Recently, I was asked by the William S. Cripes We’ve Got To Get Rid Of That Name Because The Guy Was Such An Evil Violent White Male Who Shot Holes In Defenseless Cacti Hart. It was for a graduation ceremony at their newest campus, Lynette ‘Squeaky’ Fromme Women’s Continuation & Future Unwed Mothers of America High School, home of The Give Up Without Much Of A Protest Squeaksters.
DO — when you get around to it — send me a zip-up 100%-cotton hoodie with the school name and logo embroidered suggestively.
Squeak, you will recall and you will because you’re the guys who named the school after her in the first place, earned fame a half-century back for a series of heinous felonies under the direction of cult leader Charles Manson. Hart district christened the school to draw attention to the unfair singling out and statistical misrepresentation in our prison system of psychotic women during M.P.I.’s (Metallic Perforation Incidents) previously and misogynistically referred to as, “… stabbing fatalities.”
Alas, a family tragedy (waiting for Amazon delivery) prevented me from attending tonight. It’s rather late in the school year to be having a graduation ceremony. But, I do understand. You guys stutter and everything just takes a little longer. I did send a trusted intern from my corporate umbrella company, Scared o’ Bears Ranch Media, to address your 12 graduating SCV girls, ages 19-26, and the 2,346 staff, faculty, aides, counselors, advisors, consultants, gout-ridden web-toed teachers’ union reps and administration members. Due to public address issues, please excuse Master Seymour Butzs’ voice. He tends to crack and hit a few dog whistle notes, especially when he’s excited and surrounded by, ahem — co-eds with come-hither smiles and experienced in the language of love.
Please now give a warm welcome to our beloved non-paid employee from the fine family of Scared o’ Bears Ranch companies and tax-dodging foundations, Young Mister Butz:
I text you here now today, not knowing if, as I’m not here, there’s anyone in the audience of the brand-new Hart District/Squeaky Fromme Continuation (voice cracks) Girls With Low Self-Esteem High School in beautiful Downtown East SClarita. In these opening salvos of the Artificial Intelligence Wars, when sex-crazed robots battle humans for world dominion and what’s left of uncharted parts of Canyon Country, it begs the question: “Is there a here — here?”
Let us not be confused, o’ future gum-snapping fast-food waitresses and unmarried mommies (voice cracks) with X-rated TikTok sites. “Here — here” is wonderfully close to the 19th-century British cheer of “Hear-Hear!” Despite what your braindead liberal instructors spout about Untergang und Finsternis (doom & gloom) world ending, ‘Hear-Hear!’ conjures visions of enthusiastic welcomes.
And that’s how we should all greet our days.
Thank you on behalf of my parole officer, John Boston, and his noble partnerships with Hunter Biden’s conglomeration of untraceable slimy shell human trafficking companies. Mr. Boston wishes to remind you girls, and America (voice cracks): “Just Say No To Hunter Biden.” And Democrats with goat hooves for feet. OK bye.
Wait. Never mind. Please be seated. Boston sent another text. (Groans, swear words from the all-girl tough cookie student body.)
The text here wishes to quote an oft-bandied graduation phrase, “As tonight we go out into the world…”
Let us look at that statement.
Doesn’t it stand to reason that, “…as we go out into the world,” the place that we’re headed is actually the exact same place where we are currently standing? I mean, it’s not like we’re going to take a mighty leap and land in another dimension. Where are we? We’re HERE. In this world. When we “go out,” it’s not like we’re opening a door and there’s the damn planet Jupiter. Well. To be sure, the planet Jupiter IS here, just, more over there and not easily accessible. Like jobs for you after your dumbbell parents kept voting for pervert Democrat super majorities in California.
Legalize marijuana my spinning multi-colored patootie.
Babes? Pucker your lips. Kiss paradise goodbye.
You girls (voice crack) graduating, albeit with diminished qualifications compared to the rest of the normal kids in the Hart district, actually have an advantage over other graduating classes, except for Mike Tyson High. It’s a continuation school, too, except it’s all boys, which, I’m guessing from all the hickies in the audience, you ladies already know that.
Point being, you being troubled and lax-moraled youth prone to violence and sociopathic behavior will have a leg up over your fellow grads, at like, Canyon, like, who doesn’t. Hardscrabble times are coming. You’re already prepared.
Whereas my generation had hot rods, hot dogs, soda, beer, iceberg lettuce, root beer floats, drive-in movies, slow dancing, romance, families, a future, hope and purpose, your parents went ape-four-asterisks and kept electing people who deserve being horsewhipped, lightly salted and fed to cannibals instead of attending ribbon cuttings at hobo shelters. Taking abundant resources and ability, your parents saw to it that you’ll have to fight to the death over a can of Dinty Moore’s Beef Stew. And YOU girls (voice crack), being psycho with no concern for bodily harm or mutilation, won’t care if Dinty Moore’s Beef Stew is not made from organic wheat grass, sprouts or spirulina. Starving, you’ll chew through the rusting tin and eat it and be gigglingly thankful. Why? Because it’s food.
So. In conclusion. You’re The Fighting Frommes. Go take what you want. Take a selfie while you’re taking it. Make clothes from rabbit pelts. Memorize the original Mad Max movie because where you’re going, there’s no cable.
Take heart. Should civilization end before your six-week high school reunion, make sure to stock up on canned goods, water, ammo and (voice cracks) books.
If there’s one thing history has taught us, you can always burn books…
Earth’s most prolific satirist and top American columnist, John Boston, lives in Santa Clarita. Far, far, far away from Squeaky Fromme Girls’ Continuation School. Visit his bookstore at johnbostonbooks.com.