This is a completely unhinged piece that happened because I was thinking of Doug Kenney’s “My First Blow Job” and imagining I was working for National Lampoon circa 1981. This will probably get me taken out of context and cancelled again, but fuck it. It’s satire.
In a gated residential community stands the family McMansion. A giant American flag billows above the front porch next to a yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” flag. The long driveway is filled with trucks, jet-skis. The clean two-car garage is full of refrigerators, teeming with meat, and enough canned food and water to survive one year.
In the backyard, next to the sex swing, is a kennel full of German Shepherds named Klaus, Blondi and Messerschmidt. The muscular dogs stand fortified and at the ready, refusing to eat their trough full of venison until given the command by the patriarch in Old German.
A needlepoint of an AR-15 is framed in the damask-papered dining room, above a painting of a handsome, blonde and agonized Jesus.
The enormous TV in every room shows Tucker Carlson’s oversize head, seizing the day. Fortifying each room from his vermillion rectangle.
Mother wakes up alone in a king-sized bed, over which hangs an ornate gun rack, strewn with beautiful, expertly curated weapons. Father is already in the yellow prayer room, contemplating and adoring the Bible in a morning sunbeam while masturbating.
Mother, wearing a modestly frilly housecoat up to her neck, hobbles into the kitchen in her slippers, using an umbrella as a cane because performing her wifely duties has become more of a chore recently. (So many strange new utensils! But she abides in prayer, and obedience.)
Mother prepares an enormous, pork-heavy breakfast, because it gives her a sense of value that she doesn’t feel anywhere else in her life, because she hasn’t had anything resembling a self-esteem since she got hers removed in 1992.
Her son Rolf and daughter Kaylee tumble down the stairs. Father is already mid-lecture when they take their seats at the breakfast table.
“They’re comin’, I ken FEEL it.”
“Who’s coming, Father?” asked Rolf.
“DEMOCRATS, son. Lackeys of the Zionist occupation government. Communists. Freedom haters. Godless babykillers. Groomers. Baby blood drinkers. Under the guise of trying to protect old trees at the injun reservation, they’re coming for our FREEDOMS,” Zeb says darkly. “And with the 5G coming? Just expect there to be a lot of wild, ugly changes.”
Zeb carefully takes his flip phone out of its mylar bag and wire Farraday cage in the kitchen freezer, and carefully beeps it on. Then he looks out the window, for snipers.
”Kaylee,” Mother says, eager to change the tone of the morning. “Aren’t you excited about the Chastity Ball tonight?”
“Oh whoopie, Mom. I get to marry my own father. It’s so old-fashioned. ”
“Now if only you hadn’t gotten pregnant. A woman’s abdomen really should be flat for a white gown.”
“Stop weight-shaming me, Mom!”
“How can you use feminist language in this house?” Father demands of his daughter. “Get the laundry soap.”
“Aww DAD,” Kaylee protests, stomping to retrieve the hated box.
After pulling her hair back and feeding her two scoops of Dash, Kaylee’s nose wrinkled in disgust as she gagged, vomited and coughed the white and blue speckled powder out of her lungs.
“Ha ha, Sis, you’re never going to have a real life now that you’re preggo! I’m going to Bob Jones University in order to learn how to fuck over everyone who doesn’t look like us!”
“That’s enough teasing, Rolf. Your sister is going to be a wonderful mother before she even gets her braces off. Don’t you and the boys have a book burning tonight?”
“We sure do, Mom. We’re doing J.D. Salinger, F. Scott Fitzgerald and some faggot named Voltaire.”
“You’re doing the Lord’s work, son,” Zeb said proudly. “But this ‘incel’ thing of yours, Rolf…it’s because of the gay agenda. You should be sticking it in every debutante who puts out.”
“I know Dad, I know!” Rolf says angrily, clutching his fists. “I just absolutely fucking hate women!” Rolf begins guzzling breakfast meat with the serving fork.
“Now don’t do that, Rolf, you’ll ruin your beautiful Brownshirt re-enactment costume, and you know how pricey the real ones are.”
Zeb and Rolf share a private wink, kept carefully from the girls in the room. Huh! Women. Fuck them over. Fuck them over every chance you get.
“Well, I’ll be venturing out today,” Mother says proudly. “I’m going to WALMART to put black women back in their place.” She patted the gun in her dainty leather sidearm holster.
“I’m sorry I’m pregnant, Mom,” says Kaylee.
“Well. I’m not,” Mother says gently. “But not if it’s a Mexican. That kid comes out the least bit brown, I’m giving you both over to ICE.”
Zeb fondly gazes at the family scene, thinking how soon he’ll be a grandfather for the first time (if you didn’t count his other family in the protectorate of Sai Pan, or the other daughter he kept in a room beneath the cellar).
Zeb walks outside to check his perimeter, and notices his neighbor Smokey the veteran watering his hydrangeas over the fence, in a wheelchair covered with POW/MIA stickers.
“Need a little help there, Smokey?” asks Zeb, noticing his neighbor’s difficulty pulling the hose past the tires of his flat black Ford 150.
“Sure Zeb, that would be swell…”
“Well TOUGH TITS Snowflake. Here’s a crayon. Maybe you should scrawl out a sign on cardboard and wheel yourself next to a freeway onramp.”
Smokey is saddened by his neighbor’s constant hostility.
A commercial plane flies overhead.
“Chemtrails!” cries Zeb. “Get out of the yard!” Zeb withdraws one of the several weapons on his person, takes aim, and shoots at the plane.
The plane fails to crash, but a police-car stealthily pulls up front. Zeb freezes. The cop rolls down his window.
“Chemtrails, Zeb?” the cop asks, with a note of seriousness.
Zeb freezes, breaking out in a cold sweat as he dumbly tries to conceal his weapon.
“Carry on, Sir!” winks the cop, pulling away with a chuckle.
Zeb laughs in relief, then removes his belt to chase and beat down an African-American jogger.
It is another beautiful day in Republican America.
CintraW@gmail.com. I am the editrix.
Artwork: “Black Jesus,” oil on linen by Cintra Wilson 2022
HOW I THINK REPUBLICANS LIVE