Don Richman, winner of the 2024 Iowa Caucus, meets in his home office in Wealth Gardens, Florida, with his sons, Don Richman, Jr., and Erick Richman, along with special advisor, Michael Brainbox, a longtime Republican operative, pundit, suspected crime lord, and restauranteur.
Don Richman: What about my chances in New Hampshire?
Erick Richman: The Granite State, Dad. During campaign season news media and politicians refer to states by their nicknames.
Don Richman: I been taking that for granite and have already absorbed that information, Erick. I'm a savant in the memory game. I remember June third, 1972, first time I saw a dead body in a car trunk. A sixty-four Chevelle. Big man, squeezed in there like his killers packed parachutes during World War Two.
Don Richman, Jr.: Erick, once again you bring up a good point but as your big brother, it's my role to call you a dickhead.
Erick: Diarrhea breath!
Don Jr.: You're lame. Dad. You're going to crush Sumagee Dailey and Konrad Mantis in the Granite State. Why is that clown still in the race?
Michael Brainbox: He wants to be President.
Don Jr.: He's delusional, then. The Richman name dominates in the polls.
Don Richman: The polls matter. I used to say they don't, but I lied. I was campaigning.
Michael Brainbox: And you're a liar
Don Richman: I never lie.
Don Jr.: He doesn't lie, Michael!
Michael Brainbox: I'm here to tell you, Mr. President, like it is. I'm not a family member, much less two of three products of your marriage to a former aspiring Olympic skier.
Erick: Don't say anything bad about our mother!
Michael Brainbox: I wasn't going to. She tried to get onto Czechoslovakia's Olympic team but she just wasn't good enough.
Don Jr.: You've never seen her ski.
Michael Brainbox: Nor have the millions who have watched televised skiing events for the past fifty years, since she never achieved fame, nor did she win medals.
Erick: She's my Gold Medal!
Don Jr.: I suppose she's my Silver and our sister's Bronze?
Don Richman: I remember April twentieth, 1987, your mother made bread with Gold Medal flour, so I'd say she's Gold Medal-adjacent, but she's not your Gold Medal, Erick.
Michael Brainbox: All you have to do to win New Hampshire, the Granite State, is talk about immigration, the Parris administration's terrible foreign policy--how she botched Ukraine--and her handling of the Houthis.
Don Richman: She's been bombing them, what's she doing wrong?
Michael Brainbox: The core issue is Israel's treatment of the Gaza and the West Bank Palestinians.
Don Richman: Israel has the right to defend itself.
Don Jr. It has the right to exist.
Erick: I was gonna say that!
Don Jr.: Shut up.
Erick: You shut up!
Don Richman: Settle down. Whose side am I on, I mean, leaving all the campaign contributions from pro-Israel groups and individuals aside?
Michael Brainbox: You're smart enough to know the answer.
"One often hears government officials mentioning the 'Rules-Based Order.' It seems appropriate to capitalize the words. President Richman and President Bongo, President Arbusto, President Blade and President Arbusto Senior, and of course, the deity, the movie actor, General Electric shill, California Governor, and once-husband of Jane Wyman, a more significant actress than the second wife, Nancy Davis, Ronald Wilson Reagan (1911-2004), a lifespan encompassing two world wars as well as the Third World War he prepared the country for by spending gobs of money on nuclear weapons production to outspend and bankrupt the Soviet Union.
"The Rules-Based Order mantra is invoked when American officials speak of other nations not resisting U.S. exploitation, for having an aversion to the lethal delivery impacts of the United States Air Force and the United States Navy. Destroying from a height, as did, I'm sure, if it happened, Jehovah burning, pounding, crushing, earth-salting the wicked city of Gomorrah. I wonder if these same judgmental American officials contemplate the same divine punishment for Washington, or London, or Brussels, or...well, many other places from which emanate the bloodthirsty decisions of corrupt evil men and women. The assumption that consequences will never manifest from their actions is, I suppose, a sign of hubris. It's natural for resistance to intolerable conditions imposed by governments to be commonplace. The higher powers must assume, for they are capable of making observations, that the masses know by now that the uppermost elites don't care about most of humanity. Humanity, to these wealthy individuals, is the problem. Malthusian solutions are tried out. But even Raid doesn't get rid of all the ants.
"These elites find themselves faced with multiplying problems worldwide. President Parris's country seems to be getting squeezed out; not part of the BRICS organization; tied to numerous wars, occupying Syria illegally, giving Israel an endless supply of bombs while offering paltry aid to the Palestinians the bombs are murdering. Every dying civilization must enter a point of rampant absurdity, and of telling more and more lies to its people. Corporate news at this time lends itself willingly to propaganda distributed by the U.S. government, by Israel, by Ukraine, by NATO. In Cold War days, American intellectuals proud of their country's freedoms, condemned the Soviet newspaper Pravda, which means "truth." The paper, of course, was full of lies. Now, the New York Times, the Washington Post, MSNBC, CNN, Fox, the three old main networks, PBS and NPR, are all full of self-serving lies, government influence locked in through careful cultivation of journalists."
From the chapter, People Who Talk About 'Core Values' Probably Don't Have Core Values
Samuel Busk, Ball Point Thoughts, Good Day Press, 2018
President Parris sits in her office, reading a trade paperback, the one quoted from above.
Parris: (in soliloquy) Damn! I need to carve out more time for reading! I'm rusty, and these paragraphs are thick. This author Samuel Busk, I'd like to hear his ideas in person. (Buzzes her latest secretary) Honey? Good, you've figured out how to operate the intercom. Take this down. I want a lunch with Samuel Busk, the author. Entice him, say it's on the President's dime. Dime? Yes, dummy! Dime! Money! I'll pay for the meal with Mr. Busk out of my personal four hundred thou a year. Four hundred thou! I'm thinking about signing an executive order raising my pay, oh, one point two million dollars per month? Honey, you just heard a presidential interior thought, not an executive order. How much do you think I should make? Ten million a day? You're sucking up to me because you think I think you're a dummy. Track down Busk.
(Muttering to herself) I should read more of Busk's book. I'll do it while I do my daily Kegels. I control Doug with my daily Kegels. Heck, I control men with them. My breasts have also received compliments. Just last night at the Rwandan ambassador's party five men stared at my boobs. I had a pushup bra on. The whole world stares at my boobs. No one absorbed the information the Rwandan ambassador said, "Yes, the 1994 genocide was even worse than the Palestinian one in terms of numbers killed thus far, but we must oppose Israel's genocide of Palestinians and America's support of that genocide."
Yeah, okay, sure, Mister, you try to run a country!
I looked straight into the camera and said Hank Killinger was a good man, my eyes in a dead stare, how could I be lying to you? I am woman, feel me bite. Dinah the snake, watch out for my fangs. I smell with my tongue. I slither, I'm Dinah Parrissssssssssssss. Parrissssssssss. (She gets down and crawls on the floor, sinuous like her snake persona, saying "Parissssssssss, Parisssssssssssss")
Arthur Steffen, Secretary of State: (upon entering the Oval Office) Have you gone crazy this early in the job? Wait until election time, you'll be a nervous wreck, or I'll be.
Dinah flips her body (she does yoga) into a comfortable cross-legged seated position, patting the floor beside her.
Dinah: Come on, Artie.
Artie: So, you're a lizard person?
Dinah: No, I'm a strong Black woman. I rule the country.
Artie: You don't.
Dinah: Who does?
Artie: The people who control the money. We are middle management, my dear. I say this knowing my preferred candidate, Gabrielle Bongo, the elegant one to vote for, she's on the cover of Vogue this month--
Dinah: I saw. She looks like a First Lady.
Artie: The cream and pale gold banded pillbox Jackie K.-style hat supports that look. In her brow one can see determination. She will seize the nomination from you, Madame President.
Dinah: I scoff.
Artie: In an alternate reality you have nothing to fear from the Bongos, or from the Blades, but in this reality you must fear them. Their connections go deep.
Dinah: For they are corrupt.
Artie: As are we all, honey.
Dinah: Who is my greatest enemy, Artie?
Artie: Cassandra Blade and, to a lesser extent, Billy Boy Blade.
Dinah: How are your relations with the Blades?
Artie: Mostly non-existent these days.
Dinah: You feel no loyalty to them?
Artie: (laughs through his nose) Nor to anyone.
Dinah: Would you help me involve them in a scandal?
Artie: Sounds fun. When do we start?
Dinah: We'll use Doug. He'll make a good unwitting player. Doug is close to the Blades. Doug went to Terry Stein's island. He said he played ping pong with an underage girl but he had no statutory rape sexual intercourse with anyone, except someone slipped him a mickey. He woke up naked, covered with animal grease, the skin of a sacrificed deer nearby, a naked girl sleeping on a cot. Terry Stein was more than a practical joker. Terry and I were lovers back when I was about twenty-one, twenty-two. Insatiable he was, still is if you ask me. I think a double got killed in place of Terry. I'm blathering on about secrets, aren't I?
Artie: It's my favorite thing that you do.
Dinah: So that means Terry Stein is alive, if not well, well enough. He's changed identities, changed his face maybe, his hair, his gait, his way of holding a fork, his method of tying his shoes, his preference for twice morning sex over thrice evening sex, all changed. He is the same man, but his outward ways are strange to his old self. My, I feel slightly high. I think that mild bud finally kicked in.
Artie: Creeper, Madame President?
Dinah: Night of the Living Creepers. How come we never fucked, Artie?
Artie: I can't stand you.
Dinah: Right. There's nothing about your body that I find appealing, either. Your face looks twenty-one but your visage looks fifty. Your eyes are hard and mirthless. You have no warmth. Ray Holroyd has warmth. You are a cold fish. I prefer my men cooked.
Artie: Funny you should mention Holroyd.
Dinah: How do you mean?
Artie: He's getting together a presidential campaign.
Dinah: Holroyd for president?
Artie: Delusional, yes? I think he wants the attention. He's got a book coming out, too, with interviews and punditry slots.
Dinah: I'm going on the internet to let everybody know I do not endorse Roy Holroyd for president.
Artie: How could you since you're to be running against him?
Dinah: What you said.
Roy Holroyd in the back of a Defense Department limousine, a stretch 1985 Cadillac, with Terry Stein, who hasn't done anything to his face or changed his gait, or his hair, or his way of holding a fork. He doesn't use silverware anymore. He eats with his hands and plenty of napkins.
Terry Stein: We still have Operation Morbidity to discuss. Tell me about its progress, and tell your driver to drive around, not aimlessly, but avoid the area near the police station. Now, Roy, my friend, my good friend. You know I have your back. Of course you do. You can share anything with me, including your wife, Sandra, how is she? Last time she bit my nipple pretty hard. I thought it would fall off but one of my nursing students glued it back on with Gorilla Glue. Did you know that Gorilla Glue will hold together two wooden planks? Just try to separate them. Go ahead, try. Yes, Gorilla Glue makes for some sticky business. Just three-ninety-nine per tube at Zetotz and Liebling, I like to give them business, your proverbial mom and pop store. Small time capitalism. Not me, I'm big time capitalism where it interfaces with criminality. Zetotz and Liebling, free bag of movie theater style buttered popcorn every Saturday, around noon till closing, first come first serve. Need a screw? Need a cellophane-wrapped set of six blank VHS video tapes? Need a pink gumball? How about a snow shovel? Tampons? Yes, sir, they have tampons. Spark plugs? Yes, of course, Aisle 3, Zetotz Junior will take you directly to your plugs. They have teat dip, too.
Roy Holroyd: Terry, have you malfunctioned? You seem to be reliving memories of this hardware store?
Terry: I worked there in high school and in summers during college. The Elder Zetotz looked like Jack Albertson. He wouldn't allow even BB guns in the store, but after he died Zetotz Junior sold guns. Tom Liebling took over, retaining the Zetotz name but not the Zetotz soul. Liebling fired nine employees, three of whom worked there for more than thirty years. He trimmed down the organization, got rid of the quirky not very often bought items, but that was part of the store's charm. No charm for Liebling. Liebling, I'd like to sic one of my mind-controlled teenagers on him. Compromise the fool. Give him a taste of his own mistaken life. Tell me about Operation Morbidity.
Roy: You startle me with your abrupt change of subject. I woke up the other day and said, Roy, you better run for president. Dinah Parris can't be president anymore. Don Richman? Ugh. Cassie Blade? Yikes! Gaby Bongo? Too inexperienced. Moe Lieden? An old fart who smells like old farts, way too uninspiring. Plus, he's crazy. To save the republic, I will run.
Terry: And have the same luck as Alexander Haig.
Roy: Haig didn't have the internet!
Terry: Colin Powell had the internet and he never ran, though there was talk.
Roy: You cannot depress me into disbelieving in my chances at becoming the leader of the free world.
Terry: Oh, I believe in you, Roy. You're the last stroke of color that completes the painting.
Roy: Would you be my campaign manager?
Terry: To be president you have to make smart decisions, and asking me a question like that indicates you're not smart. Do you want a campaign manager who's in hiding?
Roy: Oh, I know people at Justice. They'll take care of your legal situation, reinstate you, resurrect you, no problem. After fifteen to twenty days everything will be fine for Terry Stein. Do you want to keep your name or do you want to try a new one?
Terry: I have aliases.
Roy: So do I. I use it at a brothel I frequent. Toy Lippers.
Terry: Cute. Are you drunk, Roy?
Roy: No, not drunk, I've had several drinks, maybe ten, but I'm steady as a rock.
Terry: I'll take your word for it. You must stop drinking if you wish to become president.
Roy: I want to stop drinking but I also want to not stop drinking. Do you have any money?
Terry: I only have Euros.
Roy: We can go to a branch of my bank, the drive-thru. Have you ever been through one?
Terry: Yes. I have this idea for a drive-thru chain where you pick up girls, maybe burgers too, they get loaded into your car. I'll have the short blonde with the tall brunette, and the chesty redhead for dessert. Have you ever considered the state of your soul?
Roy: I'm not on an immortality quest as you are, but I believe my soul is pure and good, and no matter what I do in this life, I will go to Heaven.
Terry: Who knows, who cares? I'm a nihilist. I expect the black endless shadow wherein Morgoth gnaws on the memory of his defeat.
Roy: Since you're officially dead, I can kill you and not be charged with murder.
Terry: Now I'll be one step ahead of you.
Roy: Did you ever bang President Parris?
Terry: No, I banged with a president.
Roy: Billy Boy?
Terry: Billy Boy.
Roy: I've banged President Parris. She's quite the hottie.
Terry: Is she your first--
Roy: --Black woman? Oh, I've had many Black women. Thirty at least.
Terry: I happen to know, from video evidence, that you're exaggerating.
Roy: I think banging the President counts for multiple bangs of other women.
Terry: I'll give you that. Does the husband know?
Roy: No, or I guess not. He's friendly with me, but he seems oblivious to reality.
Terry: It would be fun to fuck with Doug Gard.
Roy: Play a practical joke on him?
Terry: Yeah. Kidnap him and hold him on Paradise Island, my newly acquired personal country somewhere near South America. Doug would go for a young girl, I think. He's a weak man, a typical man, a waste of a man, an enfeebled man. Hey, there he is! Let's give him a ride. Mr. Gard! Would you like a ride in the Defense Secretary's limousine? Wouldn't it be nice to come in out of the rain?
Doug Gard enters, apologetic about being wet.
Doug: My wet hair must look awful. I'm glad I'm not about to go on camera. My wife, the President, likes to restrict the number of appearances I make on television, radio, newspaper, and web media. But here I am with Defense Secretary Holroyd. Hello, Mr. Secretary. I'm afraid I don't know you, sir, but you look familiar.
Terry: Rich Katz, First Observer of the Star Death.
Doug: The star death?
Terry: Betelgeuse. I saw it explode from much closer than here.
Doug: You've traveled in space?
Terry: We're traveling in space now. But yes, I've traveled.
Doug: Rich Katz? Where have I heard that name before? Do you know my wife? She's the president.
Terry: I know of Dinah Parris. A handsome woman.
Doug: Yes, I also find her very attractive. I've had sex with her many times. Oh, many many times. Yes, we enjoy the benefits of married sexual intercourse, not as often as I'd like, but I compensate by whacking off three to five times per week.
Terry: I thought I was forthright about my sex life.
Doug: I'm lucky to have such a tigress for a wife. She can order assassinations! She gets turned on when she kills, her juices overflow. My sex organ benefits from her long distance murders.
Ray Holroyd: She's a gorgeous piece, Doug, a gorgeous piece. (Lifts his glass) I salute...her bottom.
Doug: Ray, you're talking about my wife!
Ray: Dinah, yes. Dinah vagina. Dinah dynamite, Dinah vagina--
Doug: Roy, you better stop!
Roy: Do you want to fight in the limo? Wouldn't you rather drink?
Doug: I warn you, my wife is gorgeous, but you stay away from her genitalia!
Roy: No vagina for Mr. Secretary?
Doug: No Dinah vagina for you!
Roy: I have an announcement to make. I'm retiring from my post effective today. Yes, I'm going to quit in front of President Dinah. She'll be dismayed that I'm going to run against her for the nomination. She'll be turned on. Powerful men and risk-takers turn her on.
Terry: If you want to be a risk-taker, try faking your own death.
Roy: Someday I may have to.
Doug: Roy, if you think my wife will bang your brains out if you do this you're sadly mistaken. Dinah is my loyal steed. When I mount her, she does as I command and I commanded her on our wedding night to be loyal and steadfast, to fuck no other cock besides mine, to content herself with my unremarkable average cock. "Stay true to my cock, Dinah," I said, and she said "Yes! I will!" By the looks on your faces I'm suspecting I overshared?
Roy: (To Terry) It's a joke of destiny that such a magnificent Catherine the Great-type woman is saddled with such a specimen.
Doug: Roy, you don't say such a thing to a friend!
Roy: You're not my friend! No one is my friend! I am Caliban! I am Smeagol! I am Timon of Athens! I merely wish to bang Dinah one more time, then I'll stop cuckolding you, Doug.
Terry: Gentlemen, let's step back for a bit. Roy, you seem to want to hate-fuck the President, am I right? You feel let down because she didn't give you the extramarital relationship you were hoping for?
Roy: That about does it.
Terry: Doug, you love Dinah, you love her more than life itself. You and she would be nothing without the other, or so you believe. I suspect she'd do fine without you, but that's my opinion. In college I majored in opinions, and here's another: you're smothering your wife. Be there for her, give her room, she'll come to you on her own and she'll better enjoy the time together. Be gentle with her, because she has the power to destroy the world.
Roy: Like Kali.
Terry: Yes. Kali Dinah Parris. When I get back to my place I'm going to drink some mead I got from Denmark, along with fourteen blonde girls and another heifer for the island.
Doug: Now I know! You're Terry Stein!
Terry: Keep it to yourself, Doug. I have video of you from your trip to my former island.
Press conference, White House Briefing Room, not as cool as the briefing room where Kirk would consult with Spock, with Spock at the computer, which spoke in a woman's voice, predicting Siri.
President Parris and Secretary of State Sneffen stand to the side as Boodles McJoy, the latest press secretary in a string of them--Gabe Feldner, Brooke Halstead-Myers, Beach Montgomery, and Abe "Two Fingers" Jackson, a veteran wounded war correspondent. He brought scotch to the press briefings, swore at his colleagues, imitated a dragon, acted crazy whenever the cameras were on but like a sedate gentleman when they were off.
Boodles McJoy, fresh from a six month stint on The View, was captain of her debating team in college and a member of the sorority Tau Beta Gamma. If you don't know the significance of that sorority you are not in the know.
Boodles McJoy has no college degree. She dropped out to marry a rich man, the gasoline corporation heir, Boots Harriman. Picture Scott Glenn in Urban Cowboy. Boots was mean, vicious and terrible to anyone who questioned his authority. She moved his shoes on their wedding night. He went ape. Boodles had bruises, one on her left cheek. Lying about Boots's character gave her practice for lying as a White House Press Secretary. "He's a wonderful man is my Boots." No one would ever know Boots Harriman is a wife beater. High-strung Boodles McJoy got her last name by divorcing Boots after only eighteen months. She married her attorney, Gus McJoy.
Boodles: And without further ado...oh, I wanted to mention something. Some of you are asking questions that are above my pay grade. I don't want to sound ignorant, or like I'm concealing the president's position when I obfuscate, which is often, I admit. My purpose is to speak for the president, I am her mouth. Think of me, as a big Dinah-mouth. I can't do her laugh (chuckles) but I can deliver the heart message. She cares. Every death her administration causes is prayed for and felt deeply for a few seconds or minutes, or not at all. There are so many deaths. "Please try to minimize civilian casualties" we say to a certain country, and that certain country says "No, we're just going to continue our murder campaign as we see fit, so butt out of our business and keep the weapons flowing, chumps."
Reporter: When will the President speak to us?
Boodles: Trying to get rid of me? (Laughter in the room) Aw shucks. Without further ado, here is President Dinah Parris.
Dinah: Thank you, Boodles. I love that pin! It's been ages since I've seen you in person! You look good. Well, you look tired. I'm going to level with you, honey, you don't look well. Are you eating enough? Are you going through early menopause? Are you pregnant? Did you become a lesbian? Do you still want to be a man? You'd make a cute man. Keep that hairdo. You look like a doll. (Child's squeaky voice) Hello dolly! What's your name? My name's Dinah. I'm the leader of the free world.
Boodles: Madame President, I cannot accept this humiliation. I hereby resign my position as your fifth press secretary.
Dinah: Look at Miss Sensitive over here! Okay, McJoy, you're done, I'll find someone else. Maybe I'll do the job, how hard can it be? You there, reporter, what's your name, whom do you represent, and what is your question?
Reporter: What do you think of the new Hot Wheels movie?
Dinah: I haven't seen it. I watch movies if I'm interested in the subject matter. Like last night, I saw a TV movie, Mama, Come Home, starring Oprah Winfrey and Vittario La Das. Takes place in Ireland in 1897. Tom Hiddleston plays Dracula. This morning I was thinking about how John Kennedy died of a suspicious head injury. That's a joke, people! Some hit man motherfucker blew his brains out! Who paid him? Who contracted him for the job? Where is Corsica, anyway? And why did Jackie Kennedy climb onto the trunk of the presidential limo? Where is sanity? I'm proud to announce the launch of a new podcast: Dinah's Corner. I plan on getting some celebrity guests, as well as political types and news media employees. I might even interview the occasional poor person working two or three jobs to not even make ends meet. My first guest will be my husband, Doug Gard.
Reporter: Will Mr. Gard be a regular guest, a co-host perhaps?
Dinah: No, not likely. I might have someone like, oh, Cassandra Blade on, sitting by and reacting to my jokes with her distinctive laugh. She'd make a great Ed McMahon. (Feels through her pockets) Oh shit! I seem to have lost my lighter.
Secretary of State Arthur "Artie" Sneffen plays solitaire on his desk in his office in Foggy Bottom, State Department headquarters. The view through his three wide windows is one of dense fog, of opaqueness, symbolizing the long-term goals of State. He takes his data-armored phone, courtesy of McDonnell Douglas, from his belt phone holder.
Sneffen: Mrs. Bongo! Good to hear from you. I was planning on calling you later today. Work work work!
He places a black queen on a red king.
Sneffen: Oh, I've been on your campaign like a bloodhound scenting after an abductee...No, President Parris, unfortunately, has gained a point in popularity. You lost a point...I disagree, Ma'am...You needn't raise your voice...I'm doing all I can as Secretary of State, my actual job, plus fundraising for you and gathering influential supporters for you. The Queen of the Netherlands has endorsed you...I know, but it should inject confidence in you...that you're calling me while in such a needy mood speaks to your insecurity...Are you sure you're up to the challenges of the campaign, not to mention the Office you seek?...Okay, you're able, I believe you...eight years of watching your husband be the president taught you how to be the president...yes, that's how it works. Being president through osmosis. Of course, dear former First Lady, use your innate wisdom, your heart, to win the Democratic nomination. You're likely going against Don Richman in the fall, if you win the nomination...now, please, Mrs, Bongo, I'm just taking account of the frequent harshness of reality. Cassandra Blade was convinced she'd win in 2016, but Richman, yes, Richman! He has a following, if not a soul. Oh, well, I didn't mean to get into a Christian discussion of the soul, but I'm an atheist...Don't worry about my post-life, I find Heaven to be a good steak, a horror movie on my big screen tv, and, when I'm in the mood, a date, someone between twenty-five and forty...no, I'd rather not join your prayer circle...What can I do for you before the next debate? I can prep you, I mean I can play Don Richman, or maybe we could get Don Richman to stand in for Don Richman?...Offer him ten thousand dollars and he'd probably do it...Yes, a practice debate, for Richman as our guest and for yourself...I know you can't stand the man, but you have to behave like an adult and do something you don't want to do...Do you think I like working with Dinah Parris? I do it because my goals are on a horizon rather than up close...I'm not going to sabotage President Parris...No...I can't make her into a vengeful enemy, and she is vengeful, like a rabid she-cat...Now, Mrs. Bongo, my place in your administration, if it comes to pass, is secure?...As much as any job is secure? what does that mean?...When I dance I like to have the choice of many partners? Is that a metaphor? Are you talking of dancing or of your appearance on Dancing With the Stars?...Why not bring that up? You did well enough. You were clumsy and your timing was off in your last performance, but maybe that experience showed you that being on such programs is beneath you...Yes, I really believe that.
Arthur Sneffen chuckles silently to himself, eyes on the cards.
After a pause of months, I, the author, unlock these imaginary characters so that they may live again. The election nears, the campaigns of Richman and Parris--Holroyd's attempt fizzles--assault Americans with propaganda. One ad shows Richman's AI-assisted face making expressions in time with claims of his psychopathy. A Republican congressman who addresses the Democratic National Convention says, "Don Richman is literally insane." Putting the words literal or literally in front of a word like insane does nothing to modify the word insane. It's simply a lazy way of talking that makes this author weary. During President Parris's interview with CNN's Comet Crush, her running mate, Governor James Ames of the "great state of Minnesota" blames his false claim of carrying "weapons in war" on his "grammar," something his wife admonishes him about, or so he says--he makes things up to be liked, like politicians tend to do when they want ordinary people to regard them as human.
Speaking of human, none of the four top knobs from the two major parties running for President and Vice President are wholesome or appealing. Sure, their followers in the political racket claim that they're admirable. Dinah Parris has her shit together, supposedly. All she has to do is not say something outrageous, or laugh about human suffering. James Ames looks like a pale hairless teddy bear, and he loves the fuck out of Israel. Don Richman's going to "drain the swamp." He didn't do it when he was President for four years the last time, but who has a memory? His running mate, K.F. Cliche, says in an interview that there's something wrong with childless women, proving he has a knack for securing votes from single people and married couples who basically just don't want, or like, kids.
Meanwhile, the American empire continues to die while these four idiots pretend that it's as strong as ever and will become even more muscular. President Parris, in her DNC speech, boasts that she wants the U.S. military to be "the most lethal fighting force in the world," a declaration to make arms dealers ejaculate and foreigners to prepare means of thwarting such ambitions. After all, the United States military couldn't defeat the Taliban. But who cares? Human lives are cheap to people like Parris, Ames, Richman, and Cliche.
There's a good reason why Jesus of Nazareth didn't bother to try to secure meetings with political figures. As a prisoner, he had to meet with Pontius Pilate, an important Roman official, but he didn't give a fuck about the Emperor or the Pharisees or the Sadducees. He wouldn't bother with someone like Ronald Reagan or James K. Polk, or Liz Truss. Jesus knew, I assume, that such ambition-filled people are lost souls. The rich man who wanted to join Jesus's following couldn't do it because the condition of giving his wealth to the poor was too much of a condition. Had Jesus been charging for a course in self-help and miracles at the Esalen Institute the rich man in the New Testament would've signed on, undoubtedly.
A debate approacheth. Richman versus Parris. Old man versus middle-aged woman. Parris wants the microphones on at all times. James Ames doesn't understand the First Amendment. He claims that hate speech isn't protected by that most important of Amendments, even though it is. Misinformation, he claims, also isn't protected, even though it is. His grammar's fine; he's just an authoritarian. Richman is not insane, but he is a billionaire, a special tiny class of human being lacking any real experience with what it's like to work hard and never get ahead. K.F. Cliche has receded into the background of Richman's campaign. He makes dumb statements. He could vanish from the ticket and no one would notice.
None of these assholes give a shit about Palestinians getting mass murdered, nor do they care about the hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians fed by NATO into the monster mouth of the war with Russia. In this century it's considered by corporate news journalists, pundits, and politicians to be a pitiable abnormality if one is a humanitarian.
Two debates, presidential, the other one vice.
ABC moderator Joseph Bumphouse and Calindra Meaner, belonging to the same sorority that produced President Dinah Parris. Former President Don Richman has noted how much taller he is than President Parris. A full eleven inches! That's almost one foot taller! In the Parris-friendly press, Dinah Parris is said to have "tall energy." This is how tabloid journalism meets Orwellian propaganda. Tall energy, like a highly caffeinated beverage in an elongated cylindrical aluminum can, nutrition content, zero.
Bumphouse: Because I'm the man here I'm going to ask the first question. Mr. Richman. You've said you could end the Russia-Ukraine War in under twenty-four hours. How would you do this?
Richman: Look. I have a great relationship with Vladimir Putout. I have a good relationship with that other guy, the Ukrainian comedian. I gave him Javelins if you'll recall--
Bumphouse: You delayed the shipment--
Richman: That was for just a brief time. All those weapons have exploded by now, what's the point of going over it again? I love the Ukrainian people. I want the killing of those proud people to stop. I want Russians to not be killed by NATO. By the way, NATO's a bad organization. I'll pull out, we don't need NATO, NATO needs us. Fuck NATO. Can I swear on ABC?
Bumphouse: We're live, so we'd prefer that you didn't.
Richman: Okay, whatever. NATO, the European Union, what would they be without America? F them. F them up their asses. Can I say ass?
Bumphouse: You may say ass, but you can't imply anal sexual intercourse.
Richman: Fair enough.
Bumphouse: Madame President, will you respond, please?
President Dinah Parris: I'd like first to say that NATO is a bulwark against the menacing might of the Soviet Union.
Bumphouse: May I remind you, ma'am, that the Soviet Union hasn't existed since 1991.
Dinah Parris: I know that! I was twenty-six, a full grown woman when it fell, but I was working at McDonald's when the red Communist empire was still around, though on its last legs. I admired and still admire Ronald Reagan. He outspent the Soviets on nuclear weapons. They just had to keep up. What with their war in Afghanistan at the time, their economy went kaput. See, I've read some history. I'm also well-versed in pop culture. You know, the first time I saw a Boy George video I didn't know if he was a man or a woman. Boy, have I learned to tell the difference, and to not judge cross dressers or transgender American citizens. We need to open our arms to accepting all sixteen sexes, to changing basic grammar to accommodate the they/them pronouns. And I will say ass just for the sake of saying it.
Calindra Meaner: President Parris. First of all, let me give you a Sisters' hand sign only you and I here understand the meaning of.
Parris: Oh yes! I know that one!
Meaner: As you know, the border isn't secure. You were appointed Border Czar by former President Moe Lieden.
Parris: Oh, that was one of President Lieden's tactics. I don't know anything about the border. He knew that. See, it's a common practice in government to appoint unqualified people to important positions for the purpose of degrading those agencies. When I was a teenager, before I worked at McDonald's, President Reagan appointed James Watt to be Secretary of the Interior. Watt went on buffalo hunting trips. He was a fundamentalist Christian who believed in the imminent end of the world, Book of Revelations stuff, right? He didn't care about nature or the material world--he was completely unsuited to be Secretary of the Interior.
Meaner: Mr. Richman, will you respond?
Richman: She's right that she doesn't know anything about the border, or the immigration crisis, or anything else except sleeping her way to the top.
Meaner: Mr. Richman, please!
Bumphouse: It would be appreciated if we could refrain from personal insults.
Richman: Whatever you say, corporate Democrat lackey.
Bumphouse: Moving on to foreign policy. Mr. Richman. Do you support Israel's right to defend itself?
Richman: Of course I do. I'd be a fool not to, considering how much I've been paid by Israel lobbyists.
Bumphouse: Madame President. Same question?
Parris: What was the question?
Bumphouse: Do you support Israel's right to defend itself?
Parris: October seventh was the most heinous act of terroristic violence in the history of humanity. My husband is Jewish. I married a Jew. I love Jews. I love Jerry Seinfeld. I love Sid Caesar. I love Shecky Greene. I read a Bernard Malamud novel in college. I watched Schindler's List. Israel can do whatever the F they want to defend themselves. They are America's essential strategic partner in the Middle East, an aircraft carrier with our expensive fighter jets on it.
Bumphouse: Mr. Richman, do you have a response?
Richman: I agree with what she said, except I never heard of this Bernard Malamud fellow.
Bumphouse: Moving on to Ukraine. Mr. Richman, what is your plan to end the war there?
Richman: Two phone calls, firstly to Putout. I have a good relationship with him. Then I'll call the comedian, tell him he has to stop. Plus, I'll offer him free five year memberships in all of my country clubs. I'll also introduce him to the Republican actors I know. He's friends with Democrats, like Ben Stiller and Sean Penn, but, as far as I know, he's never hung out with Jon Voight.
Bumphouse: Madame President? Do you have a response?
Parris: Honey, I could talk celebrities all night, I'm a California politician, but I have a feeling people are tuning in to hear about inflation, the economy, and how two deranged would-be assassins have tried to kill my opponent but no one in mainstream news media talks about it anymore. I want to add that there's no place for political violence in America, even though it's happened a bunch of times.
Bumphouse: Mr. Richman?
Richman: My ear from that bullet doesn't hurt anymore, but I'm thinking about hiring my own bodyguards. I have a few billion dollars, I guess I could get some pretty good people.
The great debate between Governor James Ames and Senator K.F. Cliche. Jamie Joyce and Peggy Reasons of CBS News moderate.
Joyce: Good evening, gentlemen.
Ames and Cliche: (Greek Chorus-wise) Good evening, ladies, if you're as fair as you both look, we have no doubt we will both be treated fairly.
Joyce: (Laughs) Did you rehearse that?
Ames and Cliche: No.
Ames: I've been married, happily mind you, for thirty years. When I said the two of you are fair, as in beautiful, I did not mean I'm attracted to you. I am only attracted to my wife, Gertrude. My eye does not wander.
Joyce: All right. Senator Cliche, we'll start with you--
Cliche: I love my wife.
Joyce: That's good to hear. A husband should love his wife.
Ames: Amen to that.
Joyce: Senator Cliche. Do you support Israel's right to defend itself?
Cliche: Yes.
Joyce: Governor Ames, same question.
Ames: October seventh was the worst terror attack in history. Jamie--if I may call you Jamie?
Joyce: Go ahead.
Ames: We Americans have a special obligation to defend Israel no matter what the cost. As Vice President, I will support that nation's bombing and killing policies no matter how cruel and irrational it may get, and I suspect we haven't seen the worst of it. I wake up screaming sometimes from nightmares about the horrors Israeli Defense Forces have visited upon Palestinian women and children since October seventh. We must defend Israel's right to kill and blow up residential structures and refugee camps, for those acts also constitute America's right to do the same.
Joyce: Senator?
Cliche: I agree with everything the governor said, except that I haven't had a nightmare since I was three years old. There was a werewolf in that one.
Peggy Reasons: Senator Cliche. What about abortion?
Cliche: Am I against it or for it? Against it, obviously. I'm a Republican. Governor Ames is pro-abortion, that is, pro-child murder. His running mate, President Parris, supports sex change operations for prisoners. What kind of policy is that? She thinks every man should be turned into a woman and every woman should be turned into a man. Peggy? Would you like to become a man? I think you look fine as a woman. In fact, if I weren't married, I'd screw up my courage and ask you out, but I am married, happily, for ten years. I know it's only one third the length of time of the Governor's happy marriage, but a decade constitutes a milestone. Ten whole years.
Reasons: Governor Ames. Abortion?
Ames: Well, my mother told me she considered aborting me, but I think she was kidding. I was a bit of a scamp as a teenager. Under peer pressure, I intimidated an awkward kid named Felix. (Looking into the camera) Felix, I'm sorry. I hope you've forgiven me, and I hope President Parris and I have your vote. And Ted Vanderbright. I'm really sorry I stole your bike. Then there was Linda Gorgeous. Yes, that was her name, except she wasn't gorgeous. Rather, she was plain and shy. I was merciless to her. I'm so sorry, Linda. She rebuffed me at our ten year high school reunion in 1992, called me a word I can't say on television, although it rhymes with click. Ironically, Linda blossomed over those ten years since high school. I daresay she came to live up to her surname. I was drunk when I tried to engage her in conversation. I asked her for a date. She laughed at me.
Reasons: Governor, your position on a woman's right to choose is, like President Parris's, considered extreme by Republicans--
Cliche: I'm against it.
Ames: Women need to be able to choose, just like men choose to get inside women and make them pregnant.
Jamie Joyce: Senator Cliche. You've opposed Democratic Party calls for stronger restrictions on gun ownership rights. In light of school shootings and two assassination attempts on your running mate, how do you reconcile your position?
Cliche: Jamie. I believe in the Second Amendment. I have it printed in red ink on my office wall in Washington. Guns don't kill people. People kill people. Hammers don't pound nails by themselves. A magnifying glass is useless without the eye to utilize it. Shoes don't tie themselves. A wedding ring doesn't go on the finger of a loving, devoted bride all by itself. Kids don't get made without loving state-sanctioned sex between a man and a woman, not a trans-man and a trans-woman. I've seen some strange things since I got into Washington. My opponent, Governor Ames, and his running mate, the President, represent all that is filthy and immoral in America. It's disgraceful. They want to take away our guns. They want to shred my red-inked Second Amendment parchment signed by Charlton Heston. They want a country without borders.
Jamie Joyce: Governor Ames. Your response?
Ames: I believe in the Second Amendment. Heck, I own guns. I kill animals. I don't kill people. Even when I was in the National Guard I didn't kill anybody, except mosquitos and other pests. I'm a hunter. I can imitate a duck. I'm willing to do it, but I'd rather address my opponent's accusation that the President and this Governor, that's me, represent everything that's filthy and immoral in this country. No, we don't. For instance, I never flew on Terry Stein's plane. Yes, in tenth grade I got to second base with Teri Fichtlinger, but I'd hardly call that an immoral act. Teenagers mess around with each other. It's a matter of satisfying urges and curiosity. (Looks at the camera) Teri, if you're watching, I hope President Parris and I can count on your vote. As for Senator Cliche's charge that the President and I don't want our country to have borders, that's just not true. We have two borders, a southern and a northern. It's a lot of ground to cover. I'd like to point out that President Richman had four years to solve the immigration crisis, and he didn't, so what makes any rational person believe he'll come up with an effective solution if he gets another chance to mess up the country for four more years?
Peggy Reasons: Governor Ames. You've claimed you were in Hong Kong during the Tianenmen Square massacre of 1989. In fact, you were in Nebraska at the time. Why did you fabricate this story?
Ames: Look, I'm a patriotic American. I'm from a small Nebraska town. I was a paperboy. I ate Wheaties. I mowed lawns for comic book money. My favorite characters were the X Men and Iron Man. The Fantastic Four. I dated Teri Fichtlinger for two months. I helped her with her geometry homework. I joined the National Guard when I was seventeen. I learned how to fire a rifle effectively. I developed a love for guns at that time. Over the years my love for Israel grew, too. I learned to hate tyranny. Tianenmen was an atrocity. Sure, I wasn't in Hong Kong then, but I imagined I was. I like to create facts, and once I create a new fact, I believe it.
Reasons: The massacre happened on June fourth, 1989. You didn't go to China until August of that year.
Ames: Yes, that's the objective truth, Peggy. I remember it differently, but I'll accept your formulation. I saw the coverage of that terrible day on television, in Nebraska, yes, but when I see something on television--news stories, a sitcom, a police drama, what have you--I join mentally, with geometric logic, with that depiction, fictional or otherwise. I become part of the program. The same thing would happen when I read my comic books. I was Tony Stark, the Iron Man! I was Mr. Fantastic! He can stretch his mutated body all the way to Beijing, so why can't I? It all boils down to me being a knucklehead sometimes.
Reasons: Senator? Do you care to comment?
Cliche: I can't top what he just said.
To be continued...
Vic Neptune
No comments:
Post a Comment