Just working on writing some 2020s jokes:

Two prisoners are digging ditches in a Trumpland labor camp.

The white-skinned one turns to the brown-skinned one and gloats: “Ha!  I don’t have to be politically correct anymore!”

Okay…so that’s not very funny.  But to be fair, neither is our future!

Wacka wacka wacka!

Subjects of America!

First off, I must thank you for helping pay for Queen Melania’s recent plastic surgery. The sight of the Queen’s lifted cheeks has lifted His Majesty’s spirits (it’s a joke–laugh, peasants!).  Alas, even Queen Melania is not immune to age, and as King Donald has frequently declared, only a perfect 10 in feminine beauty can be allowed to complement his own leonine visage.  It has been inspiring to see our loyal populace so willingly contribute their tax monies to the important cause of keeping the King’s sacred marriage bond intact.

In other news, ratings were the highest ever for the latest episode of Prison Camp Survivor.  Millions of subjects tuned in last Tuesday to catch the surprise execution of fan favorite, Sasha Obama.  As producer of the show, His Majesty is very pleased with its success, and proud of himself for pioneering this innovative and inexpensive new kind of reality show.  Tune in this week to find out who will be the next one to get eliminated from the re-education centre!  Also, look for Gladiator: Antifa vs. Militia, coming this fall!

Only one month left until the Day of Remembrance, so get your commemorative shirts and coffee mugs while you still can!  Once again, we will be paying tribute to the fallen of San Francisco, Chicago and Los Angeles.  These cities will always remain a part of American history, even though they had to be sacrificed for the sake of liberty and freedom in the Yuge War.  We can take comfort in the knowledge that those who were nuked in the Attacks will live on forever in our memories, and also that those towns were full of Democrats.  The Royal Family has announced that it will mourn that day by going into seclusion at the Mar-a-Lago resort.

A special shout-out goes out to James D. of Pittsburgh, who at a recent town hall asked His Majesty: “So, when are those manufacturing jobs coming back?”  We haven’t had this deep and enjoyable of a belly laugh in a long time.

Some concern has been expressed about how succession is going to work, now that elections have been temporarily suspended due to the Tragic Attacks.  The public has made clear that it loves Ivanka and Tiffany, and wants the process to be free of any outdated sexist ideas.  His Majesty has come up with a beautiful deal that he thinks will satisfy everyone.  The country will be divided between the children:  the Eastern U.S. will go to Ivanka, the Western U.S. to Don Jr., the Midwest will be given to Eric, and Barron will inherit the deep South.  Princess Tiffany gets Florida.  Thus, we have ensured that the Royal succession will be based in the kind of equality all Americans believe in.

That’s it for this issue of the newsletter, faithful citizens!  May you have a week of productive labor for the Kingdom…you know what happens otherwise!  Quick reminder:  It’s July 4th next week, so extra patriotism patrols will be out.  Have fun and stay safe!

Yours In Superiority,

Lord Kushner,  Baron of New Jersey

“My Secret Service men are unattractive.  Why can’t I have cute Secret Service men?”

“Please, Melania.  I got enough problems.”

“Oh, Donaaaaaald…”

King Donald sighed.

“It’s so cold today, Donald.”

He hated them.  He hated them bigly.  Not only had the Democrats gained control of Congress, but the very first bill they passed was the cruelest blow of all.  It required that he had to spend at least 80% of his time every year right here in D.C., and so did the rest of the Royal Family.  No more Trump Tower.  No more Mar-a-Lago.  Just the dinky old White House.

There were some misgivings about how much that would limit King Donald’s overseas diplomatic travel, but then everyone remembered that he embarrassed the country that much more when he went on foreign trips.

His first impulse was to shout “Off with their heads!”, but despite his stunning re-election victory, he didn’t quite have the power to do that yet.

“I really don’t like living here.  The decor is so drab.  It’s so…there’s not enough gold.”

Queen Melania was right.  But did those lowly Congress-sheeple appreciate all the work he had done in Florida?  His Palace was going to be the best and the biggest.  Like one of those old French ones, or maybe ancient Roman.  Didn’t matter to them–they kept whining about how staying at the White House was a “national tradition.”  They gave dramatic speeches and quoted that “of the people” bit about the government.  He was totally acting like a ruler of the people!  He could help Americans even better from a Palace!  Why didn’t they understand that?

“It’s time.”  The Queen took his hand stiffly.  “Let’s do this right now.  I want it over with.”

Yeah, there was that–one more little stab at his self-respect.  It was a small amendment inserted into the bill.  It stipulated that he must meet with at least one citizen who had voted for him every day–chosen by random lottery, to ensure he didn’t simply select his wealthiest supporters.

They took the elevator down to the tiny room they had set aside for audiences with their subjects.  The couple was already there, waiting for them.

The woman was very excited.  She had poofy hair and was wearing an ill-fitting business suit.  She grabbed Melania’s arm.  “You’re so beautiful!  I love you so much!”  The Queen wrinkled her nose in distaste.

The man was wearing a baseball hat and a shirt with an eagle on it, and King Donald could swear he was staring at him with suspicion.  He nodded at the King.  “Nice to meet ya,” he drawled.  “Lookin’ forward to you finally buildin’ that wall someday.”

That’s when the break came.  The small, wary eyes of that man–one of his constituents–caused the King to make one of his infamous impulsive decisions.  He couldn’t deal with these people anymore.  He didn’t care how anybody would feel about it.  He didn’t care about the Constitutional amendment he himself had pushed through, removing the term limits on his presidency.

This was urgent.  He would tweet about this first thing tomorrow.  No, today.

He was never running for God Emperor again.

Somewhere in America, a young man sits at the breakfast table, eating his cereal.  He’s getting ready to go.  His backpack and coat are in the chair next to him.

His parents are nervous and excited for him.  He’s told them that he’s going to the city for a job interview.

Before he leaves, he gives his sister a hug.  She tells him to be careful.  The big city is not a safe place.  He gets into his truck and takes off.

He sits in horrible traffic for hours.  Slowly, he crawls his way downtown.  He looks out his window at the dirty streets and the crowds.

He finally finds a parking spot, and then he walks, in the noise and the shadow of the towering skyscrapers.  He hates it here, but he’s willing to do this.  He’s here to save his country.

For a while, he hangs out in front of a store window, staring at a display of the latest phones.  Across the street, a slim figure strides down the sidewalk.  It’s easy to recognize her.  She’s a female journalist, and he has read online that she walks to work every day.  He agrees with his President–she’s one of the enemies of the people.

Pulling out his gun, taking the shot–it all happens in a flash, and she crumples to the ground.

The next bullet is for him.  He doesn’t mind dying.  He has fulfilled his mission, done what he believes his role models and leaders wanted him to do.

Maybe–he thinks in his last moments–maybe, thanks to his sacrifice, America will continue to be free.

 

My vision for the future of women:

lizwarrenforpresident

 

The alt right’s vision for the future of women:

backtothekitchen

I know we’ve been talking a lot about finding common ground…but I’m also pretty sure there’s no common ground here.

So, it’s been a month, and progressives and Democrats have been hearing a constant refrain–that we need to reach out to Trump supporters, to try to understand the forgotten working-class base in the heartland of America which voted for him.

That is a very good point.  We do need to do that if we want to win the next election.  There is only one problem for me:  I don’t really want to know or understand the Trump voters.

This is not the wisest attitude to have, and I guess it marks me as an elitist of some sort. But I don’t care.  I don’t want to know why people continue to support Trump and overlook all the things he’s already said and done when it comes to women, immigrants and Muslims. When I recently visited a website where the deplorables gather to chat, I saw plenty of caricatures of yarmulkas and hooked noses, and references to Reichsfuhrer Trump. Blaming the Jews for your own economic woes is an age-old tradition.  The Trumpsters clearly feel the need to scapegoat someone for their own miserable situation.  What can I possibly say to them about that?  How would I change their mind?  I could suggest changes to the political and economic system which would make their life better, but these are the same people who thought Obama was a Marxist and the ACA was a government assault on their liberty–and frequently voted against their own health insurance coverage.  What does one do when faced with such ignorance?

Not to mention that in order to reach out to the Trump voters, I would have to find them where they live.  Thing is, I love my urban bubble.  I have little interest in going too far beyond its protective shield.  I’ve lived in the rural world before and I’m grateful to have escaped it.  I have no desire to move to a place where my neighbors give me the side-eye just because I don’t attend the same church they do and behave in ways they don’t consider “normal.”

Again, this does not bode well as a political strategy.  Democrats did get the popular vote in 2016, but the Democratic electorate is clustered in a few major metropolitan areas, mainly on the two coasts, and that’s not the way the American electoral system works. Hence the idea that progressives should transplant themselves to swing states.  If only I could convince myself to be enthusiastic about a midwestern or southern swing state….

The progressive movement certainly needs ambassadors right now to take its message across the country.  Unfortunately, I’m not that person.  And I wonder how many of my fellow liberal bubble-dwellers are willing to do the difficult work of outreach.  And if that work doesn’t get done, what will 2020 look like?

“Hey, Sis?  You realize that the guy who’s selling you the laptop lives out in Frackville, right?”

I leaned over my sister’s shoulder and whispered a few non-English swearwords.  “Why the hell would he be out there?”

“I dunno.”

“So this means I have to go outside the city limits, then.”

“It’s only an hour’s drive beyond the wall.”  My sister shrugged.  “People do it all the time and they’re fine.  Katie went outside just two weeks ago to visit family.”

Mother emerged from the living room, her face drawn.  “Right into the middle of the Disturbance.  This laptop worth this to you?”

“I need a laptop to do my work.  No worries, Mom.”

***

I continued to tell myself I wasn’t worried even as I got ready for my trip in front of the bathroom mirror.  I pulled my hair back and stared at my face, belatedly regretting all the time I spent lounging in the sun over the summer.  Was my skin a bit too tan?

Maybe it wouldn’t matter.  Even though I had chosen my rattiest jacket and ripped jeans, it was painfully obvious I was a cityfolk.

I grabbed my knife and purse.  It really was going to be okay.

***

At the checkpoint, a pot-bellied bearded man with a gun slung across his back sauntered up to my car.  I rolled down my window.

He nodded.  “Hello there.  Purpose of trip?”

“Just travelling to Frackville to purchase a laptop.”

“Mmmmm, going shopping, huh?”  He eyed my purse eagerly.

“How much is the toll going to cost me?”

“I don’t know yet.”  He chuckled.  “You got your ID on you?”

I handed my metropolitan ID card to him.

He scowled darkly.  “Maria?”

“I’m Ukrainian,”  I snapped.

“Oh.  Yeah, I guess your last name does look Russian.  That’s okay, then.”

“Can I go?”

“Not sure.”  He leaned into my window.  “What are you doing trying to go into Nowhere unaccompanied, anyway?  It can be dangerous for females around here.”

“My father died defending the city during the killing days,”  I said coldly.  “It’s your militia’s fault that I don’t have a male guardian with me.”

To his credit, he looked abashed at this.  He cleared his throat and stepped back from the car.  “I see.  We need to run one more quick check on you, ma’am.  Rob?”  He gave my ID to the other guard, who was holding a tablet.  “Check her voting record?”

Rob typed my name in.  “She didn’t vote at all last election.”

“Lucky for you,”  the first guard said.  “You won’t get hit with our wrong candidate surcharge.”

“Great.”  I felt relieved and, for once, grateful for the political cynicism which led me to be a non-voter back in 2016.

“We’ll be nice.  Let’s make your toll payment an even hundred bucks.”

I forced a polite smile, made the payment and accepted my ID.  As I slowly drove away, a truck came to a stop at the checkpoint, and the guards gestured at the truck driver to get out so they could inspect his goods.  I heard the driver yelling obscenities at them, and I sped up until the checkpoint was out of sight.

***

The laptop seller lived in a little white house in Frackville’s mostly empty downtown area.  Across the street, there were a couple of abandoned buildings, with a Trump poster peeling away from one of the brick walls.

I knocked on the door.  A skinny old man cracked it open and peered out at me.

“Hi!  I’m here to pick up the laptop?”

“Nice to meet you, Maria.  Come on in.”

His name was Gus.  He grinned at the knife on my belt (“They still don’t let you have guns in the city?”) and then vanished into the back of the house.  I sat on the sofa and waited.  There was a cross hanging in the entry hallway, but I noticed a distinct lack of Trump portraits.  This was an encouraging sign.

I smiled at him when he returned, bearing the laptop.  “I see you’re not a big fan of President Trump, eh?”

He fidgeted nervously.  “May his soul rest in peace.”

“Amen.”

President Trump had been assassinated soon after the beginning of what we all called the Disturbance–because nobody wanted to call it a civil war–but the Disturbance rolled right along without him.  It was common for the residents of the Nowhere lands to give a place of honor in their home to portraits of the Martyr President, sometimes building miniature shrines in his memory.

After his initial moment of anxiety, Gus relaxed.  “Yeah, I never did like him much.  He seemed like a big talker to me.  Seemed like a fake.”

“Doesn’t that get you in trouble around here?”

“Me?  No.  I leave the militia guys alone, and they leave me alone.  I’ve lived here forever, anyway.”

I examined the laptop.  It was small and the keyboard was wearing out, but it would have to do.

Gus shuffled his feet.  “Sorry, I would offer you some coffee, but I only have a tiny bit left, and I don’t know when the roads will be clear for me to go get groceries.”

“That’s okay.”

“So what kind of work do you do?”

“I knit handmade hats and scarves.  I sell them online.”

I glanced up at Gus.  “Would you like my website address?  Maybe I could make you something?”

“No need for that.  Doubt I could afford it.”

There was no time for me to hang around any further.  I stood up and looked out once again upon the desolate street.

“Are you ever angry at the militia, Gus?”

“Angry?”

“About what they did to your town?”

Behind me, I could hear his soft laughter.  “The town has always been like this, before the militia ever came.  There haven’t been any jobs in Frackville for years and years.  Why do you think the people here voted for Trump?”

***

I opened the car door.  I couldn’t wait to leave this dead zone and go home.

Somewhere in the distance, the small figure of an armed man crossed the road.  The sight should have made me scared, but instead it made me sad.  How had we created a world like this?  How had we allowed this to happen?

The curtains in the front window of the little white house moved.  I didn’t want to make Gus uncomfortable by staying there too long.  I got in the car and started on the drive back to the checkpoint and my exit out of Nowhere.