Tommie Citizen had received accolades from the management for a job well done. Half an hour earlier, the country yokel had just finished throwing up all over one of the commodes thanks to the reward he had been forced to smoke for all to see. Tommie was now on his way out to the parking lot, to his electric tricycle called the “Castro-Car” with what was close to being a soiled men’s jockey strap, the only thing the hillbilly could taste or smell.
Tommie walked up to his parked car, one of those economy boxes Government Motors made in the so-called “Volks-Fidel” lineup in deference to the illustrious, striking, brilliant national leader. Tommie the controller struggled for a moment with the door handle, a looped piece of bungie cord that took the place of the handle and was used to lift the door up on the two front hinges to a point where the door would then swing open toward the front.
“You’re ficken kidding, right?”
No, this economical, simple, three-wheeler with two tires up front and one in the back was a fine example of how far the republic had come and was willing to go to continue the good fight opposing ‘Manmade Global Warming.’
Tommie squeezed his six-foot, four-inch frame through the doorway and wedged himself into the tight confines of the driver’s seat; it was, for all practical purposes, like climbing into the cockpit of a modern fighter jet, only this was a fiberglass and styrofoam tub that ran on batteries.
Tommie struggled to get comfortable in the bucket-shaped, foam-padded, fiberglass-reinforced Styrofoam driver’s seat with the foam padding that had become hard as rock over time. Indeed, too tall for this modern conveyance, Tommie was forced to hunch over in view of the reality that the cracker had very limited headspace thanks to the low-profile aerodynamic design. From the outside Tommie looked like a disturbed adult trying to drive his son’s pedal-powered toy car.
Tommie the controller now took a few moments to catch his breath before moving on to the next major exercise...closing that damn door!
Given that this hick scarcely lived a mile or less away, it was a wonder why the hayseed even drove to work at all. Anyway, Tommie, with anticipation of that jug of moonshine that awaited him at his trailer, now grabbed the loop of bungie cord (the inside door handle) and pulled the door to a near closed position. That accomplished, the controller next began his struggle to wrench the fiberglass-reinforced Styrofoam and plastic driver-side door upward on the hinges...and when the door moved up just enough, the NASCAR fan pulled with all his might knowing it was about this time that damn thing always got stuck.
“Mother ficken’er, the damn thing is stuck again and chafing my ass!” [Mammy ficken’er! Fry mah hide! Th' dadburn thin' is stuck, agin!]” exclaimed Tommie with frustration and the burning desperation for a drink in his voice.
A minute later, the familiar Clunk! sound let Tommie know his charge was near ready to go. Now all the hick needed to do was get the key out of his pocket, no small feat considering the tight confines. One of these days, when Tommie was not so hung-over, the hillbilly might consider taking the key out before he squished himself in.
After another couple of minutes of cussing and fumbling, Tommie produced the brass key that started the superb, amazing electric machine. Now the hillbilly had to insert the key into the keyhole, which for some damn reason (efficiency) was built into the floorboard down between his legs where he could not see it!
Putting that car key in the key slot, then turning it to the ‘on’ position was never some small feat. The interior of the Castro-Car was so confining, so efficiently designed, nearly every square inch of driver-seat space would be filled by someone of the hillbilly’s size.
Tommie could not simply look down to see what he was doing thanks to the steering wheel he was having to hunch over. He would use one of his hands to feel around to find the key slot, the other to insert the key once he found it...it was kind of like of like trying to do the same thing blindfolded.
Clink...
“Sheet!”
Tommie had accidentally dropped the key.
A minute, or so later...
“Gots it!”
Tommie now found and had the key in his hand, once again.
“Damb it!”
The Mob Traffic Controller had found the key slot with his feeling hand and was trying to jam the key into it, only it was upside down!
A minute or two passed when the hillbilly excitedly exclaimed, “Yes!”
The key was now in the slot...he turned it. ‘Zip’ happened! No lights, no humming from the finely tuned electric motor...the damn thing was as dead as a doornail!
This was a third-hand car; it was old and the lead battery that made up the lower half of the chassis had grown weaker and weaker over time. That was why there were several spare automobile batteries in the single-passenger seat, the one that looked like it was designed for a midget behind him. Stacked three high in a balancing act that potentially spelled disaster if Tommie were forced to take fast, corrective emergency-evasive maneuvers; thank goodness the top speed was only around twenty-nine miles per hour. Even so, the three-wheel design, what with its inherent flaws at taking corners, was still a rolling train-wreck just waiting to happen.
Tommie made the mistake of leaving the key switched to the ‘ON’ position.
“Schiessen, I forgot to plug in the spare batteries, again!” [Sheet, I forgets da plug ends de bat’rees dumass!]
The battery terminals, the posts for the positive and negative charges, were connected to one another by some insulated electrical wire Tommie had found laying around the trailer. The pair of jumper cables the guy picked up at the former Wal-Mart, now called GovMart, added the final touch and were what Tommie would use to connect to the battery leads coming out of the dashboard.
This automobile was beyond doubt a marvel of engineering.
You may by now have noticed that the talent at the top of the manufacturing industry had done everything humanly possible to limit the number of parts in the things built in America. For Tommie’s Castro-Car this included things like electrical wiring so there was no interior lighting, nor brake lights, nor air conditioning...you name it, it went missing. Instead, the energies of the brains went towards the quest for new, ingenious, production methods and newfound, astounding materials. A combination of Styrofoam and fiberglass were introduced as lightweight alternatives to various sorts of metal and production techniques were simplified to accommodate today’s low-skill Americans who now made up the better part of the labor force.
The consensus of prodigy that made up the brains behind today’s (2050) American industrial complex knew what had to be done to press on with the cause to save the planet from humanity, to continue on with the appearances of being a prosperous nation, to preserve the masquerade that liberalism was all it had been made out to be...a Garden of Eden. Complexity had to be discarded in favor of simpler means with the bungie cord door handles being an obvious example.
Most materials going into the high-tech marvels stressed weight savings over safety and low cost over quality. Depending on the day of the week, what part of the commonwealth your vehicle was assembled in and what kind of labor went into the assembly process...all of these factors would play a part in how solidly built your automobile would end up being. If your car, or anything else for that matter, were built on a Monday or Friday, it was pretty much guaranteed that you were screwed.
“I’d like to know why?”
I mentioned the work week had been paired down to three days, right?
“Yes, so what?”
Well, the only folk trained to assemble things like a car, minivan, pickup, or convertible were the members of the unions.
“You’re not saying the workers who knew how to do the jobs only toiled Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, are you?”
BINGO!
“Who was building autos on Mondays and Fridays?”
Think about it. Who are representative of the preponderance of Americans in 2050?
“I haven’t got
a clue.”
Come on...then answer me this. Who makes up the bulk of Americans in 2050?
“Assclowns?”
Yes, of course they’re assclowns, but so are the union members. Here is a further clue. What law was passed in 2020 that helped modify the demographic makeup of the nation?
“The Open Borders Act?”
Exactly, the Open Borders Bill of Rights?
“Let me get this straight, so you’re saying the bulk of Americans has remained unskilled illiterates...and they are the ones working to build things like automobiles on Mondays and Fridays?”
Yep! You got it.
One thing working in the buyers’ favor, however, was that no one could afford to buy things like cars anymore. Demand was so...so low that most would not have to worry about something built on Mondays or Fridays.
Anyway, one of the outcomes of the move to non-complexity was the Volks-Fidel ‘Castro-Car,’ the hottest selling econobox on the market. Never mind that the success of the ‘Castro-Car’ was largely derived from a lack of competitors. Oh, and forget that the Volks-Fidel autos were the only pieces of schiessen affluent Americans could afford to buy.
Did I mention the Volks-Fidel was a “Green Energy” vehicle?
“I’m not sure you needed to mention that given what you’ve described so far.”
Humor me for a moment.
“Sure, I don’t have anything else to do up to the time of my date.”
I mentioned that the Volks-Fidel was an economy model, which did not necessarily mean it got great mileage as evidenced by the batteries in the front, I mean back passenger seat, of Tommie the controller’s car...nevertheless there were other models!
Like in the days of Henry Ford you had a choice of colors, so long as it was white. Besides the more pedestrian model Tommie drove, there was also a four-seat with trunk minivan, a four-seat station wagon, a pickup Volks-Fidel...there was even a souped-up, two-seat convertible available for the bigwigs in management!
Options included things like a driver-side window that could be pushed down and pulled up, a rear view mirror that was attached to the driver’s door...even a sunshade flap for the driver! Sure, the back seats of most Volks-Fidels felt like planks of wood, sure the interiors were only painted a tan leather color to make up for the real thing, but so what! That was the price for saving the planet!
Jumper cables running up over his shoulder, Tommie would now connect the leads to the battery posts built into the dashboard. Taking first the black cable for the negative charge, the hillbilly connected the clamp to the post with the ‘minus sign.’ Now, it was time for the red cable, the positive charge...
Sparks flew everywhere!
“Gosh damn it!” Tommie yelled out after receiving a jolt of battery power.
“Oh, I fickenin forgets to turn de key to off!”
Tommie wrenched down between his legs with his free hand and fished around a moment to find the key, then turned it to the ‘OFF’ position.
“Now, I be ready to connect de cable.”
Now, Tommie was ready to connect the cable.
The hillbilly was not completely sure he trusted his car...that was after all a pretty tremendous shock. He gingerly touched the clip to the positive lead...no sparks!
Yepper!
Tommie secured the red cable to the positive lead...now it was time to turn that ‘ON’ switch on, again. Going through the same motions, hunting around between his legs he found, then turned the key to the ‘ON’ position. Marvel of marvels...the one, red, ‘led’ light on the dashboard just above the battery posts came on!
“Sheet, yes!”
It had turned cloudy out...it looked as if it might rain, so Tommie flipped the switch to the single front headlight; the hillbilly then flipped the switch to the single windshield wiper to make sure it was still working. Yes, it works...!
The windows of this model did not roll up or down, so Tommie did not have to fuss with them. The controller pulled a lever, also on the dash and next to the battery leads, to an air vent flap just ahead of the windshield and it popped open. There were no adjustments for the seat, so Tommie sat hunched over the steering wheel, his head tilted to the left to accommodate and rubbing up against the low profile, aerodynamic roofline. Tommie’s face was not six inches from the windscreen and his breath quickly began to fog up his view...he needed to get moving so air would start circulating before the whole darn thing began to fog up.
The one other concern the controller had was that darn roof of his machine...it very well might not be up to the chore of keeping him dry should it start raining. The roof had buckled and finally cracked in several spots, as had the windshield when the previous owners had rolled the three-wheeler, in all likelihood when taking corners too fast. Tommie had used some gooey, varnish-like glue to tack a Persian rug to the ceiling of his ride...the fringe tassels hanging down acted as a sunshade for all the plastic windows.
The Mob Traffic Controller had to use some more of his “Southern ingenuity” for the top of the automobile. Using a clear plastic tarp the retard stapled, then duct taped it securely into place. Tommie had, however, purposely used more material than was necessary, left the trailing end of the covering unsecured and lengthier than the roofline, so his roof would become something like a wind sail for tailwinds.
The wind was picking up, and Tommie could hear it whistling around his aerodynamic bubble. The clouds were growing darker by the minute; it was time to be off!
Knees up around his chest, Tommie struggled for a moment to place his right foot on the power pedal. The controller’s feet were too big, so what happened was his foot ended up covering both the power and brake pedals...at the same time! That was okay; Tommie knew by now how to work around that minor inconvenience...by twisting his leg, so he could angle his foot and shoe, so the right side of his shoe, not the sole...the right side of the shoe could be used to press just one pedal at a time.
Almost ready to go!
“Now, it’s time for the damn parking break,” Tommie whispered to himself.
This was always the least easy part, chiefly because the inbred was hung-over and forgot to release the parking brake when he had already gone through all the contrasting gyrations. The parking-break was an up-down lever that was positioned to the far right of the driver’s floorboard. This was always a little tricky.
The electric car only moved forward; there was no reverse. This might seem a bit unusual, but in 2050, most electric automobiles in the USA only went forward. There weren’t that many cars around, so rarely did a driver have to concern themselves with having to move backwards under power; if the need ever arose the electrical contrivances were so lightweight they presented little problem with being manually pushed backwards, except when going uphill.
Anyway, Tommie did not have to worry about pushing his automobile backwards, the controller had parked so that he had a straight shot out of his parking slot, but his vehicle was pointed in the direction of the main entrance doorway, all glass and not ten yards away. The problem that could and did sometimes arise when reaching for that handbrake...sometimes Tommie pushed down on the accelerator when he reached for that lever. It took quick reflexes to recover from a disaster that could unexpectedly spring up at this critical juncture...the moment when the hand break was released while Tommie’s right side of his foot was planted squarely on and pressing “full tilt boogie” the accelerator of the ten horsepower, Briggs and Fidel, electrodynamoe power plant.
-----
Thirty minutes later, soaking wet from perspiration and pale from fright, Tommie sat with his jug of moonshine in hand trying to calm his nerves. One of these days, driving that damnable automobile of his had to get easier. The only reason the hick bought the darn thing was to impress the babes, but it wasn’t like the guy could go parking in the damn thing.
An hour later, Tommie was feeling warmed by his home-brewed, 160 percent, corn liquor. Tommie sat smiling with a go
ofy grin owing to the reality that his face was now partially numb. The backwoodsman had by now forgotten the terror of having almost run over some NMASA workers during the shift change. Then there was that mistake of having not considered the sheer force of the wind when coming up with that improvised roof-windsail of his...what might happen if the wind were not coming from directly behind the vehicle, but from an angle? Half a dozen times that contraption of his was up on just two wheels like some kind of land-catamaran.
Now, Tommie sat smiling in front of the television set gazing at the only attractive woman to work at the MNASA headquarters, a news announcer who was announcing the riot forecast for the nation. Life was good...the hillbilly had tomorrow off, his automobile was working, Tommie would find out which trailer that ugly redhead lived in and make his move.
The day after next Tommie was also going to be off...and the day after that as well. The hayseed smiled to himself; he would pick up where he left off with his stalking of that one cute little honey on television, that little darling that always gave him a boner.
Yes, life was good!
-----
Spotting that building tempest west of San Francisco would give the emergency response teams, FEMA, the time they needed to muster the compliment of tools it had at its disposal to quell that growing menace, well, might help quell some of that growing menace.
In the 50s, and possibly early 60s, scientists had theorized that dry ice, or silver iodine when dropped in the center of hurricanes would stop their formation…stop it before it became a threat to humankind…transform them into something as harmless as a billowy fluffy-white cloud.
There was a consensus of scientists who agreed and supported the claim unquestionably. There was only one fear they all feared. Fear the measure to stop hurricane formation might also cause a further “Ice Age!” Unhappily and happily, both prognostications proved to be cuckoo…an unfortunate blow to the self importance of that accord of scientists who originally bought into the theory…but who briskly distanced themselves from their mistake once they saw the err of their ways.
Yes, data had been conclusive, the earth was not growing colder, the winter of 1965 was not appreciably different from winter of 1964, nor the winter of 1963, for that matter.
“Gee wiz,” the greatest minds in the realm said amongst themselves in their removed-from-reality Ivory Towers of Academia. “We need something to talk about; otherwise, all the government, i.e. taxpayer, money will go away.”
“Wait a second,” one scientist genius was heard to say. “I heard some chap in East Anglia has concocted a new theory. Is everyone ready for this?”
The scientist genius’ colleagues waited with bated breath.
“This guy has been studying tree bark in the Himalayas and says he’s discovered a ‘hockey stick’ with his numbers…the earth is getting warmer!”
“Krimminy crickets, he’s even got data!” came one response.
Data was a rare thing to possess, I mean real data, not something that was fabricated out of thin air.
“Yep!” the scientist genius responded.
“Well, what the schiessen are we waiting for? Let’s marshall the troops and get on this damn bandwagon.”
“Wait a second,” interjected a further scientist genius who just happened to hike one-fourth of the way up Mount Everest before schiessening out. “What kind of trees are we talking about. As far as I know, there aren’t any trees growing in the Himalayas.”
“Are you saying the scientist genius at some place called East Anglia could be misstating the facts? Is that what you’re trying to say?” responded a red-faced older scientist who had a huge mortgage payment he still needed to cover.
“Dam-it, for what purpose are you trying to ruin this newfound gig of ours,” came the scoffing response from a number of dissimilar, harmonious, scientist geniuses.
The offending doubting scientist genius knew what a consensus of fellow scientist geniuses, along with the boneheaded, vocal morons in the media, could do…create havoc for his life; nevertheless, quick thinking saved him further disgrace and ridicule. “I suppose we could always plant some trees.”
“Yea, he’s right! That scientist genius is right! We could always plant some sort of tree, only it would need to live long enough to give us the bark and data we need!” blurted out a fellow colleague, also with a huge mortgage payment to make, with happiness etched on his face.
“Yes, we would need a species of tree that could live a least a week!” added an additional genius. “That’s how long it would take for any of us to pretend we all of a sudden discovered them.”
“Yea, but wouldn’t any tree freeze solid at those subzero temperatures?” replied another scientist with a question.
“Who cares,” replied one more genius scientist, “we’re only after the bark.”
“Yea, yea, we’re only after the bark!” exclaimed a further scientist genius. “In a week we could be back in ‘Fat City,’ again!”
“What sort of tree should we plant?” asked a further genius scientist.
“One that we can get a consensus on,” responded one of the consensus.
“Great idea!” shouted someone else in the group.
“What in the world is the point of all of this?”
Oh, yea, I almost forgot. Well, turns out the idea of dropping dry ice into hurricanes, while absurd to begin with, did not go unnoticed by the clan at FEMA who were searching for a way of dealing with manmade cyclones, which leads us into the next segway…Santa (FEMA) to the rescue. But first, let us see how the Gertrude’s family is doing.
-----
By now, Gertrude and her brood of chillans had caught up with the community event. This was one of those rare occasions when the entire family got together and began to bond.
The racket of the air raid sirens, the noise of the horde…laughter, shouting, cussing and gibberish filled the air…and it was exciting!
No one Gertrude had spoken to while she waddled along with her neighbors had any idea why they were out and about; all anyone knew was this orgy of barbarity and wreaking havoc was entertaining and kind of like a grown-up version of Halloween...trick or treat, only there were no treats.
One of the most important things rioters needed to do before departing for the human rampages and mayhem was to protect their own property...namely their trailers and television sets. To this end, a system had been worked out whereby fellow wingdings used colored flags to, just like primitive Homo-sapiens, ward off evil spirits.
Modern day Americans tied off colored flags to their TV antennas, to their laundry lines, to the few flagpoles some raised, as a symbol of solidarity with whatever the impetus might have been to spark the call to riot.
Today’s color was “pink.”
The horde was moving west, toward the Bay Area. The targets were always the strip malls, neighborhoods not flying the right colors for the day, week, or month-long event...and anything else caught in the path of the ‘Cone of Destruction.’
What does a rioting mass of humanity look like down close and personal, you might ask?
“Yes, I would like to know?”
It depended, of course, on the spot of the disturbance as to the numbers that might be involved. The biggest uproars looked a lot like the Boston Marathon where you had twenty, thirty, forty thousand, a hundred thousand runners all lined up in one huge glob of humanity waiting to descend upon the landscape. Now, picture in your mind that mass of humanity from the opposite side of the starting line. You can see the first few rows of the herd before it becomes a jumbled mass of bobbing heads in the rabble. Now, put sharpened sticks, clubs, axes in their hands, replace the fabric clothing with animal skins, put iron helmets on a few of their heads, drop them into a forest setting and you would have what could easily pass as an ancient horde of barbarians about to descend upon civilization. Oh, I almost forgot, and dye half the rabble’s hair purple, orange, or blue and leave them all unshaven...incl
uding the women folk. Yes, that completes the picture you should be envisioning.
Now, for the damsels in the front rows, replace the assortment of skintight bikini bottoms and thongs with loose-fitting, tattered blobs of clothes that are supposed to pass for shorts and overalls...no dresses, or skorts (skirt-shorts). Replace the cute appearing three-hundred-dollar running shoes with bare feet, sandals, cowboy boots, combat boots, moccasins, flip flops, more bare feet, Uggs and something resembling tennis shoes. Now for those cute, skintight tank tops and half-tank tops that leave the midsection exposed to show off the six-packs...replace them with blobs of clothing supposed to pass as T-shirts and Polo shirts. Top a few of the chicks off with cowboy hats, a few hard hats, a couple of combat helmets and the rest with baseball caps with logos for teams they’ve never seen. Now on to the dudes.
For the men, pretty much the same thing applies...replace the assorted colors of mostly tight-fitting bikini bottoms and thongs with the same blobs of clothing, only with button-up flaps in the front. Same for the footwear, only most are barefoot. For any place but Texas, most of the men are wearing baseball hats, once more with logos for sports teams they have never seen.
Some of the entrants are wearing belts to hold up their oversized shorts and overalls, only instead of leather, or leatherette it was a rope made out of hemp, or cornstalks. Colors range from blue to brown to green and the garments look to be from the same clothing designer, which they are.
We’re describing the appearances of your typical-looking rioter at this time using the analogy of runners in a Boston Marathon and we are only going to take into account those types likely to participate in either event. What will be missing from the comparison are the bureaucrats and those running the dominion who would never think of lowering themselves to the same level of the ‘hoi polloi’ by participating in such lowlife events. That said, let us look at the marathoners first then replace them with the rioters of a mob.
On the one side you have rock-hard, athletic-appearing, ‘without an ounce of body fat,’ oversized muscled legs and birdlike upper bodies of the marathon runners. Some of the riffraff on the rioting side of the equation look similar, only without the oversized muscled legs. Both men and women marathon runners have shaved legs to reduce wind resistance. In the throng the adolescents and older types were wearing something resembling shorts. You see hairy, unshaved legs for both sexes. As far as facial hair goes, the guys are largely unshaved and as far as most of the women, they are usually sporting subdued-looking mustaches.
We’re peeking in at the front few rows of troublemakers, beyond all that can be seen are thousands upon thousands of bobbing heads wearing some kind of hat, as far as the eye can see.
In the front few rows we can easily pick out those still living at home; some men who are in a gigolo-like relationship, characters beyond hope of a gigolo-like relationship collecting meager welfare checks; dames out on their own and collecting meager welfare checks and who are fast considering having kids to get bigger paychecks from the authorities. Thousands of agitators who did not look like runners...but more like your everyday typical American in 2050.
The younger, still-living-at-home, rail-thin, without-an-ounce-of-body-fat types, in all likelihood a result of being eaten out of house and home by the overweight matriarchs, none of which can be discerned...make up the vast preponderance of those that can be seen. These are the fastest runners, the ones to always get to the head of the pack, always the ones to get to the best spots first, always getting to those flat screen TVs before anyone else. Intermixed with the younger set are adults who have a desperate look about their faces. All looked like shoppers waiting to rush the mall doors on ‘Black Friday’...the day after Thanksgiving.
Everyone is anxious; tension was in the air...ready to cut loose...a mass of humanity that looked like it would run over any and every thing in its path like locusts, but what was keeping them in check? Why weren’t they already scouring the landscape for treats, torching anything flammable, breaking whatever could be broken and throwing litter all over the place?
“They can’t be waiting for a starting gun to fire, can they?”
Well, sort of like a starting gun. Everyone would be waiting for the community organizers’ air-horns to signal the start of the day’s festivities.
-----
The middle agers making up the middle of the rioting horde were followed by the laggers, the doddlers like Gertrude who made up those bringing up the rear of the mob. These were mostly the less ambulatory senior citizens and..and the loving, caring, stay-at-home, overweight, welfare and child-support collecting mothers with their clutches of younger children helping to carry many along, helping many to carry off the stolen goods of their neighbors.
It was late afternoon when one of Gertrude’s stirpes recognized the trailer of someone who had spurned him or her during the kid’s version of Halloween...and it did not have a pink flag flying!
“That’s that old bitch’s trailer!” she, or he shouted, a teenager who had not developed enough to tell if they were a boy or girl. All the Gertrude family kids had shaggy long hair, dressed like boys and invariably had pullover shirts with some Heavy Metal band name stenciled on the front.
“Which one?” asked a further sibling wearing a faded pair of green jeans, dirty tennis shoes with holes and a pullover shirt, also with holes and the band “Acyd Eges” (Acid Ages) stenciled in glitter on the front.
“You know, the one who didn’t give us any treats on Halloween,” replied the first sibling wearing a nose ring, a clear indication this person was a girl and going steady with someone who could have either been a boy, an additional girl, a man, a women, or something else.
“Oh, yea, now I remember. It was that trailer,” said sibling number two, whose swastika, arm tattoo gave no indication if they were a boy, or girl, pointing to a white single-wide with curtains drawn.
“No, you idiot,” the first girl sibling responded, “it was the grey one over there,” pointing to an altogether different trailer.
Now, one more, a third sibling chimed in, “No, you’re both wrong and blockheads, it was that trailer over there with the red trim.”
“It was the white trailer!” insisted sibling number two.
“No, it was the grey trailer,” insisted girl sibling number one.
Now, more siblings joined into the fray, highly competitive amongst themselves, all but three with different sperm donors (dads). Each felt they had something to prove, something that would elevate them in the eyes of their ‘Ma Ma.’
“No, it was that blue trailer,” insisted sibling number four.
“Everybody’s wrong,” insisted sibling number five. “It was that red trimmed trailer over there.” Pointing to the trailer sibling number three had pointed out.
“Yea, Moon Beam (the fifth sibling’s name…a teenage boy’s name) is right…I’m right! It is the damn trailer with the red trim!” exclaimed sibling number three.
The debate continued becoming increasingly heated. Never once did it occur to any of the siblings that they could easily resolve the matter by vandalizing all suspected trailers; one of them was sure to be the right indignant person’s trailer.
Gertrude, owing to the reality of her size and slowness, always fell behind the pack; the white trash honey now came within shouting distance of her brood, not taking notice of what they were doing, unaware they were about to descend upon her currying favor and a resolution.
“No, it was that one!” said chillan number seven.
“You’re a bonehead! It was that trailer…the pink one!” insisted number eight.
“Yea, nevertheless it’s got pink colors,” responded kid number eleven, or five.
“It’s painted pink you dip schiessen, it doesn’t have a pink ribbon. That trailer is fair game,” replied kid number eight in retort.
The crazy discussions continued as the matriarch approached.
Gertrude, who to get into t
he spirit of things, had switched and started slugging back a plastic quart-size milk bottle filled with moonshine, was in the process of taking one more gulp of corn liquor when the barrage of magpies descended like a torrent upon her ears.
Arranged, not in order of age, but by the sequence in which they entered into the debate.
“Mama…!” shouted chillan number nine.
“Memaw…!” exclaimed number seven.
“Mom…!” screamed the daughter who had started the whole damn mess…number one.
“Mommy…!” cried number ten, a five-year old, riding on the hip of one of the sitter-daughters.
“Mommie…!” yelled the boy, or girl with the swastika tattoo and unknown sex, number two.
“Mother…!” beseeched number three.
“Mama…!” implored sibling number six.
“Mommy…” reacted sibling number…
I’ve lost count! Anyway, all ten, twelve, or sixteen of her brood looked like a clutch of chicks, all chirping at the same time, all yelling, or crying out with some variation of “mama,” sounding like babbling imbeciles.
“So, that’s where the term ‘babble’ came from…a spinoff from ‘Babel’ in Genesis…the Tower of Babel.”
I’ll buy that. So, are you following this bizarre line of conversation, at all?
“Well, I have to admit, I have not payed much attention after the third, or fourth ‘mama.’”
“Ma…Ma…!” cried out one more young child still riding on the hip of the other sitter-daughter.
“Mom…!”
“Mama…!”
“Memaw…!”
“Mommy…!”
“Mom…Ma…!”
Not buzzed enough to drown out the medley of voices, Gertrude shouted, “What the
[email protected]#&!? Dam-it all, I knew I should have had you all aborted! What the fuk do ya’ll want?”
“Me-ma, do you remember that bitch who did not give us any candy last Halloween?” asked sibling number two.
“How the crap should I know? Oh,” a memory now managed to work its way through the cobwebs of time. “You mean that old, stupid-looking bitch?”
“Yea, mama…that’s the one. Didn’t that bitch live in that trailer?” sibling number two asked while pointing at the grey trailer he, or she, singled out earlier.
Hmmm… “No, I think it was that trailer,” pointing to an altogether different trailer, a sixth, or seventh possibility in the intervening time between when the debate first ensued.
“But wait, Me-Ma…don’t you remember it was the trailer with the…”
When an idiot argues an issue, the best thing to do is step aside, let them talk, don’t respond, else you too will look like an idiot, but these were…
Wait, do you hear that? The heavy breathing, it’s back!
Initially, nothing save for silence was heard.
“I don’t hear anything.”
Shsssh...wait, just listen.
Somebody is out there...listening in the background.
“Wait, I think I do hear something.”
Ahh ugghhh ahh ugghhh auhh ugggh
“Yes...yes I hear it now!”
Ahh ugghhh ahh ugghhh auhh ugggh
Sounds like a “mouth breather” doesn’t it?
Ahh ugghhh ahh ugghhh auhh ugggh
“It sounds like a man’s breathing.”
Could be a woman smoker.
“Nah, I don’t imagine any woman would ever get this far along in this book.”
What do you mean?
“I anticipate any normal woman would have thrown this book in the trash, by now. Is that breathing noise getting louder?”
Ahh ugghhh Ahh Ugghhh AHH UGGHHH AUHH UGGH
Yes, it is!
“That isn’t the novelist, is it?”
No, I heard him snoring in the next room just a few minutes ago; this is someone in the audience.
“Could it be one of the characters, or could whoever is making that noise be reading this book in 2050?”
Why...for what purpose do you ask?
“I’m just reflecting out loud here, but given the nature of things to come, shouldn’t we expect aberrant behavior to be kind of the norm?”
So, what...you reckon whoever is making that noise is playing with themselves?
“I’m just saying.”
Listen, I’m not sure if this is some character the author has not thought to clue me on...or if it is someone in the audience; nevertheless, it is unsettling.
Silence descends on the scene as both ‘the reader’ and yarn spinner listen to the heavy breathing.
More silence.
The heavy breathing begins to disappear....
It is gone! Look, do me one favor...let me know if you plan on taking off again. I might just take a break from narrating for a while, especially if that “mouth breather” comes back around.
“What, are you scared?”
Well, yes, a little. If this “mouth breather” turns out to be a man...a character from the future, one of the old, toothless orderlies, for instance, he’s in all likelihood a pervert. The last thing I want is to be caught in a room with one of those buggers.
“Yes, but you’re a complete fiction?”
Yes, I know, but so is he...if it turns out to be a “him.”
“What if ‘he’ is a ‘she?’”
Same thing. I’m not going to take a chance it is a horny beast-woman like the Beast or Miss Gertrude.
“I see your point; sure I’ll let you know.”
So, should we get on with the story?
“Might as well.”
Okay, then recollect that the Gertrudes are debating which trailer they needed to seek retribution against, but when idiots argue the best thing is to step out of the way, let them talk, let them make fools of themselves, stay out of any exchange, do not attempt to respond to their largely topsy-turvy, irrational points...or you too will appear to be an idiot. Anyway, these were dunces arguing with dunces...so, a half hour later a consensus among the Gertrude family had somehow been reached.
“Stone them all!” yelled the matriarch at the top of her lungs.
Santa Clause FEMA