Read WTF! This Is A Liberal Utopia! Page 15

PART of the future modern American society!

  Mornings at the NMASA Headquarters were always a tense time. The outlook for that day’s lawlessness could only be collected at night, the results only evaluated during the day. Only at night could the satellite pick up the heat signatures of any brewing trouble, only during the day would those hotspots become noticed by the largely hung-over government union employees.

  Things were indeed good these days; the workday had been downsized from eight, to six, to four hours over the course of the last three decades. The workweek, likewise, had been shortened in the interest of keeping everyone happy, falling from five, to four, to three days a week. Holidays now accounted for one quarter of the days of the year and thanks to a Supreme Court ruling, it was now okay to get moderately buzzed, or drunk for almost every conceivable job during breaks and lunch. Yes, life was good.

  America had become an admirably smashing, fanciful place, a society where anybody living in the Gobi Desert, a prison cell in Mexico, a cave in the Andes would want to move to and call “home.” This kingdom had become a spot where any materfamilias of five, six, seven, or more youths would want to set up shop. America was a place where men...real, red-blooded, hot and bothered men could get away with screwing their lives away without all those repercussions associated with procreating like rabbits...up to the time they reached the magic number six...six new mouths for the authorities to feed. America was a nation where anyone who had zip would remain someone who had nada, just like everyone else who also had zilch. America was a place of fairness, equality....a veritable paradise.

  Work no longer made any sense, while living off the government dole made a lot of sense and using drugs, well that made a whole lot of sense. Yes, America was an indubitable Valhalla on earth and everything the wizards of smart in France had predicted. Things could not be any better, but how much better were those things? How much had Americans’ lot in life improved?

  Tommie Citizen was sitting half-dozing at his personal computer, an ancient relic running WindyOz something, a sterling example of what ‘intellectually dead’ functionaries in one of the many bureaucracies looked like and did during any given work day. Tommie epitomized what many who worked had become; what they could accomplish on behalf of their fellow Americans and just how dedicated and conscientious of people they were when it came to doing the thing they had been forced to do.

  Tommie was like so many of his fellow union buddies at the NMASA headquarters, generally getting inebriated every night after work…completely committed to the job so much so the backwoodsman had made it in on time even though, half and hour earlier Tommie had awaken in some strange woman’s bed and was just now starting to notice his crotch was itching a bit.

  Tommie was the same kind of dedicated soul who had somehow managed to get into that single front seat of his electric car, the same unwavering person who somehow managed to then drive to work without running over someone, or something; the same concerned member of society to have managed to find his chair and was sitting in it doing the very thing the last vestiges of taxpayer dollars were paying him to do…safeguard some of their lives, some of their property and conceivably even some of their autos.

  Even though Tommie’s head and crotch were now itching like crazy, the Mob Traffic Controller took his mission seriously and had ‘manned-up’ to his task and was now sitting motionless in his chair scratching like a flea-bitten cur, with his eyes directed at the blank computer screen, not making out anything clearly, feeling as if he was about to throw up and barely able to keep his peepers open.

  Tommie was one of your typical thirty-something year-old hicks who always voted Democrat; moreover, had way too much time on his hands in those woods of western North Carolina. Tommie was one of those American characters who was working, not because the hillbilly needed, or wanted to, but on account of the yokel had been too horny, too stupid for at least six times. One too many takes as a sperm donor for out-of-wedlock pregnancies, at least eleven confirmed DNA matches; nevertheless, with numbers continuing to grow as claims by floozies rolled in...the total number was now up to sixteen...and counting.

  Hell, Tommie was so backward, his defense before the court so lame, no wander the judge threw the book at him...I mean who would have ever believed Tommie’s claim that he believed those court-issued rubbers were balloons for birthday parties; but then Tommie was someone who, up to the time of arriving in Waycross, had never seen indoor plumbing, someone who had never used anything except an outhouse for #2. Who knows, perhaps the rube was telling the truth. Let’s just say the hick was being truthful that he thought the rubbers were balloons. That said, even if Tommie knew what the prophylactic, made-of-rubber sheaths were would this man of the woods have been able to make the leap and figure out how to put the darn things on? Tommie, after all, was still not using them in this new home of his, this place called Waycross. This country boy had only been around six months and was already suspected of knocking up a neighbor’s wife and daughter. Oh well, it does not matter now cuz happily Tommie’s life made a turn for the better; the cracker was working and now near untouchable. Now, the clodhopper could have as many illegitimate sons and daughters as he wanted...he was already paying the price, that is so long as he continued to vote Democrat.

  Tommie quickly and unexpectedly found this prison sentence much better than he expected living in a single-wide trailer the hayseed called “home,” the still operation he had running in the other spare bedroom; the running water and ‘indoor outhouse;’ the guy even enjoyed television! Gee wiz…how much better could things get? As far as Tommie was concerned those now running the show had succeeded in improving his fortune…through blissful ignorance the hillbilly never once suspected things might have been a bit different, possibly even a bit better before the moonbat Einsteins took over the reins. The maxim “ignorance is bliss” was truly what made Tommie and a billion others like him completely content with what fate had delivered.

  Now, let’s take a glimpse into why rapturous uneducatedness was so pervasive by taking a gander into the everyday life of a hillbilly. Why was Tommie so joyously ignorant and why did the guy have so many ficken kids?

  The answer to the ‘kid's’ question...well, it revolved around the reality that, in the North Carolinian mountains, there was not anything to do, but screw around. Screwing around with the neighbors’ daughters and or spouses was the chief recreational activity; otherwise, all anyone did was sit around all day making up new expressions and distilling corn mash in the backyard.

  The mountain tribes had remained an isolated, solitary folk who relied upon their own wits to survive and propagate. Corn was the staple of the hillbillies’ diet, marijuana the cash crop, moonshine the drink of choice and the revenuers were the bane of their existence. Little in the way of business occurred with the outside world save for the moonshine, or dope trade. Neighbors bartered and traded with one another, but in as much as almost everyone already had corn liquor and pot, the sexual services of one’s daughters, sons, or spouses usually became the only things worth trading amongst themselves.

  So, what led to a state now made up of largely fools, voters and therefore citizens who could be led around the noose like sheep? The public school system with its focus on the liberal arts might have had something to do with the level of ignorance most Americans enjoyed. Things like economics, the sciences, math were too demanding for the typical asshat demographee and were done away within the interest of promoting ‘hope building’ skills like painting, pottery, sewing, braiding, sculpture, child rearing, music and dance.

  There is the possibility the television networks and even Hollywood also had some small part to play. The news media? Sure, they too might have played some small singular part in the “grand strategy” of dumbing-down Americans. One thing is for certain, no one had the answers…there was no need! The ignoramuses were totally content with their fate…and there was no way those unschooled vestiges of humanki
nd would ever learn anything to the contrary.

  Tommie continued sitting motionless, half surveying the computer display as the satellite feed slowly filled his screen with infrared images from the night before. Those pictures from space would give this frontline warrior some sense of what waited non-suspecting, non-anarchists that day. What, if anything, the yokel might discover could save some lives, perhaps some dwellings, a few businesses, but sadly very little in the way of automobiles.

  Tommie was in the first shift of men, women and those in between who acted quickly and resolutely on behalf of the American people…he was a Mob Traffic Controller! From this quadrillion-dollar facility, the US dollar no longer carried any meaning, but the figure sounded good in Washington. Anyway, this place was the very nerve center from where the warnings would go out to the country…through the network studio one floor above…through the men, women and those in between responsible for throwing the switches to those damnable, but necessary early warning sirens in the field. In-betweeners, by the way, were weirdos whose sex could not be gauged from outward appearance.

  Tommie sat at one of the irregularly spaced workstations lining both sides of the elongated room. The pathway that separated the two sets of workers provided both ingress and egress through double doors at the eastern end of the hall; the opposite end had a doorway leading to the cafeteria where the aroma of freshly brewed Cuban coffee wafted in, barely noticeable due to of the blanket of cigar smoke that constantly filled the chamber.

  Tommie was a standout among his peers at the NMASA headquarters on account of, unlike most of them, the hayseed had mastered the art of appearing awake while having fallen completely asleep. Tommie had his coffee mug taped in place to his left hand. For now the cracker half-watched as the satellite photography continued to slowly fill his screen. In two, possibly three or four hours Tommie could very well be able to save many Americans’ lives, even some of their residences, maybe a few retail stores, but sadly few cars.

  Why were autos always in jeopardy you may ask? Well, for one, there were no longer any garages to house them, keeping them protected from the elements, vandalism and…well, you know, the hordes of angry Americans. Where had all the garages gone you might also ask? Garages did not factor into the “grand scheme” of things, except for the benevolent, munificent, extraordinary leaders in Washington; accordingly carports went missing in the sprawling housing projects, the sprawling trailer parks and the city garages that had been converted to tent cities for the homeless. Automobiles were also too expensive for most Americans and a luxury that most envied, a symbol of inequality and, therefore, one of the first targets to be torched during the marches of unhappy Democrats.

  As expected, last night’s events soon caught up with the Mob Traffic Controller. Slowly, Tommie’s eyelids closed…

  Zzz...zzz...zzz….

  Our boy was soon fast asleep.

  One of the great things about having a “Forever President” who had come from Cuba…at least for elite government troops like those found in the NMASA, was all that free coffee and those free cigars everyone got throughout the day. In actuality, management frowned on those controllers who did not light up at least one of those sensational, reeking, tightly rolled, tobacco leaves letting everyone know clearly that not doing so was an uncomplicated sign of disrespect toward the illustrious, astounding, national leader.

  Tommie had a little bit of a tough time when he first got to Waycross aboard one of those newfangled, electric buses that had scarcely taken three days to arrive...because of the overnight battery-recharging delays. The hillbilly was a tobacco chewer at best; nevertheless, as so often becomes the case in socialist-run operations the individual counted for little, while the greater good of the hive counted for everything.

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  Tommie nearly fell over in his seat, but thanks to his American ingenuity and great reflexes the coffee mug had remained upright…and un-spilled!

  The voice over the public announcement system spoke using the most popular dialect, Latino vernacular Ebangish-Edangish-Egangish.

  “Workers, it is time to light up and show your solidarity with our national leader, el Presidente Fidel Castro the fourth.” [Okay sucka's, it be time t'light down and show nosotros' solidar’idaddy wid our nashunal honcho, el Super-dudee Fidel Castro de...uh, uh fourd.]

  The public announcement system now carried those words in the next popular dialect, African-American vernacular. Next, came the redneck dialect, third most popular, particularly in south Georgia.

  Ten minutes later, Tommie’s native tongue, Appalachian vernacular, made it to the loudspeaker with the message. Tommie, of course, did not need to wait around for his variation of speech to hit the airwaves; instead, the hayseed was walking to the lavatory, mug with cold coffee still taped in his left hand, right hand cradling his single stick of a Culebra from sight. Truly an ugly cigar, it was three Panetella’s (long, slender cigars) interweaved with one another like some artificial vine.

  “Gaia, bless el Presidente.” [Moda' Eard, bless el Super-dudee].

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  “That…be all.”

  Tommie always turned green at the thought of lighting up that cigar they handed every worker at the outset of each shift just for this ceremonious act of fealty to the nation’s sovereign.

  “Whoever said Cuban cigars were the best in the world needs to have their head, or heads examined.” [Whoevah sad Cubing cigars were th' bess in th' wo'ld needs t'have their haid o' haids examined, cuss it all t' tarnation.]

  The comment had come from a homely, appearing redhead who sat several seats down from Tommie Citizen, and spoke with an Appalachian dialect.

  Duh, damn if that chick is not right, thought Tommie to himself. Hey, wait a second! I didn’t know that chick talked like me! Gee whiz, maybe she and I could hook up (have sex) later?

  Tommie’s plight and frustration for hillbillies in general was that most of the other gibberish-speaking workers thought the dorks who spoke Appalachian vernacular were inferior and stupider than they themselves were when in fact everyone in 2050 America sounded stupider and inferior to everyone else in the world.

  Everyone had to light up at least one of those nasty cigars every day…at the end of the shift and on the way out the front door everyone had to provide proof they enjoyed the thing by dropping the butt in a receptacle eagerly watched by the supervisor on duty.

  In the early days, when Tommie first arrived, the hillbilly found himself being pulled aside and reprimanded a number of times when the duty officer noticed that the hayseed had bitten off and not smoked the famous, fabulous, rolled tobacco leaves. It usually took Tommie almost an hour…an hour away from drinking to explain to the dolt, who never understood his hick dialect, that he had chewed and not thrown away the image some experts believed to be nothing more than a ‘phallic symbol.’ Those experts thought the same thing of tasseled shoes, the dangling tassels being representative of male genitalia…balls by any other name. Let’s face it, it is one thing to smoke cigarettes…at least they provide the addict with their fix of nicotine. Cigars, on the other hand are not inhaled so what’s their real purpose? I mean, have you ever tried smoking one of those things…they taste the same as they smell…like an unwashed men’s jockey strap!

  No, the only thing that might explain why the “Forever President” was the one pushing the stinky things…conceivably the former illegal was the one with the deep-seated emotional problems. Perhaps grandpa, or daddy had been a little too familiar…yeah, that was in all likelihood it!

  Tommie had to provide evidence that he had not thrown away the gift from Castro, that he had enjoyed the cigar immensely as evidenced by the contents of his trashcan that acted as his spittoon. Tommie Citizen had learned his lesson; he had found someone from Miami who loved smoking cigars. An arrangement was made, the cigar when finished was handed back and everyone went about their merry way.

  What was b
ehind “el Presidente’s” mandate? Ignorance in believing oneself to be a demigod…was it only natural for a demigod to believe everyone loved the bouquet and savoriness of cigars on account of he himself loved the nose and tang of those nasty things. Did Castro associate the heady odor with his mother, but only after she had not bathed for a couple of days, that kind of disagreeable bouquet?

  Jeez, I am beyond doubt getting off topic.

  Where is my sidekick I encountered in ‘Part One?‘ That person was not only cooperative, I felt like we were long lost buddies.

  Hey, buddy! Where are you? I need you back here to make this miserable trade of mine halfway palatable. I know you’re out there; you can’t hide, forever. Come on, please come back to me.

  Wait a second…now I remember, ‘wishes’ come true! All I need is to click my heals like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and make a wish.

  Here goes…

  Click...click...click

  I wish my long, lost buddy from ‘Part One’ of this ‘non hit’ novel to come back…come back to me.

  Nothing but silence returns to the narrator’s ear.

  Maybe, my wish was too long. Okay, I’ll try my wish again, only shorten it.

  Click...click...click

  I said...I wish I had my buddy back.

  Again, nothing but silence.

  What the f@#&!? Now, I’m getting a little angry.

  But, just as the narrator was about to click his heals a third time and make another wish...

  Wait a second! What’s that sound? Footsteps? Are those footsteps? Could it be? Has my wish come true?

  Sidekick Is Back