The field was not so easy to walk because there were no rows; every thing had been randomly planted as if the seeds had been scattered by non-mechanical means, which of course they had; that in combination with the way the dignitary was having to walk bowlegged, no thanks to his little jumping escapade from that sparkler on wheels, that left his body bruised and battered.
The maze field looked as though it would go on and on endlessly in all directions, no matter which way the academic looked. The one saving grace was the English professor was at least able to assuage his hunger by eating half a dozen un-ripened ears of the stuff as he stumbled along. He honestly needed a footpath, or better yet, a road of some sort to make walking easier.
North was where the virtuoso educationist believed he would find commonality with more Caucasian types who also spoke his native tongue. The academic needed a break, however, and in desperation made a wish to ‘Mother Earth,’ Gaia.
Gaia, I, your steadfast, unwavering disciple, opine for you to remove me from this obvious quagmire of glaucous green, unsavory tasting, sustenance for the pauperized, morally unacceptable masses in this prepossessing realm of yours. Amuse me with your magnificence by heeding my differential adjuration.
Somehow, Gaia must have heard the academician’s plea, for five minutes later, his prayer was answered as he came across a path that went roughly in the direction he had been striving to walk.
Thank you, Gaia! You are truthfully all that is knowledge, all that is green, blue and brown.
Time passed by slowly as the doyen in literature marched on along that dirt path. Under clear blue skies and the beating sun, the scholar was reaching the limits of endurance. Dehydration might soon drive the man mad with thirst. Lips parched, thinking even less clearly, the same idea popped into the faculty member’s gourd.
Bling!
I know...I’ll make a further wish!
Gaia, the most merciful. I have a new entreaty. Amuse yourself in your greatness and bestow upon your humble servant an imbibing fountain, or a powder room, or a cantina, someplace where I might partake of a drink, preferably Scotch, but water would do. Yes, water would be acceptable, but only if it is some clear, cold, refreshing, pure water. It is to be hoped that you will see it in your greatness to provide your humble servant with at least some H20, nevertheless without any additives. Please heed my words and help slake my parched lips and unquenched thirst master.
Exasperated, but as luck would have it, the English professor’s second wish ‘almost’ came true! Gaia, or the novelist, having heard his humble servants call for assistance, presented the goofnad with something resembling a swimming hole. Most would have thought the body of water a blessing; nevertheless, the academic was of course a moonbat and liable to suffer from haughtiness and other high-mindedness qualities. The dignitary hesitated at the spectacle of what he considered anything but a gift. To the academic’s way of thinking, the stagnant, brackish, ‘algae-bloom covered,’ waters were anything but a largesse. Thankfully, the man’s lower-order intelligence, the cerebellum, took control over the snob’s ludicrous initial response...seems self-preservation overrode the haughtiest of emotions, even in an assclown.
Jumping in ass first, the academic all too quickly discovered the depth too shallow for such a caper, as his buttock came slamming hard down onto the California-clay bottom.
Owww!
Regrettably, the stupidity of the maneuver also pancaked his testicles...a second time!
“Gaia, damn it!”
The faculty member might never walk straight-legged, again.
Hey, I have an idea for you mister, missus, or misses ‘reader.’
“I’m listening.”
We should add “goofnadius” to our repertoire, what with all the ball-busting this genius has been senselessly putting those jewels of his through. I mean, this guy may be walking bowlegged for the rest of his days with what he has put those gonads of his through. What do you think?
“I don’t know...I kind of like the idea, but where will all the new clichés end?”
Never! By the time this ‘serial novel’ has concluded there could be a hundred or more new idioms you and I come up with for ‘liberals.’ This could also be a genuine chance to add our part to embellishing that online depository of the absurd, the Urban Dictionary!
“Say, you’re right, by adding our own private load of nonsense to that juvenile, phrase ‘dumping ground,’ we might even become famous!”
Now wait a second, how’s anyone to know who you or I are?
“Schiessen, you’re right! So, you and I would clearly be helping the novelist get all the notoriety. For me, at least, that thought reins in the whole idea.”
I may have the answer.
“I’m listening.”
What if we used our real names?
“You mean use my real name instead of mister, misses, or missus ‘reader?’”
Yea...what do you think?
“I could see that working, nevertheless only if I’m the first one to read this...this humorous satire...from end to end.”
Why not, what do you have to lose?
“Nothing, other than completely wasting my time, besides the more pertinent problems are those moonbat nuts and the so-called journalists on ‘the Left.’ The last thing I need are some leftist weirdoes sending me tweets, or email with their limited, four-letter vocabularies.”
I know! We’ll use ‘pen names!’ Sure, the author uses an alias for his more dramatic works. We can do the same thing!
“Hey, now that’s an idea. So, what is the novelist’s pen name?”
François Bivens Thomson.
“How on earth did the novelist come up with that Frenchy sounding moniker?”
You are right, ‘François’ is French for ‘Frank,’ but ‘Bivens’ is Welch for ‘Bivens.’
“And, I suppose ‘Thomson’ is Dutch for ‘Thompson.’”
That might be true, but in the writer’s case it is Scottish for his English originating surname. Well-disguised, isn’t it?
“Except that you have not only just let the ‘cat out of the bag,’ the author has dimwittedly used his ‘real name’ for this novel! It won’t take a genius asshat any time to crack the code and put a bull’s eye on his forehead.”
Yes, the novelist can be a dunce much of the time, but did I mention he lives in a ‘gated community?’
“What an in-luck smuck. So, he can get away with all the name calling! Okay, I’m starting to see your point. I do, after all, want notoriety and more ‘likes’ on my ‘FaceBag’ page.”
As, do I.
“So, we need to come up with some aliases to cover our trails.”
Exactly, and asses.
“I’m going to need some time to consider what I want to call myself...incognito. My alias, ‘pen name’ could be something that goes down in history, just like it did for ‘Samuel Langhorne Clemens!’”
Mark Twain? That might be taking things a little too far.
“Well, I will certainly become more famous than I am right now.”
Without a doubt. Why don’t you give your ‘pen name’ some thought? I will do the same. Let’s come together on this issue again, say in ‘Part Two,’ or ‘Part Three.’
“I agree, but how far off is ‘Part Two?’ Am I going to have a lot of time?”
‘Part Two’ is less than thirty pages away...in a printed book. I have no idea how many hundreds of screens that number translates into in an ebook. Think of all those flashbulbs, the red-carpet runways, the throngs of cheering fans...a dream come true.
“Yes...yes...fame, fortune: less than thirty pages away!”
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, let’s move back to that swimming hole where the English-teaching ‘goofnadius’ is addressing his bodily needs.
Since we left the mental debutante, he has moved on from the matter of his bruised and throbbing balls to looking much like a goldfish underwater, gulping down the brackish, tan
nin-laced mess. Bobbing up and down, coming up for air before dunking his noodle back into the brine, chugalugging. At long last, the professor’s thirst became slaked. The mental giant was now ready to move on to the next issue...cleanliness.
“Oh, Gaia this feels so good,” remarked the academician adding some girlish laughter.
The academic had not felt this good since waking up from that long nap of his. He now has eaten food of sorts, even though the green corn will probably be giving him ‘irritable bowel syndrome’ in the coming days. The water, murky and of questionable healthiness, is also likely to contribute to those symptoms. Now, those waters are acting as his bathing tub.
It did not take long for the English professor’s clothes to start morphing into something apart from the original shape. The professor really needed some real clothes; that toga-like gown of his had been a pain in the ass, no matter how much he tried to keep his flank tied up, those damnable tie-strings continued to work free.
The noise of splashing water from some sort of spasmodic hand motions unexpectedly burst on the scene.
Splash...whack...slap...splash...
Two minutes later, still more splashing.
Whack...slap...splash...splash...
“What the hell is this guy doing?”
Splash...whack...slap...splash...whack...slap...
The hell if I know! Whatever it is he is unquestionably working up a lather.
Whack...slap...splash...splash...whack...slap...
“Oh, yea!!!”
Whacky...slappy...splashy...
“God all mighty, can we just skip this scene altogether?”
Splashy...whacky...slappy...
“Hey Dog, what’s going on? There could be children around,”
The near horrifying thrashing about began to subside. The frothy bubbles of the washing machine-like exertion began to melt away. The professor’s shrieks of ecstasy changed to heavy breathing. The nightmarish sight was finally over!
-----
Nighttime was now falling. The professor was feeling more at ease and relaxed. When he stood up from the swimming hole, he found his gown had acted like a gigantic sponge...and had turned into an enormous tent-like, prom-dress looking thing. What luck!
After climbing out of the pond, the academician busied himself by wringing out as much water from the garment as he could, then spent several minutes bending over enough cornstalks to form some semblance of bedding. When that was accomplished, the professor lay down in his expansive gown ready for a good night’s sleep. The scholar’s tent-gown was still damp, but the nature of his arid surroundings would soon dry the thing out. The dignitary would sleep well this night.
The English faculty member was content and happy with his state of being. The guru still had concerns about what lay ahead. The professor knew he really needed some new clothes, but unlike his earlier acts, was too tired to remember to wish for Gaia to send some. The academic would walk, probably bowlegged, north tomorrow. The direction where he hoped to run into civilization, a metropolis with normally speaking people, roadways with sidewalks, taxi cabs with those Indian drivers, breakfast cafes with the wafting aroma of coffee, major banks with ‘automatic teller machines,’ men’s departments of retail chains, four-star hotels with room service, an airport with jetliners that would whisk him back to New York...that sort of city, a place like those the professor remembered. What the dignitary had seen and experienced, so far, had to be an aberration, not typifying the America he remembered.
For once, the academic’s rationale for trekking north seemed logical...his emotions had played only a minor role in his decision. What was the reason? Why, not use ‘feelings’ to arrive at some conclusion. The reason was that the academic knew to the south lay Mexico, a country with future Democrat voters whom the professor and his fellow ‘assclown buddies’ were counting on to permanently carry the day. The professor, of course, had now gotten a taste of what those voters looked like. The American aristocrat never once believed, in his safe-house, cloistered away in the Ivory Towers, that he might someday suffer fallout for their ‘assclownic’ actions. The professor assessed himself far removed from the savage hordes that would descend upon the country and in any state below the 38th parallel. He was above the 38th parallel, but unbeknownst to the do-gooder his and the wishes of his fellow buddies had come true. The border with Mexico was now nothing but an imaginary line in the sand, porous, no longer regulated by the federal government, boundary fences having long ago been torn down by the foot traffic of the ‘once illegals,’ legals. Relics of the arcane past stood as dilapidated buildings of former checkpoints.
Today, someone standing on that imaginary line would no longer be able to tell when they had crossed the demarcation line into the United States; not until they happened to catch a glimpse of the outline of skyscrapers would someone know with any certainty. Otherwise, there was nothing else to give any indication that a person might be north of the border and in the greatest place to live on earth.
The professor saw those blithering idiots dressed in their hospital gowns as evidence that the southern border was no longer safe. The people down there no longer spoke English. The academic logically decided north was the way he must go. The professor hoped he might run into someone who spoke fluently, maybe even in a grammatically correct fashion. Now, wouldn’t that be great. The reoccurring notion went running through his increasingly muddled deliberations, kind of like counting sheep.
English...
Grammar...
English…
Grammar...
The same muddled thoughts...
English...
Grammar...
English…
Kept running through his grey matter. The professor’s eyelids felt heavy. Soon, they felt like lead. The academician could not keep them...
Zzz….Snort!
Goout night professor, sweet dreams…
Zzz…Snort!…Snort!
-----
Dawn had broken as Schwartz woke with a start; the mosquitoes had found him! They were buzzing everywhere with their stinging little bites.
“Schiessen!” the academician shouted as he stood and then tripped over his clumsy garment. The academic looked down to see his hospital slippers had also become a couple of sizes larger. He kicked them off in his haste for respite from his physical suffering.
Back at the sanitarium the same kind of thing would happen to the patients when they were meandering about outside in the rain. There was no real remedy; everything the patients at Grey Hall wore was made of cornstalk fiber, and therefore, highly absorbent. About the only thing that could be done was let the patients’ body heat run its course once they came indoors. Eventually the gowns and footwear would dry and approximately return to their original shape. Rain, by the way, was a goout [good] thing, nature’s way of washing some of the stench, some of the stains, some of the schiessen and other unsightly things away...nature’s laundromat.
Professor Schwartz stumbled his way to the swimming hole lifting his gown-tent like some kind of ballroom dress. The academic did not have time to consider his gown would remain a morphed-up blob of fabric with the reintroduction of moisture...he was beyond thinking about that triviality for the moment. Right now, the professor had to escape his tormentors.
He jumped in, nevertheless more carefully, keeping his body totally submerged and out of reach except for his head. The hospital gown floated to the surface and looked like some kind of huge lily pad. The scholar slapped about with his arms trying to wave the little vermin off, but to no avail. With his gown in the condition it was and barefooted, he could not just get up and run away. The dignitary was stuck for the moment in this miserable situation, a situation that would solve itself if he just had some normal fitting clothes he could scamper away in. The academician suddenly put two and two together!
Yesterday I made two wishes...and they both came true! It would not hurt to t
ry another time.
“Gaia, I wish I had some clothes,” the academician squeaked out loud.
Nothing happened.
Reword the “wish” you fool! The wish master already sees you have a gown, albeit a rather lousy appearing one. Ask for “new clothes” and see what happens.
The professor must have heard the teller of tales’ suggestion.
“No ifs ands or buts, I wish I had some ‘new’ clothes.”
The sound of crickets...
Nothing...no wait! What is that noise? Sounds like a jet plane, a big jet plane...and it is flying real, real low.
The huge shadow of a jetliner darkened Schwartz’s surroundings for the briefest of moments followed immediately by the screaming racket of turbine engines.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhccccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll !
A split second later a suitcase came tumbling from the sky.
Thud!
“Holy Gaia, my wish came true!”
“Just how on earth did that magically happen?”
I think I need to take a moment to mention the state of the airline industry: for all practical purposes it no longer existed. Let me make the point clear and tie the explanation in with what we just saw.
“Go ahead.”
The passenger jet that flew overhead was in all likelihood close to sixty years old and one of the fleet operated by the Department of Bankruptcy.
Near silence save for the sound of crickets...
Now, obviously, the Department of Bankruptcy has no business running an airline and...
“Am I truly supposed to believe the Department of Bankruptcy is running an airline?”
Well, it is true.
“You need to do some explaining.”
I expected I would and by the way, the explanation I’m about to dump on you sums up some of why America is in the state it is in, so keep this in mind if I appear a little longwinded.
“Sure, but try to make it somewhat interesting, okay?”
I’ll try. It begins with Schwartz who will soon find himself out in a new, future America where he will be charged with making some difficult choices. One of those decisions will involve something completely foreign to him, something the moronicist never believed he would be forced to do to survive. The most important work for most men was gigolo’in, which we will talk more about in ‘Part Two.’ Nevertheless, that was for younger chumps, not street urchins with missing teeth and dressed up as...well, you know. Schwartz’s only option might be that four letter word “Work!” Work, however, meant that there were jobs available, but most occupations these days were low skill, rudimentary things and often involved using a shovel or a broom.
Let’s hope the professor has some money hidden somewhere, or possibly a relative or two overseas who has not squandered everything on some lavish lifestyle. The options were going to be limited if the dignitary could not find some financing. There was always that option of going back into one of those low-security nut houses surrounded by chain link fences. All he had to do was feign insanity, but would he remember how to act crazy, or would he remember anything about places like Grey Hall, at all? Would it come to that? Would Professor Schwartz with his PhD in English be forced to such low depths?
Schwartz’s fortune and the fortunes of millions of other Americans went missing when the super-duper geniuses who had arranged everything perfectly, fled overseas. Gone, confiscated and carried away by the academic’s fellow brothers and sisters largely to France where those fortunes had been getting blown so fast, those buddies of his would soon need to find their next victim country.
So, who were these sponges that operated under the guise of asshatism and who took off at the first signs of trouble?
Twenty-five years ago, most of the wealthy French had carried American passports, had been referred to as “the moonbat establishment” and had been the ones running Washington, and in turn, America...for nearly three decades. The establishment’s policies and programs were based upon theoretical ‘mumbo jumbo’ and had quickly worked to constrict the economy. Revenues, and therefore the tax base began a downward slide because increasing numbers of Americans had less and less to spend. More and more were simply living on the government, paycheck to paycheck. The establishment’s incentives made it perfectly sensible for most Americans to opt for a life of relative ease over a life of toil...one would select the life of leisure, right? Of course, I’m right.
“I have a question, just what do you mean by ‘the establishment?’”
I’ll spend some time on that later.
“Seems like an easy question; I’d like an answer now.”
Fine...don’t get your panties in a wad.
“How do you know I wear panties?”
The odds are fifty-fifty that you do; nevertheless, my apologies if I’ve gotten it wrong.
“Apology accepted, now get on with it.”
The establishment was white, for one, generally grew up in states that were goofnad strongholds, so the Northeast or along the West Coast. Gender, sexual preference and ethnicity...well gender and sexual preference played no part in being part of the club; you could be a man, woman, or something in between.
There were two extremes: the “haves” who were those with trust funds and the “have nots,” those that wanted trust funds. The “have nots” did the bidding of the “haves,” so they could get trust funds and become “haves,” too.
The Ivy League universities and ‘want-to-be’ Ivy League colleges were where the “have nots” began their road to becoming “haves,” or “almost haves.” “Almost haves” were former “have nots” who were usually closer to being “haves” than the “have nots” they had once been. By the way, many students were already “haves,” or were waiting for their parents to croak, or the trust fund to kick in; otherwise, they were simply going through the motions of appearing to be “have nots.”
Most “have nots,” Ivy League, or otherwise were taught by faculty like the moonbat, university professors to become tomorrow’s leeches and sponges...you know, the bureaucrats, the politicians, the “slip and fall” lawyers, the lobbyists; individuals who produced nothing, but created their trust funds on the backs of the taxpayer, or the private sector. Anyway, the college faculty might have been “have nots” who may, or may not have wanted to become “almost haves,” or “haves.” Some might have been “almost haves” who may or may not have wanted to become “haves,” or they could have been “haves,” already.
It goes without saying, doesn’t it, that the vast majority of these eggheads were ‘moronocists.’ Since I have already discussed moronocists at some length, I won’t be spending any more time here describing what moronicism is; but do note, however, that these so-called institutions of higher education were the breeding grounds for such ludicrous thinking as exhibited by the majority of assclowns-asshats-goofnad-moonbats. Normal kids go into the diploma mill. They come out ‘leftist morons.’
So when someone graduated from an Ivy League university, or a look alike, they would either have an existing network to other connected “have nots” and perhaps some connected “almost haves,” or were in the process of building one unless they were pretenders and already “haves.” “Connected” meant the “have nots” and “almost haves” had established positions already in one of the 456 Washington bureaucracies, one of the three-thousand plus state agencies, the Democrat Party, Hollywood, the media, or were ‘slip-and-fall’ lawyers.
For the “have nots” and “almost haves” to succeed, they needed to work themselves into positions where cronyism; shady, backdoor deals; payoffs and the like played a key part in helping out the “haves” become bigger “haves” who, in turn, promised to make the “have nots,” or “almost haves,” either “almost haves,” or “haves” for their efforts.
Any questions?
“No, the ‘haves’
worked with ‘have nots’ so they could become bigger ‘haves.’ The ‘have nots’ worked for the ‘haves’ so they could become ‘almost haves,’ or ‘haves.’ The ‘almost haves’ represented a transitionary step between being a ‘have not’ and a ‘have.’”
Exactly...gee, you’re a bright person.
So here was the pièce de résistance, the thing...I mean “the thing” that kept all the moonbats up at nights. The piece of the puzzle that made the “have nots,” “almost haves” and “haves” wet their pants, panties, or diapers anytime they brooded about it...”
“Yes...”
That one thing...well, it would be like robbing the biggest piggy bank in the world...and getting away with it Scot-free!
“Yes...yes.”
If they could just get their mitts on that one thing...that one thing that had escaped them for so...so long, the thing they coveted more than life itself. The one thing they would sell their souls for...that thing was...
“Yes!”
Permanent...
“Yes, yes…”
Control...
“Yes…yes…yes…”
...over Washington!
“Well, of course! That’s a no brainer.”
Yes, it was a no brainer; nevertheless, it was still simply brilliant! To have the nerve to do whatever it took: lie, cheat, steal, murder to permanently take control of Washington and, in turn, the country...then taking the American multitude for a ride they would never forget. Wow!
You see - once the “haves,” “almost haves,” and “have nots,” i.e. the goofnads, had that kind of power they could be the benevolent, magnanimous masters they should have always been…but, how the hell to get it? How to wrest control of the realm from the eighty percent of Americans who were not f*@!ing goofnads?
To get what the “haves,” “almost haves,” and “have nots” wanted, to get what they deserved...they needed a preponderance of stupid, I mean pea-brained...no, stupid is the right term, unlettered, destitute loudmouth voters they could get their hands on...at least up to the time that damnable U.S. Constitution could be put out to pasture. It was the only way to succeed, the only way to beat those small-brained, dimwitted Republicans in the voting booths...and do it forever!
So far, nothing had worked for the masterminds. The asshats had tried bringing moonbat voters back from the grave to take over a host, another living goofnad; often dozens of deceased assclowns would take up residence in one living assclown voter, walk them into a voting booth and pull the lever a dozen times...but still, there had not been enough votes to put themselves into perpetual control of the country.
Next “the Party” tried to prevent Republicans’ votes from counting by tampering with voting machines through their buddies in the Mafia and unions, but still they could not get enough votes to guarantee elections!
The prisons were looked at next, but those small-brain, dimwitted Republicans got in the way voting down the legislation anytime the moonbats brought it to the floor of the Senate or House.
Where to find more voters? Where to find more of the same gullible, inerudite, needy, brain-dead voters they counted as their constituents, the asshats voters who would jump off a bridge when ‘the establishment’ said JUMP!
The intelligencia questioned themselves, “Can we stimulate procreation? Can we get them to propagate like rabbits...without taking a financial hit in the shorts, ourselves? If so, will we have the numbers we need in our lifetimes?”
The answer was “yes” and “no.” “Yes,” new policies and programs could be introduced that would increase the number of moonbat voters; nevertheless, it would take years before anyone saw meaningful results...in elections. Just the same, the asshats in Washington went through with their grandiose plans handing out welfare checks, child support payments, food stamps to any voting-age woman who could fog up a mirror, and therefore, qualify as a Democrat. In as much as ninety-five percent of all those who would qualify for the goofnad programs were your typical goofnad voter, there was nothing but upside save for the hit the taxpayers would take in the shorts, but that mattered little on account of most taxpayers were not asshats, too. The males, who were indirect participants, were also happy with the arrangement. Those lucky dudes could get their rocks off any day of the week, with just about any floozie around...and without any financial repercussions, or jail time! But still, the problem for the moonbats remained unresolved...for the short term.
For years, the asshats’ dilemma looked as though it was insurmountable up to one fine November day when Kwanza arrived early! It was an election day unlike any other, a ray of hope that had peaked through what had been otherwise cloudy political skies. Their deliverance came as a national election won on the thinnest of margins; it still dropped the power of all Washington into their laps! For two years, the goofnads would be in charge, running things, doing whatever they wanted...but would there be enough time?
The establishment wasted no time and for the next two years the southern boundary with Mexico was not only left wide open, the assclowns made sure everyone south of the border got an open invitation to join the “American Dream.” Citizenship was streamlined; it now took only fifteen minutes for an illegal to become a moonbat voter. Tens of millions flocked to the asshats’ banner with promises of an easy life paid for by the American taxpayer. The plan was doomed from the start, a non-sustainable business model with promises that would not be kept...nevertheless, who cared! All the establishment would be “haves!” So what if everything crashed! They, the moonbat institutions, would be long gone before that day arrived.
It would go down as the biggest ‘Ponzi Scheme’ the world would ever see! Simply genius, robbing Peter to pay Paul...and the assclowns in the media would make sure that someone else got stuck with the blame! It was simply brilliant! In less than a decade, less than three election cycles, the moonbats were in total control and no longer vulnerable to the whims of the Republican Party. They could be who they legitimately were with impunity and boy oh boy did everything get better.
So, what was life like for the existing and new welfare-roll arrivals, the new electorate who put ‘the establishment’ in control? Most found life on the whole was good, but not great on account of there was no “spending money!” Just the same, the project housing was free and a great deal nicer than the single-room mud huts most former illegals had called “home.”
The soup kitchens were always there once the food stamps ran out on booze and drugs. Some even managed to take a piece-of-cac jalopy and get them to roll under their own power, a.k.a. the blastoff of the national love for lowriders. Yeah, once more things were tolerable, not great, because the goofnad politicians were no longer tossing around “spending money” as freely any more. The coffers were drying up, debt was being racked up faster than ever before, the debt rating continued to slide, so the loans to overseas nations, the thing that had been propping up the hoax, all went away. There was trouble on the horizon. Well, as expected, the ‘Ponzi Scheme’ fell apart and the economy went bust, which is when most of the moonbat proletariat started getting involved in the new American pastime, “Rioting” and “Looting.”
What to do? Taxable revenues were shrinking as sales for products and services fell, even while record numbers of Americans opted for the life of leisure. The lazy slobs, I mean voters, could not be expected to give up the sweet life in view of the fact that those evil Republicans were still lurking in the shadows and they could easily make the same empty promises. No, the thing to do was kill two birds with one stone, eliminate the Republican Party forever, grab as much of the remaining treasure as possible, then “Get the hell out of Dodge.”
The answer to the establishment’s problems were best summed up by the jingle they created and delivered in national advertising to extract the last vestiges of taxpayer dollars from the private sector.
For the English-speaking channels the jingle went like this: “We must tax the wealthy so
the poor can eat, Dog!”
For the comedy channels catering to the unemployed youth it went like this: “We gots'ta tax de rich so's de poo' kin eat, Dog!”
...and, the broadcasts on the Spanish-speaking networks sounded like this: "Nos gots'ta taxio de rich’os así que poor caca de 'kin. MAN’O!"
The masterminds behind the masterful marketing campaign also made sure all Español broadcasts were beamed into Mexico carrying the added message, “Come to America, the Democrat Party needs your votes.”
“Wealthy” was anyone with any cash, stocks, or municipal bonds amounting to more than 100,000 dollars for individuals, 200,000 for families and one million for businesses...half of everything else went to Washington...every year! The establishment even came up with a new name for the new tax: “Flat Tax,” a play on words that worked to confuse and diffuse the issue among the taxpayers, a scheme that only worked with the media’s undivided support by keeping the minority in the dark up to the time it was too late.
“There had to be some kind of revolt by the taxpayers.”
Well, there was, but so what! The real beauty behind the plan was not only did they have the force of numbers working for them, the moonbats also had nearly every meaningful agency and activist organization working on their behalf, too: NPR, PBS, ACORN, the IRS, the Department of Justice and hundreds upon hundreds of similar political machines the moonbats had been infiltrating, or creating over the years. Combine that power with their hold over one of the most gullible, exploitable groups of humanity through their buddies in the media and they could not lose.
The moonbat horde easily shouted down the demonstrations held by normal Americans; it took little to nothing to provoke their constituents into angry masses of rioters who could descend upon any and everyone that raised their voice in opposition to the liberal establishment. That’s seventy percent of Americans beating up on thirty percent.
The real irony in all this was the taxpayers were not only the ones getting the shaft, they were the ones responsible for their own demise, what with all their tax dollars being spent for the assclowns’ pet projects, most of which were political in nature. Lest we forget all those unchallenged decades when voters buried their heads in the sand rather than stand up and demand politicians rollback the coming debacle; they only had themselves to blame. Anyway, all the hollow vows of the goofnads had paid off and it was a sensational, dandiful thing!
At the time, what the establishment had done looked to be a pure stroke of genius, but alas in retrospect, empowering what were uncultured throngs of indigents for the sake of political power might have been a bit shortsighted. Sure, in the short run it worked for the establishment elites; nevertheless, six elections later, they too found themselves on the outside and soon after, on the run.
This is all a roundabout way of telling you with the writing on the wall the smart money and establishment had already picked up and split the scene. The slower acting, slower thinking Americans, well they paid the price for waiting around too long and soon found themselves in bankruptcy court defending themselves from tax evasion charges. This was how bureaucracies like the Department of Bankruptcy wound up in things like the airline business.
Appearing more like a third-world country, Washington had become a different sort of place when the illiterate masses began voting likeminded, poorly educated, strange-talking politicians into office. Washington not only resembled a banana republic, the country also resembled a South American drug cartel where turf was divided up and defended along bureaucratic lines.
“That still does not explain the problem the...the Department of Bankruptcy jet was having.”
Oh, you’re right, forgive me.
“Forgiven, just answer the question.”
What remained of the airline industry was more efficient on account of there were ninety-percent fewer regions to land and the fleet of active aircraft was now down to double digits. I know you’re thinking ninety-nine, or fewer passenger jets is a nutty figure, but only twenty-five were needed to shuttle the “Forever President” and his extended family around and what was left over was doled out to the public through a national lottery.
“National lottery?”
Yes, the national lottery. I forgot to mention the “Forever President” recently demanded some of the public and paying customers be given the opportunity to fly, too. The Department of Bankruptcy pulled some passenger jets out of mothball; the passenger jet flying low over the academic was one of those recently put back in service.
“What forced Mr. Big-shot's hand?”
The ‘We’d Wan’a Fly Toof’ riots that broke out several years ago. This is all a roundabout, longwinded way of conveying the circumstances surrounding your original question, which I no longer remember. It is to be hoped that I answered it, I certainly don’t want to have to go back through this crap a further time.
“You are in luck, I don’t remember what I asked you either. Just answer me this, are the Department of Bankruptcy passenger jets safe to fly?”
Well, the state had several hundred mothballed airliners from companies like Delta and American, those who had not left the United States soon enough. With that number of commercial aircraft to choose from, they had to be able to find at least some that would still work, right? I mean, nobody’s perfect and the jet with engine trouble was obviously one of those that should not have been picked from the bunch.
“I’m curious, what happened to airlines like Delta, American, United and all the rest?”
You can still see many of the familiar names coming into the four international airports that now serve the land: Reno, Biloxi, Atlantic City and Las Vegas.
“That is indeed odd; what happened to the major hubs like New York’s La Guardia, or Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta?”
They were either overrun and torched by one of the national, or regional riots, or became unsafe for lack of funding and the doors shuttered.
“I did not realize how serious those riots could be.”
They were serious; nevertheless, not as much now thanks to the National Mob Alert System Agency.
Back to the jet that dropped the scholar the single piece of luggage. Obviously it was having some kind of mechanical difficulties. The pilot, choosing to remain alight rather than tumble to earth, decided to lose the luggage with our story’s hero the beneficiary of the Department of Bankruptcy’s mistake.
The professor listened as the noise of the airliner engines disappeared into the distance. Several hundred yards away the dignitary had witnessed a single piece of luggage fall from the sky.
“Did the pilot’s plan work?”
Did you hear an explosion?
“No.”
Then the pilot’s plan must have worked!
Torch these fickening clothes!
Einstein was soon running naked in the direction of the bonanza. The academic’s wish had come true!
Ten minutes later the moronicist stood staring at the gift from heaven. From a distance everything looked promising, but now, peering down at the contents, Schwartz was asking himself: Why did it have to be...a woman’s suitcase?
It took, however, just minutes for the scholar to determine the suitcase was in fact a real find. The owner had not been “too butch” not to have packed a shaving kit and toiletries. There was even a cosmetic bag with mirror and manicure set, everything he needed to clean up. The woman must have also been an avid tennis player as evidenced by the two pairs of tennis shoes, numerous pairs of white, ankle-high socks, several stretchy white tank tops, and women’s tennis skirts in assorted colors. There were, of course, other useful things like women’s panties and who knows the pantyhose might be useful for something; we would just have to wait to see what the professor made of the newfound treasure.
Professor Schwartz’s euphoria was soon replaced with a little melancholy when he first saw himself in the mirror. The academic was older, a lot older than he remembered, but he was determine
d to improve his appearance. For the better part of the morning, the dignitary pruned and preened using the swimming hole as his bubble bath. The professor found Channel No. 576 kept those pesky mosquitoes at bay. The academic broke every one of the plastic women’s razors cutting through his jungle of a beard; nevertheless, not before he had most of his face shaven. The small pair of scissors was used to cut away decades of hair and while the outcome looked like schiessen, it was a vast improvement over his earlier appearance. Nails trimmed, teeth brushed and flossed, the academician was now ready to try on his new wardrobe.
It was several hours later when the professor emerged from the cornfield and out onto the small country road with suitcase in hand. Did I mention the academic was tall? Anyway, to get an idea of what the dignitary looked like, picture a little Asian woman on a tennis court, any tennis court: clay, grass, asphalt, concrete, at a country club, at the playground, et cetera, et cetera. Now picture that little woman wearing the latest in tennis fashion starting with a pink ruffled tennis skirt, a white sleeveless tank-top with low-cut neckline, tennis shoes with white ankle-high socks. Got our little tennis star pictured in your mind? Now replace that petite, five-foot, four-inch, 110-pound Asian woman with Schwartz...a character who was two feet taller, fifty pounds heavier and looked a little like Elvis with lamb chop sideburns.
The professor looked like he was going to some kind of Gay Pride parade, but remember this was 2050 and things have changed, become more liberated under the policies of the Democrat Party. By chance, the academic would be considered normal appearing for the times much like when women, and girls, began popping up on the streets, or in school, with pink, blue, purple, orange dyed hair...very possibly the doyen in literature was as ordinary looking as those Amazons to your average, everyday American in 2050.
Anyway, back to the academic’s appearance. The skirt, for instance, was so short and tight-fitting his butt cheeks could be seen from any angle save down from above, and as for his genitalia, I leave that one to your imagination.
The tank top presented a further unpleasant picture being skintight for one and only long enough to cover his “man teats” so his white, hairy stomach and unflattering wrinkled epidermis were on full display. As for the tennis shoes, they must have been three sizes too small and the ecclesiastic liberal was simply wearing them as slippers.
“What about the fabric, it was made of cornstalks, right?”
I was thinking the same thing, but alas the woman was from overseas where the inherent value of cornstalk-fiber clothing was not yet understood, or was believed to be beneath them.
“Too bad, might have been able to have gotten everything to fit. Please continue.”
To add to the already disturbing spectacle, envision the academic’s new sideburns and a hairdo that was obviously cut by an amateur and looked like...like...well picture someone with a case of mange.
So here we are, Professor Schwartz has stepped out of the cornfield ready to take on the world, appearing like either some kind of degenerate baby sitter who you would not even trust with your pets...or some chum whose mother always wanted a daughter.
The small cosmetic mirror gave the academic no idea of what the big picture looked like; the Einstein-like knew he had to look a little different, but here’s the thing, the professor we must not forget had been to NAMBLA sleepovers. Wait...I’m getting off topic. The point is the professor was a moonbat and no one knows what he was thinking on account of goofnads don’t generally think, they....Feeeeel.
One other thing and this relates to how Schwartz might react to his current, strange appearance, you know the cute little tennis outfit. Well, most full-fledge asshats are groundbreakers when it comes to fashion, lifestyles and newfound religions. The academic, for all we know, could have thought himself a trendsetter when it came to dressing up like a deranged little girl. Now, we will just have to wait to see if that was how the academic looked at things and, if so, whether that kind of thinking worked in this “New, Future America.”
Would the professor be able to blend into American society? If not, would the academician be able to blend in long enough to find some new clothes, possibly men’s clothes that fit? Even so, what about that little girl’s voice of his...how was that going to work out?
The country road led off to the northeast. A neighborhood, a commune, or a housing project could be right around the bend. A happy gait to his stride Professor Felix Schwartz strolled off to find happiness, civilization and anyone who could speak English!
Closing Remarks