Sometimes all it takes is a song:
By Thomas Ostmeyer
On cool autumn mornings, nothing jump starts the body and invigorates the mind of a true American man like a brisk jog, so I pull on my red hat, lace up my DonFlights and decide to get a few miles in. There won’t be many more days like this before Old Man Winter settles in, I can tell you that much. And to pull wisdom from the C-SPAN/Breitbart TrumpTime (“NOT FAKE NEWS,” their slogan) early morning sign-off: “Seize Today©”
A super smartly said saying from a true American man.
Before the sun even peers over the treetops I’m hitting the asphalt, my TrumpSuit swishing with my strides. Down the street, I see Donna buckling Little Donny into his car seat while Donald, their golden retriever, pants and whips his tail to and fro on the porch.
“Hello, Donna!” I call out as I jog in place by her mailbox.
“Why, good morning!” she says, waving back.
“And how is Little Donny today?”
From the back seat of the SUV Little Donny presents a tiny butterball fist with his middle finger extended. “The Afwican Amehwican has nuthing to woos!” he exclaims. Donna beams with pride, takes out her phone and snaps a picture. “Where do these little precious angels come up with this stuff? Don is gonna get a kick out of this.”
“A precious moment,” I say. “Only in America!”
“God bless the U.S.A.!” Donna calls back.
It’s right what they say: kids say the God-damnedest things. I make a mental note to submit this to C-SPAN/Breitbart’s “Only In America” viewer-submissions segment, which program helps to inspire we, the constituency, the labor force, who drive the global economy while everyone else just sits on their duff, palms up, looking for handouts. I give a rueful headshake and carry on down the street.
Right when I really begin to hit my stride I come across a bucket lift blocking the intersection and I have to slow my pace. In the lift a pair of utility workers ratchet tight the upgraded street sign fastened to the light pole arm. I know what you’re thinking, but no, these utility workers are true American men, you can tell by the presence of a holstered sidearm each and their skin color.
“Mornin’ fellas!” I say.
They pause their task to peer down at me. One proposes that a prissy little bitch-made fag like me should mind my own fucking business. Ho-ho! The ribbing one hears. I suppose that’s what I get for wearing my reflective safety TrumpVest—I can see how that comes across as flamboyant. The second worker flicks his cigarette at me.
“Guess I’ll be movin’ on” I say, dodging the embered butt and hurdling the old street sign that lies bent and dented between two orange road cones. It reads “Martin Luther King Jr Blvd.” Recent infrastructural improvements are astounding— only in America can one find a red, white and blue neon fluorescent tube street sign going up on every corner. A snaggle-toothed mutt hauls itself up from the gutter, sniffs the elbowed sign and lifts its leg.
Two Only in Americas in one day! Whew doggie!
At the far end of Donald J. Trump Blvd, I get in a few sets of 10-count toe touches, wide-step deep knee lunges and rotary lumbar reaches. I take a long drink of TrumpAde I bought from the TrumpMart with my TrumpCard that I keep stashed under my left DonBand during my morning runs. You gotta hand it to the federal marketing team, the caricatural logo of the squinted eyes below the brimmed, zagged coiffure, bushy brows, the pert nose anchored by that iconic thin-lipped smirk can be seen on just about any product under the Trump Executive Commodities Corporation (TECC) umbrella. You see it stamped on Trump Automotives, the surging Monstanto-TrumpCuisines (including their longrunning flagship dish, Trump Steaks), the recently acquired American Apparel (purveyors of my very own DonFlights and DonBands, as well as the Make America Great Again fashion line, which includes the now sartorially ubiquitous Red Hat), the Don’t Tread On Me line of scents, lotions and cosmetics, iTrumptronics, and, of course, ExxonMobil. It’s unfortunate Trump University didn’t make it, but at least NSF-funded studies indicate that, for true American people, it’s “reassuring” and “good for morale” to be “perpetually reminded” of our strong-willed leader by his—and I quote—“omnipresent simulacra … [m]uch to the same effect of the positive health impacts prayer has on the terminally ill,” and is “definitely not agitprop.” (Whatever the heck those zany-brained scientists mean by that!)
Huh. It seems I’ve been overzealous and ventured a tad too far from the quarantine zone, but while I’m here I might as well pay my respects. Below the memorial plaque that reads “CAUTION: RADIATION DANGER PROCEDE AT YOUR OWN RISK,” I swipe my TrumpCard and click the $20 donation button that will go toward easing the suffering of the families affected by the attacks, even though it’s widely known that the now-leveled city center was populated by libtard elites and lazy minority parasites who, let’s face it, never quite satisfied the criteria of true American men, women or babies. What other handouts could they possibly want? Maybe it’s the changing of the seasons or exposure to gamma-particle decay, but let’s just say I’m in a charitable mood. The upshot here is that, like any transaction, 50% goes straight to the Freedom Wall Construction Fund. Gosh, I wonder. When are they gonna get that dang thing built already! I don’t want to sound racist but wetbacks and Muslims are a huge, burdensome threat to the American taxpayer. On the readout screen the TECC cartoon logo gives me a thumbs-up and tells me it is so great of me to donate my hard-earned money.
The president thinks my donation is great. And not just great.
Whether it’s the nuclear radiation or the lead-based dye leeching out of my Chinese-made skivvies I can’t be sure, but something is making my skin feel a bit gloopy. Also there’s a ringing in my ears and my contacts always react strangely to thermal heatblasts. Plus my dogs are barkin’, so I decide it’s time to hightail it back to TrumpView Suburban Estates. While I stand here getting all sentimental and cancery and ruminating on our nation’s history, pondering if, perhaps, maybe it be prudent if inclusivity of quondam truths and consequences toward future policymaking deliberation be applied as deterrence to catastrophic eventualities such as this smoldering, mile-wide crater lain presently before me, the day’s getting away from me and is most certainly not being seized.
Speaking of seizing, if I see Donna on the way home it’ll give me the chance to give a good, strong squeeze to her whosiewhats. It’s well-known that subordinates like her constantly need affirmation from people like me, a true American man.
By Mike Jasper
“So when do I get to see it?” Roger asked. Roger’s my bartender. All the great writers have one.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I’ve kind of got a block. I’m a comedy writer, but this is serious work. We’ve got Trump as president. We’ve got a Republican House and Senate. We’re fucked, and I want to do something about it … but I’m having a hard time putting pen to paper.”
“Look,” he said. “You’ve already got your angle, right.”
“Right,” I said. “The Progressive Spring. But I got that from you.”
“That’s all right. You’re stealing for a good cause. You’ve got the domain name already, right? What is it, turntexasblue.com or something like that?”
“Yep.” (Pause) “That might be stolen too.”
“Right. So just run with it. Just start writing. Get it up at WordPress or something like that and start typing away. Don’t worry about being as sober as a judge, just use your voice. You can be funny and still be serious, that’s your voice.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean I often just write about whatever’s going through my head, whether it’s real or not.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, for example, we’re not actually having this conversation. I’m sitting next to Lefty at the old guys’ bar and just thinking about what you told me a few minutes ago. The actual conversation was pretty boring … I think you said, ‘Just fuckin’ do it, man,’ and that was that. But now I’m thinking maybe you’re right. Maybe I just need to be me and do the best I can, even if it’s just writing down things going through my head while sitting at the bar.”
I need to break in here for a minute. Even that’s not true. I’m not at a bar, I’m at my desk in front of my computer screen thinking about what I thought about last night as I sat at the bar after my conversation with Roger.
It’s all so complicated.
But he’s right, you know. I need to be me because I don’t have any other choice.
“See! That’s what I’m talking about,” Roger — who is clearly a voice in my head at this point —told me.
Okay then. We’ll just fuckin’ do it.
“To a Progressive Spring,” I say, as I pretend to down a shot of Jameson.
— Roger Linehan contributed to this report. Or did he?