small bones in his third arm, not to mention a great deal of blood loss. Therefore it will be some time before we can supply you with further transcripts. Let us hope this will suffice for now. 

**MINCEMEAT [note: more radio]]**

[translator's note: transcript, 21st century Earth era; source unknown]

Anchor: In people who matter have died news, reports are filling our inboxes here indicating that dance-rock-pop-soul-rhythm-and-blues-musician-songwriter-appeared-on-innumerable-posters-and-t-shirts guy, Mince, died from an accidental  overdose of Lesspainfulnyl. Although Mince was taking the drug to relieve physical pain from an injured hip and he decided to forgo surgery for that pain, and belonged to a cult that forbids surgery out of some batshit interpretation of book written thousands of years before anesthesia and antibiotics, and in spite of the fact that it should be common knowledge after 40 years of drug war hysteria that any opiod produces physical dependency, let's frame this from the perspective we should: Addiction.  Dr. Addiction, welcome. 

[Translator's note: still working on translation of 'batshit'; may have been a popular character of local folklore who brought fertilizer to the ancient humans. See my monograph, "Origins of the Batshit Myth: Questions Without Good Answers." In addition, "Anchor" seems to have been a very common name. Whether it was passed down matrilineally remains a matter of intense dispute.]

Dr. Addiction: Zombies ate my family!

Anchor: We brought you here to talk about someone who matters.

Dr. Addiction: Right, sorry.

Anchor: Perhaps the zombies were high on smack?

Dr. Addiction: Oh, no doubt about it. Opiod addiction is the greatest crisis facing our nation except for the zombie holoc-

Anchor: I'm sorry but we're not discussing that. Do you want this shot to raise your profile and get that CRAP TALK on youtube?


Anchor: Good, then play ball and MAYBE you'll get somewhere.


Anchor: Alrighty, now settle down...

Dr. Addiction: Ahem, right.

Anchor:  ...and tell us how dangerous this drug is.

Dr. Addiction: Worse than having to see zombie sucking out your wife's brain. And I should know. 

Anchor: That's better. Your future is starting to crystallize and I can see your speech on ubertube. And on the side column I can see links to dozens of extremely popular cat videos. Yes, you will be that popular.

Dr. Addiction: OH GOD OH GOD--

Anchor: Ahem.

Dr. Addiction: Sorry. Started to get carried away there.

Anchor: No need to make orgasmic noises, this isn't some Nora Ephron crap from the 80's.

Dr. Addiciton: Who? What?

[Translator's note: "Nora Ephron" appears to have been another figure of folklore, feared as a supernatural being who would somehow get into one's home with her demonic powers of "basic cable connection", whatever that could be, and steal children's souls with bad cinema.]

Anchor: Never mind. Just compare Lesspainfulnyl to a banned, illegal drug so that we all know how bad and evil it is and make it sound as though we're standing up to HUGE PHARMA even though we're going to do nothing of the sort. 

Dr. Addiction: It's worse than the zombie holocaust because HUGE PHARMA.

Anchor: How huge?

Dr. Addiction: Enormously huge.

Anchor: Can you be more precise?

Dr. Addiction: Huge huge. I'm gesturing with my arms to demonstrate how huge it is.

Anchor: Remember, this is radio. People can't see you.

Dr. Addiction: HUUUUUUUGE....

Anchor: Horrible. There you have it, Mince is now meat. Heh heh, that's a good one.  Thank you doctor.

Dr. Addiction: I have to go bury corpses of my wife and children but not before I sever their heads from their bodies to prevent them from returning as undead.

Anchor: Thank you and you have a great day too!  

[Translator's note: End of file.]

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."

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

last apocalypse on the left: the mCsituation, 1.04 #thanksobtuso

the mCsituation, 1.04

The president's aide silently considered his options. "I wonder if the Army would loan me a helicopter. Hmm. Probably not. "Mr. President, we should do this in the press room." Perhaps by then we can get him to not do the hope'n'heal. Perhaps we could rally the nation around b-ball. Or whatever is left of the nation. .

Indeed it was not long before President Obtuso, in a nearly empty press room but a live camera feed, cleared his throat and began to speak.

Somewhere in America, in front of a store window filled with TV screens, the image of the president appeared. A group of shuffling undead stopped and looked, their very finite attention spans drawn by the bright blue images.

"My fellow Americans--no, not that one. Comrades--no. Surviving Americans who might or might not be in an indeterminate state between life and death. This is a hard time, especially for those out there who have lost their lives, loved ones, disappeared completely--well not sure about those, could be having a good time but let's not go off on tangent--um where was I? Ah yes, lost loved ones, or have even lost themselves, in some strange somnambulant state a'twixt this world and the next, barely cognizant of who they once were."

The group of creatures before the nodded. "Braiiiiiiins", they murmurmed with approval.

In the lounge of a 747 trapped above the Atlantic, another group had a different reaction. "Oh my god he's doing it again," said Miranda.

"Yes our nation lays in ruin and ash, but let us have faith in the power of hope and healing in the face of our collective tragedy which is--" (he paused to sort through index cards) "--lemme' see, gun massacre, gun massacre, gun massacre in a kindergarten, unsusccessful shoe bomber, sucessful shoe bomber, earthquake, volcanic eruption, gun massacre, end of world as we know it. Yes, let's go with that one.

"Braiiiiiins!", said the zombie-like creatures in approval.

"You called it, Miranda," said Captain Lockjaw, handing over a five dollar bill. "I was going to give him at least 48 hours."

One of the creatures in front of the store window was so deeply inspired by the president's words, that he picked up a loose piece of concrete (a piece which was there owing to deferred infrastructure repair as their city was spending most of its revenue paying off muni bonds with dizzying interest rates it had sold at the height of bond-o-mania). "Brains!", he cried, and threw it. The window shattered, with glass splinters flying.

"So I say: Hey. You. America! Things are looking bad but there is a glow over the horizon!"

The zombie grabbed one of the TV's and stumbled off with his loot.

--and although that glow might be a burning fire," continued the president, "aa bright new sun will shine on a nation remade. Or perhaps we'll just adjust the logo and branding, depending on how the next budget crisis sorts out. But with faith, hope and healing, and the power of faith in hope and healing, we can ensure the right of every American to have fresh human brains--wait a second, I never say that. Who's running the teleprompter? Where's Jerry the teleprompter guy?"

"Right here, Mr. President."

"I don't mean to pick nits but you used to look much more, well, alive."

"Brains! I mean, I'm fine Mr. President."

"You look bloodless and pale and there's cloud of flies buzzing around your head."


"Never mind, we'll just take some questions one. Alrighty then, I guess we will just take some calls. The number is, 555-WHITE-HOUSE. Is that number on the screen? Okay, we have a caller, it's, er, George from Dallas who's trapped on a plane over the North Atlantic and who is definitely not want4ed for war crimes. Is that right?"
Jerry nodded affirmatively. "Brains!", he said, with a thumbs-up.

"Okay, go head George Not Wanted For Warcrimes," said the president.

A mocking voice cackled over the pressroom's audio system. Guess who's baaaaaaack? It's me, George! Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh"

One by one, the zombies in front of the store window, grabbed an HD television set, and trundeled off with their booty.

another terribly unfair rant about someone the author has never met

I generally expect most politicians to bend/distort/lie, as otherwise they would never get elected--but Hillary isn't even good at it. She is good at repeating or rather emptying the exact same crockbucket over and over till some of the fools actually believe it, and I suspect, till she actually believes it...because her conscience appears to be an vacuum in which any convenient belief system can briefly exist before it begins gasping for air and is quickly snuffed out by the absence of oxygen within that cold and frigid bleak space known as Hillary's sense of scruples.
Things Hillary Hasn't Said Even Though She Did

I generally expect most politicians to bend/distort/lie, as otherwise they would never get elected--but Hillary isn't...
Posted by Shaun Gates on Monday, March 21, 2016

Saturday, March 19, 2016

chapter 1.03: #thanksobtuso

chapter 1.03: #thanksobtuso

The mysterious operative apologized profusely for coughing before the president of the more-or-less-free-world. "Mr. President, let me apologize on behalf of my sooty and revolting phlegm-congested lungs. It is not their fault I have abused them with a lifetime of tobacco abuse."

"That's okay, I do understand how hard it is to quit. My own lungs are seldom perfectly clear," replied the president. He then chuckled at his quip.

"Mr. President, if these were not such perilous times, I would reach down my throat and rip out my bronchial tubes out and present them to you at his very moment! However--".  Adam interrupted himself. He craned his neck just a bit towards the president, and in a barely audible (yet highly dramatic) whisper, added, "--these times are far too perilous for me to go without my bronchii."

"Thought that counts. "

"Someday you will have them, Mr. President. This I promise you. But not till my destiny is fulfilled. Or I my retirement papers go through, my wife is really counting on that to supplement her pension. One does not acquire great wealth teaching kindergarten."

"I am honored," replied the president. "But I think what America awaits an inspirational speech of hope, faith and healing. Hey, I can do it right from my meFone." Suddenly, before anyone could do anything, the phone was out and the president and begun a live stream video. 

"Noooooooo!", cried his aide, leaping through the air.

But it was too late.

"My fellow Americans..." began President Obtuso, speaking to the nation, "this is a time for faith, hope, and healing..." 

The president's aide glanced nervously out the window at the eerily quiet mob, which was pressed up to the very outer walls.  I wonder if the Army would loan me a helicopter. Hmm. Probably not. 

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

chapter 0: an introduction of a sort


The aircraft appeared to float above a layer of cumulus clouds far below;  lit in rosey hues, as the sun fell below the horizon ('fell' here is loosely defined). Friedrich Van Bilge marveled at the view. "Imagine, just imagine," he murmured. "How fortunate are we to have behold such beauty at this moment."

"Not really," said Mirada Lund, Senior Stewardess Extradinaire (though everyone just called her Miranda). She was also the woman whose right hand was clutching his left. Or more likely he was doing all the clutching.

"Seen it," said Mr. Schlock, first mate and co-pilot, and whose right hand clutched Miranda Lund's left. (Or perhaps the opposite; historical records are often vague when it comes to clutching in this era.)

Van Bilge had the uncomfortable realization that he was (a) standing next to assholes, and (b) holding Mr. Schlock's hand by proxy. This despite the fact that the proxy holding of hands had been ruled unconstitutional by the greatest court in the land. Although the court had ruled that there were certain exceptions, such as when attorneys for both plaintiff and defendant were required to sing 'London Bridge' in judicial chambers. (This was held to be true even when the judge joined in on the song. The appeal upholding mandatory skipping in the jury selection process was upheld without review, much to the chagrin of the parents of 11-year-old jump-rope champions who had found themselves serving as jury foremen.)
"It would of course be of assistance if we were not trapped on a plane that is very soon going to run out of fuel and plummet into the sea, killing us all, that we locked ourselves out of the cockpit and can't land the plane, that some of the passengers died and then were mysteriouly resurrected into some sort of strange parodies of humanity, mute beasts with a perpetual craving for human flesh, or that the entire continent seem to have been disrupted by these creatures."

A voice from behind piped in: "Oh, and you forgot the mysterious disappearance of millions of people around thhe globe, including some of the passengers, leaving cities littered with burning wrecks, plane crashes, and closed coffee shops."

"Yes, Captain Lockjaw, we remember because we were all here," Schlock coldly observed.

"Right on the same damn plane," said Miranda.

"Why are guys holding hands?" came another voice. Miranda groaned. For a few moments, she had thankfully forgotten that in addition to the flesh-eating creatures, the imminent crash into the sea, and that she somehow had found herself in a temporary relationship which could only be characterized as an act of desperation, she was trapped with her nemesis, Janie,Subordinate Stewardess. Blond, vivacious, flirtatious, and giggling at the drop of a hat,  Miranda generally referredto her by the moniker, "You there."  Though when she was in a better mood, she would address as, "Hey, you over there."

Both were secretly certain that someday soon, one would murder the other.

Her thoughts of murder were interrupted by a loud series of beeps. "What the hell is that, now?" she asked loudly.

"I set a timer so that I would know when we had 60 seconds to live," replied Mr. Schlock. Schlock made this statement in his typical calm, rational tone.

Lockjaw shouted. "Well turn it off, dammit, it's annoying!"

Schlock yanked his hand free from Miranda's clutch and pulled out his meFone.

Van Bilge felt Miranda's grip tighten; he pulled her close.
"I'd prefer it not to end like this," said Miranda.
"It's going to be okay after we're dead," he whispered soothingly.
"I wasn't too worried about that part," she replied, "but thanks."

The beeps beame louder. "49 seconds," said Schlock.
Lockjaw spoke louder. "Turn it off!", he commanded.
Schlock did not reply. "45 seconds...time still moving into the future and not the past..."
"Wow thanks," said Lockjaw.
"39 seconds..."
"Oh hell I have some chocolate, guess there's no harm in eating it now," said Lockjaw.

The noise intensified. The other passengers, overhearing the conversation, began screaming. The children (the ones still alive that is) began crying. "God save us!" cried a man(JLS).

Lockjaw opend the wrapper and began chewing on the candy. "I'm going to really savor this," he said.

"15 seconds!" shouted Mr. Schlock, trying to be heard above the crowd.

"I have to tell you something," Miranda shouted at Van Bilge.

"10 seconds"

"My advice -- make it short and to the point," he shouted back at Miranda.

"5 seconds!"

"I <i>blurgh</i> you!" shouted Miranda!

"0 seconds!"

"You what?", Van Bilge shouted back in reply.


Miranda shouted "I--"

But she was cut off by a silence that suddenly took hold of everyone. All seemed to be holding their breath at once. Van Bilge imagined he could hear the pause between heart beats, as if the entire crowd had taking a pause from being alive, waiting for the inevitable fall. Even Janie had shut up.

But the aircraft held steady. "Um, nothing's happening," he said.
"Are you complaining?", asked Mr. Schlock.
"I don't know, Miranda and I were sort of having a moment and--"
"No we weren't," she retorted.
"But you said--"
"Nope. Perhaps it was the television. Or your phone."
"But--oh forget it." He turned towards Schlock. "Another 10 seconds would have been nice, you could have counted out a bit more slowly."

Mister Schlock shrugged. "Sorry dude."
[end of introduction]

last apocalypse on the left: the mCsituation 1.02

the mCsituation 1.02

"Whatever has a way in, will have a way out, Mr. president," had said the impressively-resonant from the shadows in a strange, foreign accent which reeked of secrets and mystery (Australian or New Zealand maybe). The president could see only the dim outllines of a figure in the dark corner, the reddish glow of a lit cigarette moving upwards, a pause, and then a cloud of smoke rising upwards, illuminated by a beam of light form a high window, as if to say that the world itself were on fire

"What is this mysterious voice emanating from the shadows and blowing a cloud of symbolic smoke into the air?" asked President Obtuso.

"Mr. President, this is the liason from ISS," said the president's lackey.


The figured stepped out of the shadow. "Call me Adam--not my real name--of the Incredibly Secret Service Service," he said.

"Never heard of you. Or the--um--"

"ISS, Mr. president. We used to call it 'IS' but it caused a hell of lot of confusion so we changed the it to ISIS. Even ordered a statue of a naked goddess that was really, well," he said with a chuckle, "you could look at her for hours."

"I see."

"But then that terrorist group came along so we just put the statue in the men's room to get some use out of it."

"What department are you under?" "We are not under any department: We report directly to the president. But only when circumstances require that we do. We do the tasks that are too...shall we say unpleasant? For the rest of the secret security apparatus."

"I hope you understand that this is very serious. You're not allowed to smoke in this building. Not even I am allowed to smoke in this building."

"Ah, but the symbolism..." The president shook his head. Adam of the ISS put out his cancer stick by completely ramming it up his left nostril.

"Whoa," said the president.
"Our training inures us to pain in all its forms," Adam stated. You have no idea how many have succumbed to nostril torture." 

"Can you do that again?"

"No, once per day per nostril is my limit. Also I left my cigarettes in my desk."

"Well I would love to see that again some time." 

"Of course, Mister President, sir. And can I just say what an honor it is to--"

The aide interrupted. "Sir, shouldn't we get back to the immediate crisis." 

The president and the mysterious man looked at each other. "Raincheck," said Adam.

The president pointed one of his terrifyingly large index fingers at the man who called himself 'Adam'. "I'm gonna' hold you to that." Obtuso straightened his coat and tie. "Okay, time for one of my inspirational speeches about hope and healing," said the president. 

Groaning in despair, the aide slapped his forehead. It was only later that he regretted not having knocked himself unconscious.

Friday, March 4, 2016

last apocalypse on the left: the mCsituation, 1.01

the mCsituation

President B. Obtuso, elected leader of the America, presumptive leader of the more-or-less free world whether-they-like-it-or-not, peered through a window (see footnote, 1.01) of the Off White House. Beyond the gates, beyond the anti-car-bomb barriers, stood an enormous throng people choked the streets, as far as the eye could see (from that particular window). And yet, it was strangely silent. In fact, the members of the mob were barely moving. They just seemed to stand there, as if watching and waiting for something, some cue to act. 'But what?', he wondered.

He murmured to himself. "Ffffffffffascinating."

From behind, a staff member spoke up. "They are everywhere. We're surrounded. On every side."

"Yes that is what surrounded means, thank you for explaining that," said the president.

The aide's sarcasm detector failed miserably. "You're welcome, sir," he said in a cheerful tone.

Obtuso sighed. Idiots, I'm surrounded--by idiots! The president suppressed the urge to bounce a basketball off the aide's skull. Only one more year of this and then I can get fulfill my dream of backpacking through Europe.

"So no one would wake me up to let me know?"

"We, sir, Uncle Joe was here, he said he'd handle it."

"Uncle Joe? Since when does Uncle Joe tell you what to do? To whom do you report? Who is in charge of this place?"

"You, sir," said the aide, meekly.

"Damn right."

"Next time--"

"There won't be a next time. Or there wouldn't, but given the sit-rep-com, you have a chance to redeem yourself."


"So where is he now?"

"Who--oh, him. He, well, he, is..."

"For chrissakes spit it out man."

"Gone. Uncle Joe is gone, sir. "

"Where? How? When?"

"When, we're not sure. Where, we don't know. How, he commandeered a bulletproof limo and went out the east gate."

"Who let him out?"


"Of the cage."

"What cage?" The aide saw the president's impatience rampping up. "Sorry sir, I was not aware of that. Perhaps he escaped?"

"Escaped? Escaped? From our super-secret underground fortress below us? Impossible."

"Whatever has a way in, will have a way out, mr. president," came an impressive-sounding deep voice from an unlit corner. The voice conveyed notes of mystery, of forbidden knowledge,    It spoke in a strange yet familiar and yet also unidentifiable accent, which might have been Russian or Farsi or Arabic or Turkish or Australian maybe. Both president and lackey turned to look. But their eyes saw nothing other than a faint outline of a coat concealed by shadow. The only sure sign was the cloud of cigarette smoke wafting upwards . That and the loud, hacking, disgusting morning cough of a tobacco addict's accumulated night mucous.

"Ahem," said the disembodied voice. "Sorry Mr. President, I ran out of nicotine patches."

Sunday, February 14, 2016

funny = true

At some point, it's very possible that all the lies will pile up into one furshlugginer giant miasma which will implode...

Posted by Shaun Gates on Sunday, February 14, 2016

from the department of thought that cunt would never die: scalia died

Good riddance to bad rubbish. You see, you live long enough and have a positive attitude and good things happen. I'm...

Posted by Shaun Gates on Sunday, February 14, 2016

Wednesday, February 3, 2016


According to, 11,000 people have accidentally landed on my blog. #Success!
Posted by Shaun Gates on Wednesday, February 3, 2016

outside of a hillary's brain

I should probably find out for certain but the horrible truth for Hillary is that once more an underdog has undercut her...

Posted by Shaun Gates on Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

flint: notes from the vomitorium of national republican radio

Average white male pretty sure the whole poisoned water
biz just 'sort of  happened, you know?'
notes from the vomitorium of national republican radio
NPR takes on flint water crisis by talking to white guy from san franciso

NPR decided to spend its valuable helping its listeners understand the water crisis which affects primarily African-American residents by finding a white guy in San Francisco who wrote what sounds like an incredibly dull book about his hometown of Flint. This was great because virtually no one has seen the Michael Moore documentary about Flint, Roger and Me, so there is no way that anyone could be aware that Flint is part of America's vast rust belt which seem to be pretty much the entire nation these days. But wait--it gets better! The author tells us that when you have a city going downhill faster than the Frisco' trolley with brake failure..."bad things happen." So it's not as though this were anyone's choice, or decision: It was just the inevitable product of fate. But a fate wrought by the beauty of creative destruction, so let's remember that there is a very good chance that those brain-damaged kids whose lives have been destroyed will have access to cheap Android phones from China, or Manchuria, or Somalia, or where ever labor can be exploited for the lowest cost to the shareholders. The interviewer did not waste time with probing questions or even suggesting or even the barest hint that this crisis did not 'just happen'. Given the quality of the typical guest on this show, probably just as well. Remember: USA #1, and shouldn't Obama be bombing more people? You know, those people, over there? And what evil is that conniving Hillary up to, sending emails? What's next? Will she make phone calls? NPR will be there! #NPR, #FLINT, #LEAD, #WATER