Gertrude, also an alias on account of I forgot her real name, was sitting upright on her couch with a two-liter Mountain Spew held stationary between her oversized legs, and a handful of corn chips the white trash honey just grabbed from a super king-size bag of Fritz-Laids on the night stand was making its way to the gaping maw that was her humungous pie hole. A long, drawn out…
Burrrrrrrrrrrp!
Preceded the shoveling action into her mouth…quickly accompanied by the ripping note of something, under pressure, escaping from the other end of her rather rotund body…
Scrreeeeeeeeech!
…And now the munching noise of that handful of corn chips being pulverized by her half-dozen remaining molars filled the surroundings.
Crunch…munch…crunch…munch
It took less than ten seconds for the petite five-foot, two-inch, two hundred, something pound, sumo-wrestler-appearing, white trash woman to complete her undertaking. Now Miss Gertrude needed something to wet her whistle.
Lifting the two-liter plastic bottle to her lips, Gertrude took no notice that she unwittingly uncorked the thing that prevented the full extent of her flatulence to escape, which now, like an invisible fog, went everywhere. She, of course, was quite familiar with the whole affair and was much too engrossed watching the ‘Jerry’s Bastard Junior Show’ to give that minor detail notice. What might have killed a cat, or small rodent, however, did get noticed by her live-in boyfriend, a much younger, thirty-year-old white brother whose job as a janitor abruptly ended when he was found passed out one too many times in one of the closets of the nearby elementary school-kids prison.
“Goddamn it, Gertrude [Goddadburn it, bitch]! You’re peeling the paint off the walls [Yo're peelin' th' sheet off th' walls]. Do you always have to let cut those nasty things indoors [Do yo' allus hafta let lop them nasty thin's indores]?”
Gertrude was perfectly within her rights when she politely responded, “Give me a break [Go fuk youse sef]. Oh, and honey, can you bring me another four, or five tacos [...and bwings me fo’, or fi’ more taco]!”
Yes, Gertrude was your typical white trash mom living in a trailer park and perfectly within her rights…she was, after all, the breadwinner and an example of a modern feminist homemaker.
In 2050, over three-quarters of American women were supported in some way, shape, manner, or form by the ‘new man’ of the house…Uncle Sam. This far out killer affair between low-income, unrefined women and the government began a little over half-a-century ago when the Democrat Party instituted policies and programs that “unintentionally” increased the size of their voting base. I mean, we all make mistakes, but paying predominately Democrat-voting moms to have more and more kids...out of wedlock may have appeared a bit boneheaded back then, but that was then, this is now. Now, it made perfect sense.
There were other “unintended benefits,” as well, for the most part accruing to the real-life, sperm donors, the lucky dads who could move from woman to woman without a care in the world. Threats of jail time for past-due child support payments were rarely enforced, and were eventually eliminated altogether by the illustrious “Supreme Commander.” No longer did a dude have to hang around to see those would-be wives of his morph into voracious, eating and farting, blimp-like aberrations like Gertrude...no, they were spared that unpleasant spectacle and stench thanks to everyone’s uncle...Uncle Sam.
With time, there were other factors that entered into the equation leading Americans to enjoy more and more of the good things in life. Feminism, for example, had an effect over the years and may well have played a vital part in reshaping the American family, what with its constant portrayal of men as “Pigs” and “Only out after one thing.” These days, there was no disputing the last point, but most young fellows would strongly disagree with being called “Pigs.” That title undoubtedly only applied to older, has-been, gigolos rather than themselves.
The modern-day gigolos started out as young men who inevitably were forced to leave the nest, usually when they reached twenty-six, the cutoff age for the monthly stipend for the welfare-collecting matriarchs. In view of the reality that there were no jobs, inevitably, many of these young men had to pick up where their fathers’ had left off, becoming gigolos who moved from one welfare-collecting floozie to another.
Most gigolos, if they lived long enough, ended up as street urchins, or wards of the state in one of the low, medium, or high-security, prison-like places. Many of the professor’s fellow inmates back at Grey Hall were former gigolos, feigning insanity to escape the ‘bung-hole-gangs’ of the street, or the medium and high-security, penitentiary-like places. Most of those dipptards never realized the same kind of degenerates existed in places like sanitariums, usually in the guise of one of the long in the tooth, toothless orderlies who had a hard time “getting some” gratis outside those chain-link fences.
If one were going to get buggered, no matter where they ended up, sanitariums did offer the best of all worlds. This is why the author broached that Schwartz was living in one of the best places he could for the occasion in Part One.
For one, those depressants and the end result they had on a person one-fifth the weight and size of a horse did offer some respite, completely obliterating any man’s perception of what was happening, so potent as to wipe out any thought of caring.
Anyway, unlike normal societies, where the populace worked their way up the economic ladder to better paying jobs as their skills and experience increased, something of the opposite took place for characters who became gigolos. Prostituting oneself out had become an important part of the socioeconomic system with women, specifically those on welfare, replacing the small business employer in the now, for all intents and purposes, extinct private sector. Unlike women, men had much fewer options when it came to supporting themselves, in view that most were largely uneducated, unskilled and besides, there were no jobs. Except for the “having sex all the time” part, Uncle Sam scarcely worked for men unless they became incarcerated, in which case, the authorities would put a roof over their heads, food on the table and drugs in their meals; otherwise, Democrats like Gertrude had to pick up the slack.
“What about Christian-Judea beliefs related to things like marriage and the family?”
Sure, things like love, marriage, families who stayed together existed; nevertheless, they had become increasingly unpopular thanks to the rebranding of social norms.
Most American damsels these days were concerned with one thing, keeping those welfare checks rolling in the only way they could, by maintaining the number of eligible chillans…when one rolled off the rolls, another one was needed to replace it. That was what the vast bulk of men’s jobs were these days...modern-day husbandry.
In 2050, the cycle of men’s lives was genuinely simple; they left the nest tutored in the ways of carnal affairs usually starting out as mom’s play toy. Most young men became prostitutes of sorts, filling job openings vacated by gigolos who were past their prime. Skill in the bed, or on the floor, or on a table, counted for little...every real guy could get it up. The key differentiators, therefore, were physical appearance, which was often just related to age, and to some degree personality, which ran a distant, far-flung second.
Things were awesome when “man prostitutes” were young: they were usually most in demand during this time and they could easily move from one “welfare cougar” to another once the job was done. Young fellows did not have to hang out to deal with the outcomes of their sexual actions, but could continue their carefree, unencumbered lives as they saw fit...but, as a gigolo aged, their market began to shrink.
As a “man prostitute” grew older, the demand for their services naturally diminished in step with their looks; thus began the downhill trend that would eventually see them ending up on the streets like so many millions upon millions of homeless men...or incarcerated in some sort of government institution. It was the natural cycle of events, the youthful fool, let’s call him “Cool Joe,” who has been w
atching the paint peel off the walls whenever Gertrude lets one go, is just now beginning to understand his plight. Jobs were getting harder to find, competition for the more attractive jobs (women) was becoming more fierce, and Cool Joe is finding he is having to take up relationships with more and more brutish appearing women...like Gertrude.
So, what were some of the causes behind the moral absurdities and decay? Hollywood, of course, had some responsibility for the current state of social norms. Those “B” movie and “has been” actors, actresses, directors, those who remained behind, and didn’t flee to France, were always putting out “Joan-of-Arc-like” figures for dames to model themselves after…always touting the moral virtues seen in old motion pictures like Woodstock, or Easy Rider out front and center…always putting drugs and sex with anyone and anything out front and center. This reoccurring Hollywood theme, if it did not reach women in theaters would certainly be picked up by the hundreds of millions of dames who bided their time away in front of a television set eight, ten, twelve hours a day…and then there was the music industry.
It is quite likely the music industry was most to blame for the demise of husband-wife family units. Why? In view of the reality that music gave complete kooks, I mean bottom of the barrel muttonheads, those imbeciles who could barely string together two coherent sentences, a platform. The lyrics of one of the year’s top-ten hits kind of sums things up.
“When’s I’sa bust another cap in’a ya…”
[When I kiss you on the cheek, hold your hand, I feel so in love with you...]
“…It's babies wee’s don’t want!”
[...But, my dear, I don’t want you to get pregnant and have a baby, or babies on my account]!
“…It's babies!”
[...Please dear, take the fickening pill in view of the fact that I know, you will get pregnant and have babies without it]!
When performing before a live audience, the band at this point begins humping one another, imitating humans having sex, but looking more like four-legged animals doing the nasty, doggy style.
“De government gots de beef…”
[I know, the authorities will pay the bill...]
“I gots de’ street…”
[I will be able to move on to the next chick...]
“…My ding dong gots the smack.”
[I like the idea of getting laid all the time]
More humping, more imitating at this time.
“De government gots de sack.”
[But, I am at the maximum number allowed by the authorities and I don’t want to miss out on the sweet life]
“…It's babies wee’s don’t want!”
[...So, I don’t want to get you, or the next floozie pregnant, in view of the fact that with my luck I’d have one too many babies and have to go to work!]
Those brilliant, telling lyrics would be repeated up to twenty times in the hit depending on how worked up the audience became. What had begun as programs that mistakenly created more Democrat voters back in the 1960s had become a way of life, a part of Americana and our little Gertrude was a shining example of what tens of millions of women had and would continue becoming.
“What about the newspaper industry? Didn’t the newspapers play an important role, as well?”
You have to be able to read to fathom what’s in a newspaper, so no, they disappeared, replaced by picture books, that and the television set, radio and the movie theatre.
Anyway, life was good. Gertrude got free food stamps, free “Forever President” phone, free welfare checks, free housing, just by being alive…well that and her litter of ten, twelve, or sixteen children also counted for something. Strange thing, according to the records those same chillan never grew older than the cutoff age, twenty-five.
Yes, life was good…a new boyfriend every six weeks, a couple more kids here and there, scarcely one trip to the welfare office each month; otherwise, Miss Gertrude could lay around all day, munching corn chips, swilling Mountain Spew, gawking at her favorite TV stations to her heart’s content.
This catch, this once one-eighth passable-appearing female of the species was busy watching reruns on her favorite channel, the FDA Network, anxiously waiting for the latest episode of Execution still several hours off.
Gertrude emptied a quarter of the contents before returning the plastic bottle to its original spot, unwittingly and partially corking things up, once more.
Miss Gertrude was like a human variation of a factory…things went in, inventory created and added to the existing stock (fat reserves), unneeded byproducts were sent into the air, or into one of those indoor outhouses.
“Indoor outhouse? That’s an oxymoron. What do you mean?”
Why do you think Gertrude and nearly everyone else living in the suburbs live in trailers?
“I did not know that,”
Well, they do and it is principally in view of the fact that trailers can be moved around...just like an outhouse.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
No, I’m not.
Ugh.
Sure, communities of trailer parks were constantly being shuffled around by the bureaucrats of the Department of Agriculture, the Environmental Protection Agency and the Department of the Sierra Club...just like you would move a herd of cattle around from one pasture to another. It was a near perfect idea, not only on account of it had the same sort of benefits in saving the planet, the Ozone Layer, the Gray Whales, the Polar Bears, the Snail Darters, et cetera, et cetera, as the ‘cac ponds’ in housing projects...it had the added benefit of naturally fertilizing future high-yield marijuana fields.
“Well, that sounds logical to me. I’ll buy that.”
Now back to Gertrude who was sitting in her usual place. The couch fabric was worn to the bare threads by excessive use, the springs of the cushions had long in as much as given up the struggle against the odds and sagged to their lowest extent, stains of anything from taco sauce to…well, let’s just stick to taco sauce, splotched what fabric remained.
Gertrude hooted, “Hoot, hoot, hoot,” then hollered, “that’s it, sock it to the Pig!” [Dat’s it, suk it t'de Pig!]
On television, the spectacle of some skinny, frail, white man…let’s call him Mr. Jones, just got WHACKED! across the face by a woman the schmo met offset a couple of hours earlier and had a quick, little ‘smash action’ [sexual encounter] with, but the thing was, unbeknownst to Mr. Jones, things were just about to get a lot worse.
“Ho, ho, ho,” bellowed the household sovereign.
Typical of all reality game shows, turns out the entire unsightly affair, the afternoon smash [sexual intercourse] with the unknown woman was caught on tape, all part of a grand prank where Mr. Jones played the central role.
Clearly a setup, the character who half an hour earlier thought himself a lucky man…getting some without having to pay for it, Mr. Jones was about to find out the slap was the least of his worries when the master of ceremonies, Jerry’s Bastard Junior announced to the audience and viewers...he was in deep kimchee.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Miss Gertrude spittled.
The poor skinny fellow nearly schiessened in his pants when a brute of a woman comes out from behind the curtains, beet red, having seen the whole event being aired backstage…this once-lucky guy’s spouse.
Time for another handful of...
…But, just at that moment, panting, near out of breath, what looked to be two baby sitters, in all likelihood in their teens, each with a small child riding on their hips, came crashing through the front, screen door!
“Mama…!” said sitter, daughter number one.
“Mommy…!” repeated sitter, daughter number two.
“Ma…Ma…” repeated young, baby girl, or boy number one.
“Me…Ma…” repeated young baby boy, or girl number two.
…And it wasn’t over.
“Mama…!” repeated teenage son who followed his sisters and either a baby boy and baby girl, or two baby girls,
or two baby boys through the doorway.
“Jee wiz, how many does that bitch have?”
Wait, here comes another one…
“Mama…!” said the twenty-something-year-old that lagged just behind his teenage brother…
“What on earth do you kids want?” [Whut de ficken duz ya' kids wants'?]
The teenage boy was in the process of answering, but barely got as far as “Mama…”
“One of you at a time...please.” [Goddamnit, enough uh de goddamn ‘mamas’ ya’ ficken’n brats.]
Why are you all back so early?” [Whut chu hangin’ back dis early?]
You still have a few hours yet to play with the neighborhood kids!” [It ain’t dark yet!]
The twenty-something older brother took charge. “Mama…”
“I said, one at a time!” [What de fuk did I jess say!]
“We just heard from the neighbors there’s going to be a ‘Community Organizer Party’ (free-for-all) today!” [We plum heard fum de neighbo's dere’s goin' t'be some wiot’in haided dis way!] exclaimed the twenty-something year old with obvious excitement.
“A ‘Community Organizer Party’ [Wiot’in],” replied the matriarch, “who is having a ‘Community Organizer Party’ [who’d be wiot’in]? Why haven’t I heard anything about this [Hows cum we’s wasn’t inbi’ted]?”
-----
There’s that noise, again! Sounds like some kind of air raid siren. Sounds like it’s coming from just over that hill.
Unquestionably eager to see what was what, the professor scurried along as fast as his tennis-shoe flip flops would carry him.
Fifteen minutes later, gasping for breath, the academic arrived at the destination. Bent over, hands on knees, the academician eyed the panoramic vista of the collective below.
That’s got to be one of the biggest trailer parks I’ve ever seen.
Schwartz was right, extending as far as the eye could see, thousands upon thousands of rectangular-shaped trailers lay before him. The louder sounding wail of sirens could now be distinctly heard. Off in the distance were those ever present rolling hills...and what looked like skyscrapers! On the distant horizon!
A city! Civilization!
Wait a second...what is that?
The academic was looking directly west. The blacktop road the professor was on wound its way around, up and over hills ultimately becoming one of the main thoroughfares for the eastern part of the trailer park community.
Coming from the south, the scholar could make out a train coming into view from behind a series of hills. The minutes passed and the train drew closer and closer, soon he began to make out...
Are those plebs? There are literally hundreds of the proletariat, clinging like grapes.
Sitting on top of, clinging to sides of, stacked like sardines inside the cargo holds of the boxcars, hundreds and hundreds of plebs were glued onto, or into that train. There looked as though there was no concern for safety, with a Gasp! The academic saw two, no make that three of the passengers fall off the side of one of the boxcars when a board they were apparently holding onto gave way...and still the train continued on.
The spectacle looked just like what the doyen in literature would expect to see in a third-world land like India, where the rail service was rudimentary at best, the accommodations for the passengers, like those below hanging on for dear life, anything but safe; the now constant droning of those sirens added a surreal touch to the macabre sight.
As the train approached the trailer park city, it began to slow.
It’s coming to stop!
Pulling to a halt, the humanity that covered the train and locomotive descended to the ground. The blacktop road was soon covered from view by the throng of humanity...it was big and moving in a westerly direction.
The constant noise of sirens continued to fill the air and now there were palls of smoke beginning to rise out toward the west, toward the skyline of that city the dignitary could see.
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