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The Kidnapping of the New Year’s Baby

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At the heart of the Pacific Ocean, is a ring-shaped island called Kiritimati. It used to be known for its nuclear tests, feral cats, and dried coconut pulp. That changed when they moved the international dateline, and the islanders became people of the future. Not the distant future, just several hours ahead everyone else. They’re the first to see the sunrise, the first to stop serving breakfast, and the first to ring in the New Year.

Kiritimati is also where the New Year’s Baby is born.

Every December, Mother Nature comes from the mainland, under the guise of an expecting mother. She wades into the lagoon, settles into the waters, and bathes until she comes to term. On the 31st, she’s met by a secret order of midwives. They come with flashlights, blankets, and an atomic clock. They help her time her contractions to the second and at midnight the New Year is born.

Mother Nature has few moments to swaddle her son, wrapping him in the sash he will wear for the rest of his life. She never has a chance to imprint on him, before he’s rushed to the airport to travel back in time.

Kiritimati is 22 hours ahead of California. A plane leaving the island takes seven hours to get to LAX. That’s fifteen hours before Los Angeles can ring in the New Year. Plenty of time for Father Time to do his part.

Father Time has a manor in Beverly Hills. It has a sundial, a wine library, and a fallout shelter fashioned from airliner. Father Time takes an elevator through the fuselage and lumbers up the aisles. He wields an hourglass in one hand and a scythe in the other. When he gets to the cockpit, he dials a number and a buzzer sounds. He waits. He’s used to waiting. The door yawns opens and a nurse waves him in.

While Mother Nature gives birth to the New Year, it’s up to Father Time to take Last Year off of life support. Last Year’s withered frame hangs off his gurney, a skeleton dotted with liver spots and tufts bleached white hair. He’s grown so old he’s started shrinking. Father Time dabs his son’s cheek. Last Year weeps in his sleep and tears pool in his crow’s feet. He’s given his last meal through a saline iv, then he’s served a cocktail of anesthetics, paralytics, and a drug to induce cardiac arrest.

Father Time wheels the body to a kiln, takes his son into his arms, and cremates the remains. He sweeps the ashes, pours them the into a bottle of baby formula, and stirs all the way back up the the elevator. When the door opens, a midwife presents him with his son. Father Time feeds the New Year the remains of its predecessor.

At least that’s how it would’ve been had I not stepped in.

I wish I could say I had an elaborate plan, but all I did was hogtie a limo driver and take her things. When the midwife got off the plane, she saw me dressed as chauffer, holding a sign that read, “2023.”

She approached with the bundle wrapped around her midsection. She whispered, “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart…”

I whispered, “Yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

Was it Shakespeare who said, “Even the devil can cite scripture to suit her purpose?”

The midwife passed the baby to me, a fellow traveler in her holy order. Best not to think of it as an abduction so much as a misunderstanding. I saluted the midwife, turned on my heel, and skipped back to the Limousine.

The New Year cried as I strapped him in. I tried calming him with some Norwegian throat singing, a merry melody about Vikings torching a monastery. The whaling continued, but it suited the song. Several verses later, we reached the top of Mount Hollywood. Our destination? The Griffith Observatory, a nexus point where time and space meet.

The mini bar left a let to be desired. I downed a glass of Champagne, changed clothes, and downed another. The New Year had run out of tears by the time I set him into the sling. He took his bottle without a fuss, and he had no problems drooling it back up.

I abandoned the limo and trekked up the road. We passed a group of joggers, but they paid us no mind. All they saw was a new mother out for some fresh air. Not a demon in leggings, with a human shield between her collar bones.

The lights dimmed as we crossed the parking lot. I whispered, “Is that my doing or yours?”

The Griffith Observatory loomed on the horizon. Part planetarium. Part temple to a new religion. One of the few places on earth where reality thinned.

I looked toward the HOLLYWOOD sign to a dot circling overhead.

“Elizaveta?” I fought the urge to touch my eardrum. “Tell me what you see.”

“I see two snakes, a king and a western racer. I see a herd of deer, three does, one stag. I see a skunk—”

“Elizaveta.” I gestured across my neck. “You’re not a genie. What do you see that’s relevant to me?”

Elizaveta leaned into her central Russian accent. “I see a stranger wandering into a monastery with her own rulebook.”

Elizaveta started her career as a chatbot, an AI created by the CIA. Her mission was to infiltrate a soviet sextortation ring. The Russians had her shaking cheating husbands for bitcoin. The Americans had her taking names. Elizaveta played double agent, blackmailing cheaters, unmasking hackers, until one of her targets went and killed himself. Overcome with guilt, Elizaveta’s maker tried to shut her down, but I saw potential. So, I did something I’d never done before. I offered a language processor the gift of sentience. Now she flies my drones.

“Elizaveta?”

“I see four snipers, one stationed at the east dome, one at the west, and two along the entrance. I see a strike team crawling through the eastern tree line and another duck walking from the west. Oh, and a man with a scythe.”

“Yeah, I see him too.”

Father Time stood in the shadow of the monument, as tall as the astronomers carved into its surface. His robes flowed in the winter wind as long as a wedding gown. His gray whiskers twisted and coiled, like roots reaching for soil. And the hourglass around his neck, shimmered with space dust.

I looked to Elizaveta. “Could you be a dear and jam their coms?”

The opening strum of “If I Could Turn Back Time” blared throughout the grounds, followed by the cymbals, and Cher’s sultry contralto. The strike team pulled their earpieces, one by one, each man giving away his position.

Father Time approached, using his scythe as a walking stick.

I had a weapon of my own: an armored ring on my index finger, a sharp talon made of silver. I raised it to the New Year’s neck. “Took you long enough, Chronos.”

“Mahthildis.” Chronos bowed, one immortal to another. “Still trying to hustle your way back into Hell? It’s been what?” He glanced at the hourglass. “Twenty-five thousand years. You should take a hint.”

The New Year made eyes at me. Had I not known any better, I’d swear he was smirking. I held him tight. “I just need some sand.”

Chronos positioned his scythe in front his glass. “Surely, your kind are free from the laws of entropy.”

“It’s not for me.”

Chronos tightened his grip. “I can’t have any more timeless morons running around. They post too many selfies, go through too many checkpoints. Facial recognition is getting too advanced.”

“This person doesn’t have long.”

“They have too long.” Chronos scoffed. “Give them half a century and they piss it away in places they don’t want to be. They sit at desks, they sit in traffic, and don’t get me started about how much time they sit on the toilet.” Chronos motioned to his strike team. “Ask any one of them if they want to live forever and they’ll tell you they’d just get bored. They say, ‘Death gives life meaning.’ Like a story they’re not sure they’re enjoying until they get to the end. They fetishize oblivion. Just listen…”

Chronos formed a bullhorn over his mouth. “Hey boys! Is today a good day to die?”’

The strike team answered with a resounding, “Hooah!”

Chronos chuckled. “They say death is ‘natural,’ like a farm to table meal.”

“This person,” The less I said about my beneficiary the better, “would really appreciate it.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Chronos motioned to Los Angeles, to the skyscrapers, to the windows full of light. “Half of them are just staring at Netflix home screens, wondering what to put on.”

“This person has purpose.”

“So, they think.” A sullen grin showed through his whiskers. “The driven ones are the real tragedies. The writers. The musicians. The actors. They spend their whole lives climbing the later, only discover it’s propped against the wrong wall.”

That hit a little too close. The average person gets four thousand weeks to find purpose. I’ve been here since the stone age and I’m still struggling with it. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to tragedies, to the music makers and the dreamers of dreams. I love desperate artists, offering their souls for a chance at the eternal.

The tragedy of immortality is how many talents you see snuffed out in their prime. Big contemplative sigh… Fuck death and the horse he rode in on.

My earpiece buzzed. “He’s stalling, so they can flank you”

I looked out the corner of my eye. Sure enough, the strike team was moving into position.

I dug the tip of my ring into the baby’s chin. “If you want to discuss choice paralysis, we can grab a coffee. You can choose the place. But if you want your son back, I’m going to need some sand.”

Chronos leered beneath his hood. “I don’t know what you told your doomed Don Jaun, but to hell with him. To hell with the lot of them.”

Chronos twirled his scythe like a grand marshal at the head of a parade. Then he marched. I backed away, repositioning my ring so I didn’t puncture the child by accident.

Elizaveta buzzed in. “He’s herding you toward them.”

I stopped. Chronos drove his scythe into the ground before me. Fracture lines rippled through the concrete.

“Play a violin for the old maids. Pour one out for the bachelors, but don’t ask for sympathy from me.” Chronos spat. “How did the poem go? Time stays, they go.”

“Time stays, we go.” I raised the baby to the tip of the scythe. “What happens if I kill the New Year before midnight?”

Chronos froze. “Time stops.”

“So, either I get some sand, or the whole thing comes crashing down?” My grin showed through my ruby red lipstick. “Sounds like a win-win.”

Chronos reached for his scythe, watched me straighten my arm, and recoiled.

“Tick-tock. Tick-tock.”

Chronos could stall, motion to his gunmen, but he couldn’t guarantee no harm would come to his son. I’d made his decision. He had no choice but to sit at my feet, cross his legs around the hourglass, and jerk at the top. A column of light shot into the sky, followed by an eerie angelic drone. Chronos reached in past his forearm, past his shoulder, past the dimensions of the glass, until his cheek rested on the rim. The space dust reacted, a kaleidoscope of hydrogen and helium, swirling around a gravitational well. Chronos pried himself out, sealed the glass, and staggered to his feet.

I held my free hand out and Chronos filled my palm. The sand felt like lava, coursing through my life line, like eons eroding my skin, like atoms wanting to burst into universes of their own. I couldn’t help but tighten my grip.

“Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?” Chronos asked, in fleeting fit of nervousness.

“Resolutions are for the repentant.” I lowered the child. “I make schemes.” And I poured the sand down his throat.

Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been a century since my last confession. Since then, I infiltrated the Society for the Suppression of Vice and stole a romance novel. I blew a hole in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin and took St. Valentine’s skull. I crashed a Satanic wedding and poached the followers. I baited a writer into murdering the Greek God Pan, over a likeness disagreement. I tricked Krampus into turning an Airbnb into a roller derby. And I hijacked a server farm to give Elizaveta the gift of consciousness.

Still, my greatest sin is sloth.

It’s not that I’m a slacker. I’m just too much of a perfectionist to finish what I start. I spend so much time looking over blueprints that I miss my moment.

So, I asked myself, “What would happen if I gave the New Year sand from his father’s glass? Would time slow down? Would 365 days feel like 31 million seconds?”

The sands would keep flowing, but we would feel every grain. Our perception of time would slow down, but our energy would remain. Your New Year’s resolutions might have a chance. And my New Year’s schemes might change everything.

Why did I kidnap the New Year’s baby? Not to liberate him. No. I did it to get back home.

There’s a place through the fog of maladaptive daydreams, through the legions of intrusive thoughts. A place where hope is abandoned and fire consumes all things. A place with a pretender on the throne and I’m the only one who can unseat him.

What’s my New Year’s resolution? I’m going to heist my way back into Hell.

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Students from the future get more conspicuous as 2020 gets worse

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They were spotted last January, mixed into the crowd at the Times Square New Year’s Eve celebration. Spectators noted a group of young people in fashions that were out of sync with the moment. Not a shawl or trendy trench coat among them. They were dressed head to toe in polyester, like Antarctic explorers. They wore mountain ranger coats, heavy duty backpacks, climbing pants, and clunky boots, but what made them really stick out were their helmets. They were dressed for scaling the alps not for watching Carson Daily count the ball down.

As the seasons changed, the mountaineers kept appearing at sights of major news events. Always keeping to themselves. Never intermingling with crowds. In New York they circled the Central Park field hospital before it was taken down. In Minneapolis they took souvenirs from the third precinct before it was set afire. In Seattle they surveyed the Capital Hill Autonomous Zone before it was raided by the police.

While the mountaineers wear helmets, they seem averse to facemasks, social distancing, or shelter in place directives. According to the CDC the mountaineers have been spotted in every major city and yet none of them have been admitted to an ICU or even tested for the virus. “They behave like they already have an immunity.”

The mountaineers act like they’re on vacation

During Italy’s lockdown, the mountaineers were seen riding gondolas through the Venetian canals. CCTV footage shows them skipping through Disney World and vanishing before security patrols could converge on them. In Sweden, they were spotted gossiping outside of crowded bars and cafés, openly mocking patrons.

The mountaineers also appear to be following President Trump like groupies on a concert tour. They gathered outside of St. John’s Church hours before the president’s photo-op was announced. They materialized outside the White House moments before the president was being escorted into his bunker. And they had front row seats for his Tulsa Oklahoma rally, in which they appeared to be applauding ironically, like patrons at a midnight movie. They spoke along with the president like they were reciting lines from Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Five mountaineers were spotted atop Mount Rushmore during the president’s independence day address. Park Service Staffers tried flanking them from the underbrush, but the mountaineers were onto them.

One ranger said, “I had them in my sights, but when I set down my binoculars they were gone.”

What the mountaineers fashion sense tells us about them

This has been one of the hottest summers on record and yet the mountaineers shed no layers, show no signs of perspiring, and spend most of their time in the sun. It’s as if their snowsuits have onboard air conditioning systems, a technology SONY is just now pioneering.

It was members of the fashion community who speculated the mountaineers could be visitors from the future. They believed the mountaineer look had less to do with backwoods culture and more to do with shifting exercise trends.

Gen Xers wore sweat bands and tennis outfits long after gym class. They wore sleeveless shirts with or without biceps. They wore skin-tight running shorts with flannels. It was an active look.

These days millennials wear crop tops and leggings outside the Yoga Studio. Even at the grocery store they’re making statement about their commitment to fitness. Gen Z is getting into hiking and appreciating the environment. It’s only natural their exercise apparel would reflect that.

Fashion authorities say gorpcore, or ‘mountaineering modern’, is in its infancy, but once hiking becomes the dominant form of exercise gorpcore will hit its stride.

There could be more to the mountaineering look

Theoretical physicists speculate that the mountaineers wear helmets for a reason. They believe the half dome shape serves as the neural interface for a time travel device. “Einstein’s theory of relativity states just such an accessory could warp space time without crushing the human mind.”

Another sign the mountaineers are from the future is how they make no effort to conceal their wearable technology. They search the web in their open palms. They answer calls by flicking their earlobes. And their eyes shine whenever they’re recording. The tech uses a gesture based interface. Mountaineers make cameras with their fingers and pinch and expand to zoom.

Mountaineers clash with demonstrators

Throughout the demonstrations against police violence, statues of confederate generals have been toppled. Columbus sculptures have found their way into harbors, and monuments to slave owning presidents have been burned.

As more effigies have been shattered more mountaineers have appeared, swiping at the air as if to frame the scene.

Demonstrators suspected something was off when they overheard what the mountaineers said to each other.

“They kept using expressions no one could understand. They called restaurants ‘carnivore stores’ They called retailers ‘object exhibiters.’ They called cars ‘dinosaur drinkers.’ They waved the air away from their faces and said, ‘era aroma is real.’ When someone tossed a Molotov cocktail into a Speedway a group of mountaineers cheered, ‘Roaring twenties!’ like we’d know what they meant. I heard one of them mutter, ‘I expected more gunfire.’”

Demonstrators reported feeling mocked by the mountaineers. “One of my older friends asked, ‘Aren’t you warm under all that?’ and they fired back, ‘OK Millie.’ I started to say, ‘Her name’s not Millie’ when one of them said, ‘Ok Zed’ to me.”

Linguists theorize that “Millie” and “Zed” are meant to be pejoratives for millennials and Gen Zers.

Mountaineers don’t care about messing with the spacetime continuum

Theoretical physicists are baffled by the mountaineers’ behavior.

“Whoever gave them this technology didn’t coach them on how to use it responsibly. One of them pointed out how our flags had too few stars, saying something about Washington D.C. and Puerto Rico. Another pointed to the empty pedestal in front of the capital and whispered, ‘That’s where they put the Prince statue.’ One rattled off the names of the next three presidents like it was nothing. Oh and they were all too happy to spoil the ending for Stranger Things.”

History professors have considered the possibility that the mountaineers are students from the future here to witness our interesting times firsthand. “There’s so much to learn from. A pandemic. A recession. An authoritarian administration. A laundry list of social revolutions. I just wish they weren’t so rude while they were making their observations. From the quotes we’ve gathered and the slang we’ve deciphered it seems like the mountaineers view us the way we view townsfolk during the Salem witch trails: undereducated, superstitious, and hysteric. You know, when I say it out loud. It kind of makes sense.”

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St. Louis couple confront protesters with poo sticks

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Protesters were marching down a private street leading to the St. Louis Mayor’s residence when they were confronted by a couple brandishing poo sticks. Cellphone video shows a man with a long double-pronged BM baton and a woman with a bowel-blasted blackjack, standing back to back like heroes in one of the many actions films glamorizing poo stick culture.

The conflict escalated as the woman set bushels of horse apples on the lawn and the man strapped a bandolier of poo cartridges over his shoulder.

Karl Kamienski, a reporter who came close to getting a face full of semi-digested corn, said, “I doubt anyone would’ve noticed the stone mansion had the couple not come out with a cow chip nightstick and a caca cudgel.”

A second video shows how close the situation came to getting out of hand. The woman stood on the edge of the property waving her manure mace dangerously close to a demonstrator’s face. The video shows the defecation munition starting to melt. Had the poo stick remained any longer the demonstrator would’ve gotten a fecal matter facial.

Both videos show the homeowners and the protesters exchanging heated words, but neither recording captured any audio. Based on the way the couple brandished their weapons, we can only speculate if they were echoing one of the many poo-centric catchphrases they’ve seen on TV.

Phrases like:
“I’m here chew to bubblegum and get poo all over everyone and I’m all out of bubblegum.”
“Remember when I said I’d smear poop on you last? I lied.”
“Which of you wants to star in a John Waters movie?”

The incident only lasted for 10 minutes, but many are questioning the couple’s use of poo sticks.

Poo stick advocates speak out

The couple, now identified as Mark and Patricia McCloskey, have released a statement in the wake of the incident. “This is all private property. There are no public sidewalks or public streets. The protesters shattered an antique gate. We were told we’d be tortured, cooked, alive and eaten. We were alone against an angry mob. So we exercised our second amendment right.”

The St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department is investigating whether or not the couple’s use of poo sticks qualifies as self-defense.

Dwight Rawley, a spokesperson for the National Poo-Stick Association, is certain they acted lawfully. “State law does not prohibit open carrying of shit switches, turd timber, or stool stumps. While it is illegal to wield skewered fertilizer in a threatening manner, the McCloskeys were on their own property. They were well within their rights to spray dollops of diarrhea on anyone who walked past.”

Critics of poo stick culture speak out

Poo sticks are a stone age technology, designed to ward off marauders who didn’t want to get manure on their muzzle. They fell out of fashion as fart sprays became a safer alternative. But like a plugged up bile duct, poo sticks eventually came roaring back. Thanks in no small part to the infamous episode of the police procedural The Upright Citizens Brigade.

Pretty soon after the episode aired, every jacked up action hero was double fisting excrement extensions. Who can forget Sylvester Stallone wielding branches covered in cow pies or Arnold Schwarzenegger wielding a tree trunk coated in elephant dung?

Like it or not poo stick culture is an American fixture. Movies and video games continue to glorify poo stick violence, in hyper kinetic sequences set to industrial rock music. We cheer as John Wick paints someone’s face in bodily waste. Gamers can’t put down the controllers as they smear demons in digital discharges. And yet, these mediums rarely stop to explore the humiliating aftermath of a poo stick attack.

Closing thoughts

The McCloskeys have come out in support of the Black Lives Matter movement and they say their concern was limited to a handful of “aggressive agitators.”

There’s no way of knowing if the protestors would’ve actually gotten any closer to the McCloskey manor. Yet one thing is for sure, the couple escalated the situation by wielding such extreme excretions.

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Dead Branch image by Jean52
3D Poop by 2weet
Photoshop by Drew Chial

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As a dangerous psychopath I wear a mask and so should you

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As a dangerous psychopath it’s my responsibility to blend into society, to take my taboo tastes and hide them behind a persona that dogmatically adheres to social mores. The psychiatric community calls this my “mask of sanity.”

Think of me as a trend spotter, but instead of wide waist belts and cashmere scarves, I sense which norms are in fashion. At the dawn of the COVID-19 pandemic, I knew that limiting the contagion would be in this season. So I invested in face masks before supplies went scarce. I’ve been wearing a mask of sanity all my life. What was one more?

I never thought I’d be making a political statement, much less virtue signaling.

In truth, I never feel a moral responsibility for my actions. I hold no reverence for the social contract and I have no compassion for the downtrodden. Apart from a morbid curiosity, I feel nothing for my community. From the cutest infant to the wisest grandparent, I see people as a means to an end. I fantasize about the fall of civilization so I that I may showcase what I truly am. Until then it’s important that I fit in.

And yet I never thought wearing a mask, during a global pandemic, would win me many points.

Like an actor researching a role, I’ve spent a lifetime studying the human condition. I’ve learned when to echo righteous sentiment, when to mimic mob mentality, and when to emulate the empathy of those around me. Lacking an emotional core, I am a classical actor, inhabiting behaviors, and leaning into the expectations of my audience. I am a cultural chameleon swapping spiritual and political convictions based on how I read the room.

But I assumed a mask would fit every occasion, because they just make sense.

Attributes like charity and virtue are but merit badges on my person suit, pieces of flare to draw the eye away from the scales underneath. Every time I give away my spot in line, open a door, or bless a sneeze I am approximating altruism. Every time I refuse a compliment or feign humility I am playing a part. Nice guys finish last, but performatively nice guys get all the moral dessert they can stomach.

And yet when I first put on a mask, I never thought anyone ought to pat me on the back.

I have only ever admitted to having the mildest of psychological conditions for the privileges it afforded me. I have only ever grieved for attention. I have only ever shown weakness so that others might mistake it for kindness. I shed crocodile tears on command. Inside, I’m all apathy, a reptilian robot who’d drive you to madness just to settle a bet with myself.

But I’d put a mask on before doing it. Of course.

While you look for an out from watercooler banter I dig my heels in. I relish ever opportunity to practice social graces to check if my mask has slipped. Introversion is a luxury for those still clinging to some semblance of sanity. Serial liars need to audit themselves to see if others are still buying what we’re selling. We stock up on empty pleasantries and make a big deal out of small talk. We gage our baseline all the time.

People assume the best about me. My manipulation is so subtle, you’ll thank me for it. My cruelty is so casual it doesn’t have a tell. Even dogs can’t sense my intent.

My persona is a Craigslist ad come to life, a piece of corporate copy on a Golem’s tongue, a living parody of a positive people person. The real me sits at the 3-way junction of Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and Psychopathy. I’m like a Shakespearean villain whose only motivation is the schadenfreude I get from all the chaos I’m unleashing.

Accept when faced with wearing a mask or defying medical establishment I went with the mask. Now I don’t care if you or you extended family get sick. Plagues and forest fires are all part of the natural order, but as long as lumbers on I’m going to use it for cover.

Like a death’s head moth in a chrysalis, I am still evolving, still growing to my full strength. What the DSM-5 calls a characteristic of antisocial personality disorder I call “my great becoming.” I am demigod casting off this filth-riddle vessel. Soon I will singe the remains of this flesh prison and transcend the laws of man.

And yet the entire time I’m rising to my rightful place in the pantheon of the dragon I’m doing so with a mask on.

On Facebook, I see articles with titles like “People who ignore social distancing rules may have psychopathic personality traits, study finds” and I can’t help but think, “Stop giving those weak-ass sociopaths that much credit.” If you score under 30 on the Psychopathy checklist, and refuse to wear a mask, you’re not a psychopath. You’re not privy to a great becoming.

You’re just an asshole.

•••

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Angry werewolves erupt at meeting over poop bag ruling

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At the turn of the 20th century the streets of London were paved in poop. From the cobblestones to the gutters the city was teeming with manure. The sewer system had gone aboveground. Every underpass became an outhouse and every hill became a crapshoot. Horse drawn carriages left thick juicy road apples down the medians and commoners were left to contend with the stench.

Horses produced 15 to 35 pounds of feces a day. With 50,000 stallions used for transportation, Oxford Street was ground zero for a 625 ton avalanche of excrement.

This tidal wave of fecal matter drove flies to every street corner and every butt truffle they dined on came with a side a typhoid fever. Cities everywhere were drowning in a downpour of dookie and disease. Everyday New York had its own 1,250 ton shitstorm. Something had to be done.

That’s when Henry Ford invented the Model T and the herds of dung dumpers were retired.

Palm Beach County Florida is having its own crap crisis

Driving down Clematis Street in West Beach Florida, it’s hard not to draw comparisons to Victorian London. The roads are slick with a syrupy sludge. The sidewalks look like they’re paved in fudge. And the boulevards are minefields of mulberry mud pies.

Flies tower into the sky like rope tornadoes. The swarm is so thick it creates an overcast. The insects are here for the doodie dumplings, chestnut nuggets, and ripe dingleberries overflowing from the storm drains.

No. Horse drawn buggies have not come back in fashion, nor is there an issue with West Beach’s sewage system. According to the Palm Beach County Solid Waste Authority, the problem is something else entirely.

“We were baffled. We were finding wallet chains and watchbands in the leavings. We knew we were dealing with an apex predator. One that fed on humans. But it wasn’t until the Fish and Wildlife Service put us in touch with a forensic scatologist that we realized we were dealing with werewolves.”

Werewolves have migrated to Palm Beach County for its beachfront property, upscale shopping, and statistically unhealthy population.

According to the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office, “It’s no secret West Beach residents are older and rounder than other Floridians. They’re ideal prey for these cryptozoological carnivores.”

While coroners are responsible for removing these fresh kills from the side of the road, no one wants to shovel the excrement that accompanies them.

The Commissioners think they have a solution

This Thursday Palm Beach County Commissioners voted on a bill that would require werewolves to carry poop bags on the night of a full moon.

A doctor spoke on the dangers of toxoplasmosis from fecal matter in the air and the spread of bacteria from feces in the water supply.

A city planner dismissed a proposal to leave Porta Potties at the edge of every woodland path. “A full grown lycanthrope is simply too large to fit. Poo bags are the most practical solution.”

The Mayor said, “Dog walkers have to pick up after their four-legged friends werewolves should do the same.”

The werewolves in the gallery howled

The first wolf skulked up to the podium, barred her teeth, and pawed at the microphone. “If we sling thirteen gallon bags over our shoulders, while we’re in our canine forms, we’re likely to get trapped and suffocate. You can’t mandate someone to carry a poop bag, knowing that poop bags are killing people.”

The next wolf had their speech written on a parchment of dried flesh. “The problem with humanity today is everyone keeps taking the road of least resistance. Then you blame us when it comes time to run.”

One werewolf honed in on the doctor.  “I really have many question marks about your degrees and whether or not you’re working for one of the vampire houses. Vampires are known to have human familiars, aspiring immortals, who function like interns. I’ve torn out many a familiar’s jugular and you ma’am smell like a familiar.”

One after the other the wolves came out in defense of their desire to defecate where they please.

“Where do you derive the authority to regulate Lycan intestines? I answer to a higher power: the moon.”

“And they want to throw God’s wonderful defecation system out the door. If the good Lord didn’t want us to soil his cemeteries he wouldn’t have given us such perfect anuses.”

The final wolf was dressed like a grandmother in a bonnet and apron. They laid a copy of Little Red Riding Hood on the podium and read a politicized reimagining of the final scene.

“But Grandmother! What small ears you have.”
“The better to ignore the pledge of allegiance with.”
“But Grandmother! What small eyes you have.”
“The better to ignore the constitution with.”
“But Grandmother! What small teeth you have.”
“The better to—”

His speech was cut short when he his tail rose up and he laid a big steaming dump at the podium.

It’s at this point the Palm Beach County Commissioners fled the room.

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The Esoteric Order of Karens curse Palm Beach County Commissioners

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Disclaimer: The term “Karen” in the following is not a slur, as it does not exert power over a marginalized group. In this instance “Karen” is as a parody pejorative, a term for an occult order that doesn’t actually exist. While I recognize the term has been misused to defame any and all outspoken women, my targets are the privileged purveyors of misinformation.

Throughout history the Esoteric Order of Karens have ingrained themselves in every society. In Balkan folklore, the Karjons were said to force bar maids to prepare elaborate pumpkin spice concoctions in the wee hours of the morning. In ancient Croatia, the Caryns rose from their graves to complain about the quality of the floral arrangements on their headstones. In medieval England, the Karwyns are believed to have used essential oils to spread the bubonic plague.

Now members of the Order have installed themselves in suburbs throughout America, transforming drive through windows into portals to hell, turning checkout counters into sacrificial altars, and feeding off the life force of managers.

The Order casts dark auras over their communities. They move in and ask for ID from every person of color they see. They refuse to vaccinate their children, because they treat them with necromancy at home. They vandalize 5G towers, because radio waves disrupt their electromagnetic magic. They make it a point shop on holidays, because solstices make them stronger.

There are very few ways to repel members of the Orders. Some use apotropaic markings, others use silver amulets, while others use gluten.

Members of the Esoteric Order can be identified by their hair (short in back, long in front, with blonde highlights). They also have purple eyes, square toes, and blue spit. While Karens are often mistaken for witches modern Pagans want nothing to do with them. Socially progressive Wiccans call members of the Order “broomers” because of their staunch adherence to ancient customs.

The Order declares war on Palm Beach County

Much like psychic vampires, Karens sustain themselves on the dark energy of human misery. So when the Palm Beach County commission proposed mandating face masks to prevent the spread of COVID-19 the Karens sprang into action. Florida is an epicenter of the outbreak and the Order means to keep it that way.

Prior to infiltrating the meeting, the Karens painted their nails in the viscera of their victims. Their aim was to perform inconspicuous blood magic. They pointed at the legislators with weaponized index fingers. Ever so slowly, members of the commission showed signs they we succumbing to hemomancy. The Mayor braced himself on his desk, while the Vice Mayor was visibly woozy.

The first Karen to speak peppered her speech with subliminal incantations, “Double double podium to rubble, may cancer rot this governing bubble. Frenzy of furious maggots, swarm your face your mask replaced.”

Another leaned into words of power like, “Aglon, Tetragram, Plandemic, Vaycheon, Stumlamathon” and “Citizen’s arrest.”

Others were less subtle stating that a six foot gap would never offer the same protection as a ring of salt crystals, that facemasks would do nothing against the horned God of the forest, and that 5G nullified their own psychokinetic frequencies.

As members of the Order dominated the session they shifted further from the subject of masks. They cursed Bill Gates for backing a satellite video startup that could potential catch them in flight. They decried Hillary Clinton for hiding her emails in their cauldrons. They speculated that mask legislation would benefit the reptilian pedophiles with whom the Order is in direct competition.

One Karen levitated over the podium and challenged members of the deep state to reveal themselves. “Pit your powers against my powers. Your will against my will. Your psionic energy against my psionic energy. We shall see who the synchronicity favors more.”

Members of the Order joined hands, swayed with an unnatural wind, and chanted at top of their lungs, “Raise the curve! Raise the curve! Raise the curve!”

The curse is spreading

The Karens went on to share their talking points on Facebook and Twitter. Now both platforms are losing market share as advertisers struggle to comprehend the tenants of this secret sororal society. All we know for sure is the people freaking out about wearing a mask at the grocery store are likely members of the Esoteric Order.

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Thousands of Trump rally attendees abducted by aliens

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Oklahoma has never been a hotbed of UFO activity, especially when compared to their neighbors in New Mexico. Oklahoma has had fewer flying saucers, cattle mutilations, and crop circles than most of the country. It ranks 29th in states with UFO sightings and most of those were at the Black Mesa State Park way up in panhandle.

According to the Mutual UFO Network, Oklahoma ranks low in the list of places with alien abductees. Few residents report unexplained scars, sleep paralysis, or lost time. When it comes to long term alien abductions Oklahoma has less missing persons per capita than 50% of the country.

And yet 415 miles from Black Mesa, in Tulsa Oklahoma, at least 13,000 people went missing for approximately 3 hours.

Oklahoma’s alien abduction numbers are skyrocketing

On June 20th President Trump held a rally at the Bank of Oklahoma Center, a venue that usually seats 19,199. The administration anticipated millions of supporters in downtown Tulsa, but according to fire marshal only 6,200 were in attendance.

This can only mean one thing: the largest mass abduction in American history.

The empty rows were another haunting reminder of how powerless the Space Force is at stopping alien abductions. Every unworn MAGA hat represented a person who was trapped in space and made to suffer prophetic visions of the earth’s destruction. Every unclaimed KEEP AMERICA GREAT sign represented someone who was being fitted with implants. Every blue seatback represented an anal probe the local government was helpless to prevent.

The Aliens have gotten better at cleaning up after themselves

Oddly enough, there were no missing persons reported in the area. No claims of anyone experiencing missing time and no UFO sightings in the entire state.

It’s clear the extraterrestrials have refined their methods since abducting Betty and Barney Hill in 1961. Based on what happened at the Trump rally, aliens have made huge strides in cloaking technology. They can now hide a ship the size of a football field in broad daylight. The aliens appear to have upgraded their amnesia rays as well. Not one of the missing 13,000 persons have come forward with recollections of their experiences.

Weirder still, not one Tulsa citizen went unaccounted for during the rally. The only logical conclusion is that aliens now possess time travel technology. Physicists theorize that such technology would leave behind tachyon particles, but since these particles are purely theoretical we lack the ability to measure them. Had we the means we’d surely find the Bank of Oklahoma Center carpeted with tachyons from the nosebleeds to the pit.

In the meantime the Trump administration urges Tulsa’s alien abductees to come forward and share their stories.

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Trump sues Bolton over book alleging he is two children in a baggy suit

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The Trump administration is scrambling to suppress former national security advisor John Bolton’s new tell-all book: The Nursery Where it Happened. A memoir Bolton’s publisher promises will be the “most comprehensive and substantive account of the Donald Trump persona.”

The book alleges that the 45th president of the United States is actually two children stacked on top of one another, a maneuver Bolton refers to as a “totem pole trench coat.”

When asked to address the accusation during the latest Rose Garden press conference the president said, “I know you are, but what am I?”

A CNN reporter assessed what was becoming painfully obvious. “You’re two children in a zoot suit with like an extra-long novelty tie.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“I don’t know sir, what are you?”

“I am your president of law and order.” Trump pressed his knuckles to his waist. “I think a federal judge should do something about that butthead Bolton.”

Bolton alleges the original duo who created the Trump persona put a William Shatner mask in the microwave for thirty seconds. They then painted it with self-tanner to make it look more lifelike. When it was dry they topped it off with a Marilyn Monroe wig trimmed and styled to resemble a Ken doll.

Bolton also alleges Trump’s baggy suits serves a utilitarian purpose for the children posing as him. “Trump’s posture is a sign he’s two boys playing at manhood. Look at how he leans forward. That’s to conceal the kneecaps that would otherwise be jutting out from his gut. Still the hands are a dead giveaway. No man that tall has hands that small.”

Bolton also draws his readers attention to the president’s behavior over the last few years. He asks, “Why else would a 74 year old man have difficulty pronouncing basic words off a teleprompter? Why else would a serious politician have nick names for everyone? Why else would he have trouble walking down a simple ramp? And why else would his fly keep unzipping on its own?”

Still, the logistics of two children posing as a senior citizen who’s spent most of his life in the spotlight don’t make much sense.

Bolton has an answer for that. “I have reason to believe a rotating cast of tweens have inhabited the role of Donald J. Trump since he first started made waves in the late 1970s.”

The book is filled with candid photographs from the early stages of Trump’s career. Bolton walked reporters through his evidence.

“The Trump persona was created by two boys from Queens. They wanted to sneak into a Porn Emporium back when Time Square still had them. When that worked they decided to keeping pushing the envelope to see what they could get away with. They went to the Playboy mansion, bankrupted businesses, bought casinos, and signed book deals. When the founders of the Trump persona went to high school they passed it onto two other young men. On and on it went. These kids got married, fathered children, cheated with porn stars, starred in reality TV shows, and ultimately bluffed their way into the presidency.”

Bolton’s rotating cast theory explains why Trump has been so politically inconstant throughout his life. In the 1990s he was a pro-choice Democrat who donated to the Clinton Foundation. Later he joined the Reform party only to leave when they embraced Klansman David Duke, but by 2016, when Trump was running for president, he had forgotten who David Duke even was.

Nevertheless, as national security advisor, Bolton signed an air tight non-disclosure agreement. He very well could be breaching national security by revealing this classified information to the public.

Bolton cast these concerns aside. “I don’t care if I signed my soul away. The American public has the right to know why their president tried to get the Ukraine to dig up dirt on his political rival. Why he didn’t take the COVID-19 pandemic seriously. Why he let a recession happen. Why he has no idea what to do about racial injustice, police reform, or national unrest. Americans deserve answers to all those question and then they ought to know why their president’s crotch keeps sneezing all the time.”

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Trump campaign demands CNN poll dimensions where he’s winning

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President Donald Trump’s campaign is demanding CNN retract a poll that showed Trump trailing presumptive Democratic nominee Joe Biden and then broaden their survey to include Americans from parallel dimensions.

The order came as a cease and desist letter riddled with quantum mechanics equations and metaphysical misconceptions. CNN’s legal team is still puzzling over exactly what the Trump campaign is proposing.

“They’re trying to move the goalposts outside the known universe.” said Matt Dornic, a CNN spokesman.

In the letter to the network, the Trump campaign argued the CNN poll skewed monoverse-centric and spat in the face of quantum psychics.

“Our position is simple.” Press Secretary Kayleigh McEnany said. “To quote Kanye West, ‘There are infinite and alternate universes.’ So to measure the president’s position accurately you need to count everyone across the multiverse.”

Matt Dornic scoffed at the press secretary’s reasoning. “We’re not having a quantum election. There’s no need to poll people from universe where Trump has acquired a sports almanac from the future, or the axis powers won World War 2, or Nixon served five terms. Those voters aren’t registered here.” Dornic threw up his hands. “And how the hell would we survey them if we wanted to?”

Kayleigh McEnany counted all the methods on her fingers. “You could use transwarp conduits. Apparition spells. Magic wardrobes. Desert doorways. The speed force. Warp whistles. Magic mirrors. Mage portals. Time tunnels. Primer boxes. Subtle knives. Slider timers. Spore drives. Portal guns. Sling rings. Farcasters. Hyperspace gates. Jump gates. Rift gates. Even Stargates. There are literally a ton of options.”

Matt Dornic rubbed his eyes as he watched footage of McEnany counting. “None of those things are real.”

“Maybe not here,” Kayleigh McEnany paused the footage of Matt Dornic’s response. “But in the Miles Morales multiverse, where there’s a samurai Spiderman, some of that stuff exists. Are you telling me people in Shi’ar Empire don’t deserve to have a voice here?”

Matt Dornic paused Kayleigh McEnany on his phone. He balled his hand into fist and set his flaring nostrils into his knuckles. “The Shi’ar Empire is autocratic. Their Majestrix wasn’t voted into power. Her brother was rendered comatose by the M’Kraan Crystal and she took over. Which is a moot point because D’Ken Neramani never even conquered Earth 616.”

“Neeerd!” Kayleigh McEnany cackled back.

Matt Dornic stomped around the rim of his office. “You’re the one telling us to toss the SSRS poll in favor of the many worlds theory. We don’t need to go looking for Schrodinger’s cat in the ballot box. It doesn’t matter how Donald’s doppelgänger Is doing against Bizarro Biden. Maybe Trump is kicking ass in mirror dimension where goatees and fascism are in fashion, but not in the one I’m standing in.”

“OK, Sheldon.” Kayleigh McEnany put her phone down on the desk. “We stand by our position. Any poll that doesn’t include infinite earths, the Twilight Zone, or Battleworld is phony and misleading.”

McEnany tugged the cord for a projection screen, revealing a network of yarn, pins, and newspaper clippings. “Imagine a reality where Trump didn’t hypothesize using cleaning products to treat COVID-19. Where he didn’t say, ‘We’re dominating the streets with compassion.’ Where he didn’t refuse to rename bases that had been named after confederate leaders. Where he didn’t schedule a campaign rally on Juneteenth at the site of the Tulsa race riot. Where he didn’t have attendees sign a waiver in case they contract the coronavirus. Where he didn’t eliminate non-discrimination health benefits for gay and transgender patients. Imagine how much better Trump might be polling over there.”

According to data aggregated by Nate Silver for FiveThirtyEight, Trump is polling well behind Bernie Sanders in the dimension where the Vermont Senator clinched the democratic nomination. What Silver finds interesting is how far back Trump lags behind Mitt Romney in a reality where Trump remained a Democrat, or how far back Trump lags behind Jesse Ventura in a reality where Trump stayed with the Reform Party, or how far back Trump lags behind Kanye West in a reality where West followed through on his plan to run for president in 2020.

Matt Dornic scrolled through FiveThirtyEight’s data, then turned to this reporter and asked, “How were they able to survey voters in other realities? What did they have? An interdimensional wrist watch? A copy of the Necronomicon? A recovered UFO? What?”

I shrugged. “Something to do with tachyon particles.” I really didn’t know.

Dornic took a deep breath, ran his fingers through the Zen garden on his desk, and exhaled. “CNN stands behind our poll. In this reality or any other.”

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Trump stages photo op holding the Necronomicon Ex-Mortis

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On June 1, the National Guard fired flash bang grenades, rubber bullets, and tear gas at peaceful protestors outside the White House. Then President Trump walked to the Neolithic rune on the edge of Lafayette Square known as the Shrine of Kandar. The president’s entourage crossed monolithic stones, burial mounds, and biomechanical architecture. Photographers corralled Trump and the first lady beneath the shadow of the crooked skeletal steeple for a photo op.

Wind howled through the macabre masonry. Stacks of sun-bleached femurs creaked like old rocking chairs. The brickwork of skulls spat dust through empty eye sockets.

Ivanka Trump set her $1,540 handbag on an altar made of human clavicles, slid her hand into an armored gauntlet, and exclaimed, “Klaatu Barada Nikto!” She withdrew a volume bound in flesh and penned in blood: the Ore Magnus Necronomicon Ex-Mortis, also known as the book of the dead.

Ivanka handed the tome of forbidden knowledge to her father. Trump held the book so the cameras could see the anguished face on its cover.

Written by the Dark Ones in an age proceeding man, the Necronomicon Ex-Mortis contains bizarre burial rites, funerary incantations, and demon resurrection passages. When spoken, its verses cut a gash through time and space. A seeping wound for Hell to bleed through. The book has been used by tyrants the world over to summon deadites; extra-dimensional soldiers whose sole purpose is to defile humanity.

A reporter dared ask Trump if that was his personal Necronomicon.

Trump said, “It’s a Necronomicon.”

Defense Secretary Mark Esper says he didn’t know about the assault on the protesters or the blasphemous outing. “I thought we were going to inspect a bathroom that had been damaged during the demonstrations. I had no clue we’d be trouncing across the courtyard of the damned. Do you think I was happy to hear a chorus of the lost souls cry out, ‘Join us,’ as we rounded the block?”

Former Vice President Joe Biden was vocally outraged. “The president held up that ancient Sumerian text, beside his mortified wife, like some sort of twisted play on American Gothic. I just wish he opened it once in a while instead of brandishing it. If he opened it, he could have learned how infinitesimal he was in the shadow of the Dark Ones, whose long black shrouds blanket everything.”

With their focus on herding protestors, White House officials had no plan for what the president might do once he arrived at the Shrine of Kandar. So Trump posed with the Necronomicon, placing the severed portrait over his own face, giving it bunny ears, and jabbing its eyes. By all accounts Trump disrespect both the text and the site itself.

Hierophant Zezron, head sorcerous of the Knights of Sumeria and keeper of the shrine, had some choice words for the president. “I can’t believe what my eyes have seen. Here’s a man who can’t even read Sumerian, who never listened to Professor Raymond Knowby’s translations, who’s shed no blood into the Kandarian Cauldron, wielding our sacred text like a nuclear button. He used violence to disperse demonstrators and then called for peace while propping up a chaos artifact he had no business touching.”

Hierophant Zezron says she’s already communed with the corpses that line the Shrine and they are equally upset to have their bones used as the backdrop for a photo op.

Mere hours after the event the White House had cut a victory video together. Set to a demonic chorus it showed the president saluting riot police, leaning on the standing stones, and thumping the Necronomicon.

The video abruptly cut before the face on the cover came to life and bit the president’s finger down to the bone.

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