I’m done with this shit. I’m done. It took about nine months, but this election cycle has finally broken me.
2012 was a blast. I remember all those sick election memes. Binders full of women. Horses and bayonets. Joe Biden cackling at every word coming out of Paul Ryan’s mouth. We had a silly primary where we watched as all of the stupid or crazy candidates argued and tripped over their words, but we knew that the victor was going to be the nicely dressed Mormon guy who wasn’t babbling about moon bases or tax plans ripped from a video game. Then we had a good, clean general election with two sane and articulate candidates and their relatively sane and articulate running mates. Each debate was its own event, the culmination of weeks worth of current events, where the interested minority tuned in while the masses watched lesser programming. It was slow. Ratings were low. Nobody besides me, a couple of friends, and probably a bunch of old people cared. It was truly a gentleman’s sport.
You are the guiding light, a shining beacon of logic singing out to the sane through the smog of confusion. Your love flows through me as it flows through the hearts of all Americans, straight and gay, black and white, liberal and fascist. I feel it, Bernie. Those around me? They don’t understand you. They don’t hear your plight. They listen, but they don’t hear what I do. I hear your song and it fills me with joy. With passion. With lust. I need you, Bernie. I am but an insignificant flea on the back of the great best of burden that is you, Bernie, who plows the fields of America and sows the seeds of liberty that will be reaped by future generations. I am nothing before you, but you are my soul. Every waking thought is filled with the velvety sound of your voice and the soft folds of your face, your scars from decades of fighting for the disenfranchised on the battlefield of Washington. Where you walk, I will follow. Where you speak, I will listen. As long as you continue to fight, I will pick up my sword and charge headlong into battle for your glory. I shudder to think of what would happen if you… no, that is not even a possibility. To contemplate defeat is to welcome it into our folds, and that we cannot afford. We cannot lose this fight, for it is the will of the people. You will emerge victorious. The weak must fear the stong and Clinton will tremble at your feet.
May the gods smile upon you,
Aiden Thompson, Age 17
Hillary Clinton sat an ornately carved wooden desk, resting her face in her palms. The trials had been going on for what seemed like a lifetime. Had it been 6 months? A year? The days were getting hard to count, probably because the only sleep she got was when she collapsed, too exhausted to hold her head up. He was persistent, but she wasn’t prepared to give up. He would not break her.
A yellow light on the wall clicked on. Hillary cleared her throat and pressed down the red button on the intercom in front of her.
“Commence to the next stage,” she said.
The lighting rig creaked as Ted Cruz kneeled atop the metal trusses. Thousands of people rustled beneath him, mumbling to each other about thugs and ISIS and welfare between mouthfuls of popcorn and soda. These were Ted’s kind of people. He used to fill town halls and lecture halls full of wide eyed, white skinned, blue collared Americans like these. They would come for miles to hear him preach the American truth. About how his family heard the sweet song of Lady Liberty and pierced through the iron curtain to fall into the warm embrace of her bosom. About how, with nothing but sticktoitiveness and and the grace of God Almighty, he overcame adversity to seize his dream, one which is shared with all young patriotic boys; becoming a Junior Senator from Texas.
But they weren’t here for Ted. Ted couldn’t fill a minivan these days because of him. That’s why he had to die. Read more
The Moon pulled the nightcap over his head, getting cozy and sinking into his favorite nook in the night sky. He looked down over the four corners of the Earth, sprawling out below him. Veins of light pulsed through the land, streaming out from the cities that outlined the shape of the continents.
“Good night, humans. Sleep tight! I hope you have a fun and exciting day tomorrow!” the Moon said.
He looked over to his pal the Sun, his luminous twin who rotated in tandem over the other half of the Earth. He gave his buddy a wave.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Sun! Keep up the good work!” Moon said. Read more
“God, I’m just so sick of the Man, man!” Aiden shouted into the uncaring void of his $1100-a-month downtown studio. “Consumerism is, like, destroying this planet, man! All these Kardashians and Trumps and shit, man! Like, I don’t even watch TV.”
Aiden eyed the 30” CRT that sat atop the cinder block shelf at the front of the room.
“Yeah. I never watch TV. In fact… I don’t even need a TV at all!”
Aiden walked over to the television, wrapped his arms around it, and heaved the 30 pound hunk of plastic and glass off of the shelf. Read more
This the first part of a silly story idea that was suggested to me about a superhero who is fused with a fighter jet. I wrote this a while ago (a LONG while ago) and didn’t really do much with it, but I’m thinking of revisiting it in order to force myself to write something long. So hey, here you go, I guess.
April 6, 2015
We have completed the last of the extractions and the specimens should arrive by morning. This batch was from a country club in eastern Oklahoma. This is a bit of an outlier compared to the usual collection areas deeper within the heartland, but these subjects fit the bill. Any variation due to this is statistically improbable. As with the previous collections, the subjects were caucasian, middle class, Christian males. The samples were collected under the pretense of a blood drive to support police officers injured during attacks by liberal protestors. Updates will cease until the experiment officially commences.
April 23, 2015
We have finished sequencing the genomes of each of the samples. We have a total number of 370 samples from locations throughout the Midwest, with the largest portion coming from Ohio and Illinois, although there were a few outliers from Allen, Romano, and other benefactors. There are certain aspects from each that we wish to express within the subject. Pronounced nordic fold. Pasty complexion. Receding hairline. If we stick to the schedule then we should move on to lab trials within the week. Read more
I didn’t write anything new this weekend, but what I’m giving you here is a dive into the behind the scenes. The seedy underbelly of HCAD, populated by all of the stories too shocking, too vile, and (more often than not) too shitty to see the light of day… until now. This was a story that I started writing back during the dark ages of the 2016 election, back when the Republican field still numbered in the double digits. I don’t even remember exactly what I was ultimately going for, but it was something about Ron Paul/Rand Paul fans arguing in the style of movie or video game fans on a forum and, likewise, was formatted like a forum post. I think it was a decent idea, but I ultimately scrapped it for something else equally terrible (Barty Randerson, maybe? I don’t remember the timeline very well.) Well, either way, enjoy, I guess.