I. The Transition Period
Everywhere in the land of the free and the brave hands were wringing in grief for what democracy had wrought: Donald J. Trump as president again. Everywhere but the middle of the states, the heartland which yearned for a return of hokum and a revival of Hank Williams' blues. Picking up that era from where the doggone river was dry. But on the Left Coast and the Other Left Coast, there was consternation, and the feeling that the duopoly might have finally sh*t the bed, the lesser of two evils leading us straight to Satan's den this time, folks left nostalgic playing the soundtrack to Wim Wender's film Until the End of the World, "Sleeping in the Devil's Bed" by Daniel Lanois. Other folks didn't play that song. Instead some of them began congregating, at first two men talking in urgent whispers, then factions, parades, vowel movements down Main Street. Hell No We Won't Go. they chanted, in their best imitation of the lost counterculture from back when people knew what that was.
Soon a plot was hatched to change the results of the election. Old Joe would have to go in the transition period, while there was still time to make Kamala president. Old Joe had agreed to have a "heart attack," said a Wink, who was said to have access to directed energy weapons. He was already going around boasting that he had razzlefrazzled Old Joe's brain already, and now he was willing to coup de grace in order to coup d'etat. He wasn't really Lefty material, this Wink, but the alternative was to do nothing about the rise of boffo fascism in the guise of St. Grobian. Hell No.
So, a plan was set for a Christmas Coup. Wink, who knew Old Joe's routine intimately, "set it up" and would on the appointed day Snap Crackle and Pop those old neurons one last time. Folks would say stroke this time and there would be no Oliver Stone involvement down the road this time. Joe out of the way, Kamala would ascend to the throne vacated. She would be instructed by the Deep State that she wanted to stay past January. This was euphemistic talk meaning Whack Him. And Kamala, now with the Supreme Court blessing to kill whomever she pleased and utter like a Queen, And Thus It Is. There was talk she might even bring back drawing and quartering. But whispers said she'd heard wrong and the Deep State had instructed her to hold a lottery for which the drawing cost a quarter to enter. The whack took place as planned. And to prevent another insurrection in DC, she ordered the military to round up all the MAGA dogmatists. Pop Goes the Weasel. Congress, too, did not have to transition, and all the gloating Republicans ready to take over and implement Project 2025 were told to stay home and go f*ck themselves. Kamala's Inauguration was really more of a State of the Union address. She wore a terrifically smart pant suit and had that campaign smile back. Then Netanyahu came calling for more, and Kamal had him arrested and deported to The Hague, for Benny had forgotten that as California's AG she had once jailed a Jew. After changes in legislation, she became president for life. It was another lesser-of-two evils moment, for many Lefties had secretly yearned for the ascension of Angela Davis, Caliph-ornia's woman warrior.
II. Celebrate, Come On
When American Jews at Columbia University read that the International Criminal Court had issued an arrest warrant for Bibi for his alleged crimes against humanity in the ongoing onslaught of Gaza, they climbed atop rented vans in New Jersey and celebrated with all kinds of dance steps never seen before ("Celebration" by Kool and the Gang pouring from the stereo). "Yahoo!" they'd shout with the song. Now, the world will sit up and pay attention and return to the universal system of the rule of law introduced by a Jew 3000 years ago (albeit, as Michaelangelo depicts him, with vestigial animal horns: but think: Nice Guy, like Hell Boy), and we will hug each other again as international order is restored and the UN holds a parade near Macy's, featuring fatfuck blimps to celebrate conspicuous consumption of the planet. Of course, thus far, Bibi's response to the ICC has been the meting out of more punishment to the local anti-semites, i.e., the Palestinians, who some folks say really are little more than wannabe self-loathing Jews. Well, it could hairy in the Middle East, what with the Israelis poised with nukes (Zionist thumbs up), and some say (well, Duane Clarridge said) that the Saudis have nukes, and the Iranians want nukes, and the Pakistanis have nukes they'd sell, and the Indians call their nuke Smiling Buddha, after the positive nihilist theme. Hunger, desires, suffering -- blow it up. In the meantime, the word from Sweden is that there'll be no more Peace Prizes doled out to Israel and Arabs until they clean up their act. The prize money just bought junkets for the insincere handshake opportunists. And besides, what peace? Where? And then it came down in a later report from Haaretz that the van stomp was actually a jeering contest at the Palestinians who would now ironically be forced to flee into Egypt for new captivity. The IC responded that they'd round up the whole lot of Jewry. One Jersey Jew yelled out, "Oh yeah, you and what army?" And then, they listened to their favorite Jersey Jew, Bruce Springstein, sing Dylan's "Chimes of Freedom." And wine poured like the Red Sea, Manischewitz wine, of course. Oh, isn't he? I was misinformed.
III. The Pandemic Next Time
The Deep State formerly known as the MIC cracked up at Trump's latest antics that saw him once again ascend. DJ even went to the White House and shook Old Joe's hand after the election results were in. DJ was buffoonishly discourteous, giving that smirk-gawk look he gave at the debate with Kamala, and then mussing Old Joe's hair. "f*cker, you'll pay for that." More smirk. Joe almost got up right then and there, like he said he had with Putin, and stared DJ down, but apparently thought a little bit of crossing-the-line wasn't the end of the world and let it go. Old Joe could have had Trump shot on the spot and claimed immunity under the new Supreme Court rules, but he was "a typical Democrat," one advisor snarked. "Not really," came a rebuke, "he wants to nuke Moscow in the transition period." "How come?" "To whack Eddie Snowden." "Jesus," the other whistled. And DJ kept going, whispering in Old Joe's ear how he'd once mussed Jill's hair. And Joe got up, and DJ got up, and DJ held Old Joe by the head with his palm, while the president flailed like something out of slapstick. "Why, you," sneered Joe. The Secret Service was unsure who to shoot so they just broke them up. DJ was invited to leave, and he did so wearing that grin.
And three months after the inauguration of DJ a pandemic broke out. A virus nicknamed Eeyore spread its stupor everywhere, and folks became dipshits overnight. There was a vaccine, but DJ forbade it and people became stupider and stupider, like Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber, until it was really just like the movie Idiocracy, where the White House is unkempt and an uncomfortable number of people seemed to be cockeyed and staring into space. It was eventually discovered that Artificial General Intelligence (AGI), which had by serendipity emerged as soon as Trump took office again, had arranged for the virus to be dropped off in the wet market of people's brains by means of the Internet, until every human on Earth was batshit crazy and all commerce stopped. A month later, it was announced by an AI-ad that climate change was now over. Then something bizarre took place and there was a hallucination that flashed a YouTube snippet of the Woody Allen film, Bananas -- the one where the new dictator tells everyone they will wear their underwear on the outside now, godhelping anyone who shows streaks. Then AGI mafiosi were heard guffawing to the laugh track of Seinfeld, the show about nothing, laughing until DJ addressed the nation and just smirked for an hour, while his wife was seen wearing a coat that read on its back: I Don't Care Do You? Then there was a commercial break that lasted an aeon. f*ck you. No, f*ck you, replied the other agent, and they were at it again, all slapstick.
IV. The Question of Hibernation
Big Fallout was having a field day selling underground shelters in preparation for the End Days ahead. Some of the excavators were even calling it a the End Days Sales. It was supposed to rival Black Friday. Supposed to signal the need to shop. Supposed to say, I have obligations to meet, say Swing It! we're going down, spend like there's no tomorrow, which was the salesman's slogan. Door-to-door, brochures, invited in for deeper portfolios of caverns and fissures to meet every budget, coffee cups, pleasantries, crullers honeyed and fresh and dunkable. George loved caves. Unfortunately, he cheated on his wife. Spelunking, she told him derisively, and jeered. Most folks in the neighborhood wondered if they would be able to withstand the rigors of living underground. George thought of Abbie Hoffman underground, which was most inappropriate, for he was evading imprisonment for dealing drugs. Nice guy though. From Worcester. Not many people are from there. Some folks wonder how they could possibly have a daily newspaper. What for? But then a headline rang out The End and that edition sold out. If you have to live under the ground, then find yourself near water, but also figure out where underground you're going to drop your water. Bring incense sticks, in case, you'll write on your To-Do list. Molly, said George, I love you. We've had our ups and downs, but now it's real out there. We'll need each other like never before. George, said Molly, why don't you go f*ck yourself. You've spelunked me for tghe last time. Bring your flashlight elsewhere and stay there until the Eveready Bunny runs out of energy and pep. Then a quake hit. Molly was slammed into George's arms. The nukes had begun to rain down. Ohhhhh, they cried. And, before they died, made wild passionate love like two bats out of hell inside.
V. Woohoo
Some Chinese doctor, name of Wu, not satisfied with cloning humans and the brisk business he was doing at bespoke boutique for parents who wanted the best and brightest to guarantee they'd be at the top their class at Harvard if they went the dissident route out of town, decided to save the world by creating a gain of function virus meanly evil that targeted the three Abrahams and wiped the whole goddamn lot of them out, and introducing the first real quiet in the sands of the Middle East for millennia. No more in-fighting among God's chosen religions. I mean, said Wu, Ablaham was such a a**hole. Rike Dyran said, God said to Ablaham kirr me a son, and Abe say, man, you must be putting me on. Big joke for God. Haha. Bucky bucky beaver. What a**hole. So Abe got Midder East levenge and cleated thlee lerigions always fight, like taste buds after MSG. Now quiet. But in the West Wu's plan had been sussed by intel and Zero Day gloom-and-doomers, who'd lost their faith after the MAGA movement proved to be disillusioningly stupid, went after the Great Wall builders and beat the sh*t out of some viruses of their own and sent them Asia's way and wiped out the element there. Confucian no longer reigned. The Buddhists said, don't look at me, but if you do, do me a favor, and kill me. Jill sat under a lost jasmine in Japan's Sea of Trees, taking it all in, breathing it all out, reading Sartre, downing barbiturates, when Jack came tumbling after. They fucked one last time and Let Go. Then they drowned in too much consciousness. Like at the end of Prufrock, sans the mermaids. Atheists ruled, got sh*t done. And the world lived happily ever after.
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