Longing for Freedom (but freedom from what?)
Calico Johnson had come home early from Atlantic City because of the lousy weather. Megamoo, as expected, was huddled in her outdoor pagoda, refusing to graze. "Come on! This is ridiculous! You need to graze now before it really starts raining!" Megamoo, as expected, let out a loud bellow but refused to budge. I've got acres and acres of grass here! I'm tired of buying hay for you!" There was a time he used to invite friends, colleagues, hot women, and real estate clients out to his Potomac Manors estate, but the two horses and one (very loud cow) made it a little too farm-like and not enough party-like. He tried to push Megamoo (who had been cured of bovine narcolepsy, but was currently being treated for arthritis, irritable bowel syndrome, and [Johnson had some doubts about this one] dissociative identity disorder), but she simply let out another loud moo. Johnson had recently sold a pricey (but haunted!) home to the Obamas, and the astonishing political rise of Donald Trump had reminded him that he was a major player himself and should not be wasting his time in animal husbandry. "I only took you in for Basia's sake!" he grumbled to the geriatric cow, recalling bitterly his infatuation with the neighbor who had--according to the FBI--burnt down her own home. "And it's obvious she's never coming back! I have no qualms about turning you into hamburger!" Megamoo lay down on the concrete in protest.
President Obama, meanwhile, was at the White House preparing for another USO event to honor military families. He and his wife had signed the real estate contract (for a haunted house!) the same day he had signed the law opening up more records to Freedom of Information Act requests. (They would still be answered too slowly to affect anything he was doing in office.) But he knew his legacy was in jeopardy. So many advisors had told him that Donald Trump's Republican nomination would guarantee Hillary Clinton's election in November, but why is this FBI investigation dragging on so long? And how could my Attorney General have been stupid enough to talk to Bill Clinton at an airport? Sometimes it seems like--
"Don't worry," the familiar voice whispered in his ear.
It was Ghost Dennis, but Obama still did not know that, and his skin crawled. Sometimes it seems like there is a conspiracy of evil to destroy everything, and--
"I know," the familiar voice whispered in his ear. "But I'm playing the long game." (Ghost Dennis had been there since dying in an "accident" during the Nixon Administration.)
The President plugged his ears. "I will never surrender to evil!" he said out loud, not understanding that evil doesn't need a formal surrender.
Over at the CIA's secret underground facility, beneath the Washington Times headquarters, Dr. Ermann Esse had tried without success to free himself from bondage to the CIA's secret enhanced interrogation program by addicting himself to prescription pain killers in order to fail the random drug tests they made everybody take. However, instead of firing the psychiatrist, the CIA had placed him in lockdown for a rapid and painful cold-turkey withdrawal. The shrink who had made a career of not prescribing psychotropics for his patients was now a poster child for "this is your brain on drugs"--writhing in agony on the floor, pulling his hair out, scratching his forearms, banging his forehead against the cinderblock wall, and periodically crying out to anybody who might hear him to take pity and give him a pill. How had it all gone so horribly wrong?! (Dr. Esse had a lot of memory loss surrounding the period in which he had been wearing the cursed Rolex.)
The cursed Rolex was currently adorning the wrist of previously average and normal Kevin "Monkey" Mundy, a DC water employee now obsessed with panning for gold and diamonds in the Potomac River and its tributaries. The Nazi-descendant couple, Barbara Hellmeister and Ernest Ironman, had invited him out for an ironic 4th of July celebration in their secret bunker at Trump National Golf Club in Virginia. Ernest was insecure about Monkey's friendship with the couple, even though Barbara was due to give birth to his child in late September. Therefore, Ernest, who had been raised in obscurity in West Virginia, had decided to surprise Monkey with a young bride of his own--whom Ernest had picked out after several trips to Northern Virginia's shopping malls and bus stations.
"I thought it was time for you to get married," said Ernest, as Monkey walked in. Much to his surprise, Monkey saw a girl dressed in a red, white and blue sundress, rubbing her bare arms against the cold and damp. "Her name is Brittani spelled with two i's. She's already pregnant, so if you say you're the father, you can marry her--but you should do it right away, because the stupid government just raised the age of marriage in Virginia." Brittani was only fourteen. She was not actually pregnant, but she had already run away from home to be with a boyfriend who had subsequently dumped her for another girl. She was a little chubby, so when Ernest had asked if she was pregnant, she had impulsively said yes in a ploy for sympathy, food, and/or money.
Barbara, who believed their own baby would be an example of Aryan greatness, did not at all approve of encouraging these two genetic mutts to marry each other and produce any offspring (hers, his, or theirs), but she knew that Ernest was jealous about Monkey, so she had not stood in the way. She handed Brittani a sweater, now that Monkey had already gotten a look at the girl's cleavage.
"Hi!" cried out Brittani, who occasionally felt special and excited about all that was happening, and thought Monkey was kinda cute. "I made potato salad! I can cook all kinds of things. I made chocolate chip cookies, too, but those are for later."
Monkey had not dated since having his heart broken by his college girlfriend. He had first poured himself into a local government career, and then, lately, all his passion had flowed towards finding the secret treasurers hidden in the water. But now he felt his pulse quicken at the sight of this girl and the sound of her voice. Maybe the Taliban and ISIS are right about child brides?! All his (corrupted) instincts were saying yes!
"Just call in sick tomorrow," said Ernest, seeing the lust in Monkey's eyes. He handed Monkey a cold beer, and took the bag of chips, brownies, and fireworks from him. "Spend the night here, and we'll all go to the Courthouse first thing in the morning! She already has a white dress ready."
"Sure, why not?" Monkey found himself saying, momentarily forgetting his obsession with gold and diamonds. (But it would return.)
Back in Washington, British special agents Nigel Blackthorne (code name "Prickly") and Richard Mollington (code name "The Third") were trying to enjoy local lifestyle guru Giuliana Sunstream's 4th of July party, but the marijuana-and-cinnamon lemonade was not enough to cut the gloom cast from the gray, damp skies. Giuliana had most of her guests now engaged indoors in a patriotic game she had invented (Hamilton hip-hop charades), but Prickly and The Third were still sitting on the balcony, commiserating about the Brexit vote. The main Brexit problem, of course, was that special agents would all lose easy access to every country in the European Union, and the easy access that in turn gave to entering Russia or the Middle East. The secondary problem was that too many people in England were unable to accept that their country was a declining world power: without a string of colonies to prop it up, England was going to be just another small European country. A nuclear arsenal could do nothing about the narrow economy (which the security establishment had been lamenting for years). Haiti and Somalia had freedom from excessive government bureaucracy, and what had it gotten them? The strongest economies in the world all had strong governments.
"Come on, you sourpusses!" exclaimed Giuliana as she opened the balcony door to summon them inside. "I know you didn't come to my Freedom Fest to sit out here by yourself staring at the drizzle!" She squeezed both of them on the shoulder at the same time, bending over to let them smell the perfume she had hand-crafted herself at a Scents-Your-Purpose event she had hosted the previous weekend. "Come in and join the fun!"
A flock of starlings quickly descended to take over the now empty balcony, chattering away about how easy it was to crush the human spirit.
******************************************************************
COMING UP: Prince and Prowling's women
on the verge of a nervous breakdown!
President Obama, meanwhile, was at the White House preparing for another USO event to honor military families. He and his wife had signed the real estate contract (for a haunted house!) the same day he had signed the law opening up more records to Freedom of Information Act requests. (They would still be answered too slowly to affect anything he was doing in office.) But he knew his legacy was in jeopardy. So many advisors had told him that Donald Trump's Republican nomination would guarantee Hillary Clinton's election in November, but why is this FBI investigation dragging on so long? And how could my Attorney General have been stupid enough to talk to Bill Clinton at an airport? Sometimes it seems like--
"Don't worry," the familiar voice whispered in his ear.
It was Ghost Dennis, but Obama still did not know that, and his skin crawled. Sometimes it seems like there is a conspiracy of evil to destroy everything, and--
"I know," the familiar voice whispered in his ear. "But I'm playing the long game." (Ghost Dennis had been there since dying in an "accident" during the Nixon Administration.)
The President plugged his ears. "I will never surrender to evil!" he said out loud, not understanding that evil doesn't need a formal surrender.
Over at the CIA's secret underground facility, beneath the Washington Times headquarters, Dr. Ermann Esse had tried without success to free himself from bondage to the CIA's secret enhanced interrogation program by addicting himself to prescription pain killers in order to fail the random drug tests they made everybody take. However, instead of firing the psychiatrist, the CIA had placed him in lockdown for a rapid and painful cold-turkey withdrawal. The shrink who had made a career of not prescribing psychotropics for his patients was now a poster child for "this is your brain on drugs"--writhing in agony on the floor, pulling his hair out, scratching his forearms, banging his forehead against the cinderblock wall, and periodically crying out to anybody who might hear him to take pity and give him a pill. How had it all gone so horribly wrong?! (Dr. Esse had a lot of memory loss surrounding the period in which he had been wearing the cursed Rolex.)
The cursed Rolex was currently adorning the wrist of previously average and normal Kevin "Monkey" Mundy, a DC water employee now obsessed with panning for gold and diamonds in the Potomac River and its tributaries. The Nazi-descendant couple, Barbara Hellmeister and Ernest Ironman, had invited him out for an ironic 4th of July celebration in their secret bunker at Trump National Golf Club in Virginia. Ernest was insecure about Monkey's friendship with the couple, even though Barbara was due to give birth to his child in late September. Therefore, Ernest, who had been raised in obscurity in West Virginia, had decided to surprise Monkey with a young bride of his own--whom Ernest had picked out after several trips to Northern Virginia's shopping malls and bus stations.
"I thought it was time for you to get married," said Ernest, as Monkey walked in. Much to his surprise, Monkey saw a girl dressed in a red, white and blue sundress, rubbing her bare arms against the cold and damp. "Her name is Brittani spelled with two i's. She's already pregnant, so if you say you're the father, you can marry her--but you should do it right away, because the stupid government just raised the age of marriage in Virginia." Brittani was only fourteen. She was not actually pregnant, but she had already run away from home to be with a boyfriend who had subsequently dumped her for another girl. She was a little chubby, so when Ernest had asked if she was pregnant, she had impulsively said yes in a ploy for sympathy, food, and/or money.
Barbara, who believed their own baby would be an example of Aryan greatness, did not at all approve of encouraging these two genetic mutts to marry each other and produce any offspring (hers, his, or theirs), but she knew that Ernest was jealous about Monkey, so she had not stood in the way. She handed Brittani a sweater, now that Monkey had already gotten a look at the girl's cleavage.
"Hi!" cried out Brittani, who occasionally felt special and excited about all that was happening, and thought Monkey was kinda cute. "I made potato salad! I can cook all kinds of things. I made chocolate chip cookies, too, but those are for later."
Monkey had not dated since having his heart broken by his college girlfriend. He had first poured himself into a local government career, and then, lately, all his passion had flowed towards finding the secret treasurers hidden in the water. But now he felt his pulse quicken at the sight of this girl and the sound of her voice. Maybe the Taliban and ISIS are right about child brides?! All his (corrupted) instincts were saying yes!
"Just call in sick tomorrow," said Ernest, seeing the lust in Monkey's eyes. He handed Monkey a cold beer, and took the bag of chips, brownies, and fireworks from him. "Spend the night here, and we'll all go to the Courthouse first thing in the morning! She already has a white dress ready."
"Sure, why not?" Monkey found himself saying, momentarily forgetting his obsession with gold and diamonds. (But it would return.)
Back in Washington, British special agents Nigel Blackthorne (code name "Prickly") and Richard Mollington (code name "The Third") were trying to enjoy local lifestyle guru Giuliana Sunstream's 4th of July party, but the marijuana-and-cinnamon lemonade was not enough to cut the gloom cast from the gray, damp skies. Giuliana had most of her guests now engaged indoors in a patriotic game she had invented (Hamilton hip-hop charades), but Prickly and The Third were still sitting on the balcony, commiserating about the Brexit vote. The main Brexit problem, of course, was that special agents would all lose easy access to every country in the European Union, and the easy access that in turn gave to entering Russia or the Middle East. The secondary problem was that too many people in England were unable to accept that their country was a declining world power: without a string of colonies to prop it up, England was going to be just another small European country. A nuclear arsenal could do nothing about the narrow economy (which the security establishment had been lamenting for years). Haiti and Somalia had freedom from excessive government bureaucracy, and what had it gotten them? The strongest economies in the world all had strong governments.
"Come on, you sourpusses!" exclaimed Giuliana as she opened the balcony door to summon them inside. "I know you didn't come to my Freedom Fest to sit out here by yourself staring at the drizzle!" She squeezed both of them on the shoulder at the same time, bending over to let them smell the perfume she had hand-crafted herself at a Scents-Your-Purpose event she had hosted the previous weekend. "Come in and join the fun!"
A flock of starlings quickly descended to take over the now empty balcony, chattering away about how easy it was to crush the human spirit.
******************************************************************
COMING UP: Prince and Prowling's women
on the verge of a nervous breakdown!
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 1:46 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home