These times? They’re odd. Crazy was 47 train stops ago. It’s like some mad scientist from another universe squished “Alice in Wonderland,” “Frankenstein” and George Orwell into a blender and pushed “puree.”
A once-noble political party, the Democrats, have morphed, mindlessly echo-chambering insane bumper stickers and grinning like a lunatic asylum guest at their own cleverness. As if looking for a lost contact lens, Republicans crawl along the carpet, searching for their cojones.
I have weaponless friends on both sides who are the kindest of souls. Many now openly discuss if they’re going to buy that first weapon.
“Don’t wait until November,” I tell them. “You’ll get sticker shock and worse, won’t be able to afford to shoot anything.”
I’ve other friends who are stockpiling MORE weapons and MORE ammo.
I’m partial to the X-15, made here in Ohio, United States of America. Relax. The X-15 is not a semi-automatic rifle. It’s a commercial-grade flame thrower. Cost just $1,600. Well. That’s BEFORE the November election. The X-15 spits fire 50 feet into the air. Runs on a 90-10 mix of diesel and gasoline.
Surprise? Seriously? They’re legal in California.
We’re 28 seconds from Armageddon and the question naturally arises.
What job will I get when My Donald Trump gets re-elected? What cool job awaits if we take House and Senate?
I’d just give a year’s salary to hear The Donald announce at January’s Inauguration Speech: “And to the liberals of America, I would like to say, at this historic occasion, that all your insane, groundless, whackadoodle monkey-brained fears were true. I’m signing an executive order making it mandatory to say ‘God Bless You’ after someone sneezes and we’re sending young men to Guantanamo if they are caught wearing man buns.”
President Trump waits a beat. “Kidding…”
Mongol-like cheering and hoisting of farm implements from The Right. Tepid boos and the predictable canine slouching from the left (which I am no longer capitalizing).
I’d like to be Secretary of Repentance. It comes with a monocle and burgundy cloak. I like burgundy. My old school colors at Hart. I’m not sure if I should play it safe and go with the six-figure salary or opt for commission. Fifty years of Democrat waste, shame, mayhem, lies and mismanagement. Lot of folks out there need repentance.
I think the first couple years of the next Trump presidency will be rocky. You’ve got several billion forever liberal arts majors with painted hair and high-pitched voices, torching neighborhoods, ordering Starbucks on their smartphones while damning democracy and capitalism, calling mom for a ride home while sneering at family values. Joe Biden gets elected? These people will be given government grants. Maybe even flame throwers.
Let me be honest here.
Democrats don’t deserve flame throwers.
I deserve flame throwers.
And giant, iron cauldrons.
After November? Either way, we’ll need cauldrons in SClarita. Locally, 99.873% of the population live in condos. They’ll need iron cauldrons on their patios to fill with boiling oil to pour atop the looters and members of the teachers’ union when they visit our valley to forage. Granted. People in upstairs condos will have an advantage because they can pour the molten petroleum on the mutants’ heads, and people in downstairs condos will have to be satisfied pouring hot oil on the socialist teachers aides’ stolen Nike tennis shoes.
As Secretary of Repentance, I’d also urge America’s decent people to dig wolf pits around their homes and fill them with wolves. Hungry, starving, grouchy wolves. I thought about requiring people to have olive pits, but that just doesn’t seem like much of a deterrent.
Jobs? I’d create them. After ANTIFA and CNN are captured, my agents will assign each terrorist or pretend journalist to a police home where they have to garden.
As they mow the lawn, the police family would yell at them, at close range, with bullhorns. Something like: “Hey-Hey!! Ho-Ho! Cut that grass before it grows!!” Just to make it interesting, Right To Lifers would spit on them and throw bricks, fireworks, rectal thermometers and hardened pints of rum raisin ice cream.
Then, it would get real ugly.
I’d have the HOA give the liberals a real talking-to about leaving their mom’s Volvo in a non-visitor parking spot. The HOA would ask them: “Just WHO do you think you are?” only with a “Ladies Auxiliary Will Certainly Hear About THIS!” tone.
I hope I get that new cabinet position when beloved Mr. Trump gets re-elected.
George Soros? Angry Millennials With Bad Haircuts In Diapers On Stilts? Major League Baseball?
It’s just a start.
After I’d fix their wagons and get them to straighten up and fly right, I’d narrow my gaze. I’d stare off to a distant horizon. Like Capt. Red Legs in the Clint Eastwood classic, “The Outlaw Josey Wales,” I’d pronounce in a gravelly voice:
“Doin’ good ain’t got no end…”
Then, my real work would begin. I’d go after anyone who attended Woodstock, the two remaining Beatles, Jane Fonda and humorless dumbbells who write letters to the editor who overuse the exclamation mark.
John Boston is a local writer filled with a terrible resolve and also a future possible cabinet member. As of press time, he does not own a flame thrower.