Help Me, Jimmy Carter, My Only Hope

The julep is strong with this one

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Help Me, Jimmy Carter, My Only Hope

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Mayor Pete walked into the cavernous room. It smelled of southern charm and antebellum gentility.

"President Carter?" He whispered.

A chill crawled down his spine.

"Come closer, my boy," Jimmy Carter hissed from the corner of the room. "Closer."

"You have run well, but I have summoned you here, to Carterica, to tell you to end your campaign."

"But... Mr President."

"SILENCE!"

Jimmy Carter held up his hand, palm out. Pete's nostrils were suddenly overwhelmed with calming southern odors. He tasted a phantom mint julep. 

"It is not your time," Carter continued. "I am connected to the divine pathways of the infinite universe, a neverending cascade of feelings and flavors. Don't you ever wonder how I have lived so long? I AM FOREVER." 

Immediately, Pete knew. He was surrounded by the absolute certainty of Jimmy Carter, who he could now see as a celestial being extending from the beginning all the way to the end of all known time. And beyond.

"I understand," said Pete. "This is how it has to be." 

"Well done, my boy, well done," said President Carter, who had been building a house for the poor during the entire conversation. The universe was back on it's Path. The Eternal Carter, necromancer of the Age, had once again secured the future. 

—30—

A Tale Of Twitter And Ice

Game Of Pop Thrones

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A Tale Of Twitter And Ice

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Taylor Swift sat barefoot on her throne. The castle was quiet now, the shrieks of torture long silenced. She held the skull in her hand and contemplated the long journey that had taken her to this point. Outside, her army waited, their bellies growling for more conquest. 

The man stumbled through the streets, death and carnage very visible on every corner. Nobody had bothered to move the bodies. They just rotted away in the streets. Miley of the Cyrus had called it a “Nashville Party” and Swift had given her that. And more. 

The legends were in fact true. The Beyhive was designed in the shape of a bee hive, but scaled up hundreds of thousands of times. It dominated the skyline, gleaming gold towers reflecting sunlight that everyone could see. And in the bowels was The Queen, slaying. 

Like all the other soldiers in the Kanyecorps, the young man wore a suit of armor emblazoned with the smiling image of his messiah. He had long since abandoned independent thought. He was part of a collective, a gathering, pursuing a holy crusade to cleanse the lands of infidels. 

Miley punched the man who led her army and his nose exploded in a crimson shower. He did not say a word. This was his penance and he accepted it. He had no choice. She turned away and gave her attention to the map.

"Now, give me a plan that can win," she snarled. 

Rihanna lazily waved away the band before they could welcome her to the throne room. They looked to Beyonce and she quickly nodded and gave her assent for their exit. It was a violation of protocol to skip the traditional 17-hour greeting but time was of the essence. 

The cleric walked in and immediately fell to his knees. Taylor smiled because this never got old. She had conquered one land after another, and every act of subjugation was as thrilling as the first time, years ago. Nonetheless, his parish would burn, as would half the villages. 

"Sing it again," Kim Kardashian ordered. The bard's fingers were bloody, his voice reduced to a whisper from hours and hours of singing on end. The great hall was packed with people standing before their queen. Many had fallen to the ground from exhaustion. "Again," she said. 

The Captain's instincts told him this would not work, but his nose still throbbed and he could taste his own blood in his mouth. Miley did not want to hear naysaying. Revenge flowed freely through her blood and the defeat gnawed at her soul. "We attack here," he said. 

Kanye threw the holy book across the hall and it landed on the cobblestone floor with a thud that echoed along the cavernous walls.

"You didn't capture my words, my genius, my essence!" he screamed. This was the 2,972nd attempt. They would try again. Try to capture Kanyeism. 

—30—

Little Donald Writes A Letter

Crayon is a medium

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Little Donald Writes A Letter

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"Mulvaney, come in here. I want to write a letter to Pelosi," Trump said, his tiny index finger struggling against the intercom button. As he released, he left one of his usual orange-red smudges on the device that the custodial staff had spent months figuring out how to remove.

"On my way sir," Mick Mulvaney replied, his face immediately exploding into a thick sheen of flop sweat that instantly drenched his MAGA polo shirt with the miniature Trump hair pin affixed to the chest pocket.

He downed a full bottle of Maalox and his innards gurgled.

Swinging the door to the Oval Office open, the musk of sweat and something vaguely resembling urine crawled up Mulvaney's nostrils. He had tried to get used to it and often marveled at how easily Ivanka flowed in and out of the dank environment without retching.

Trump was intently staring at his television screen, watching his DVR'd edition of Fox and Friends and reveling in one of the few things in the entire world that brought joy into his heart. He barely noticed his aide and professional whipping boy enter and didn't acknowledge him.

Trump grunted and Mulvaney could hear the flem wash up against the backside of his boss' teeth. Without hesitation, Trump started his ranting. Mulvaney desperately tried to get the run-on sentences down, wishing he had taken a dictation class at some point.

Mulvaney didn't even bother to try and make sense of Trump's yammering. He had given up on that long ago and often told new aides to just go along with it no matter what. They had a team in place to comb through the nonsense, hoping that Trump was too addled to notice deletions.

As he wailed, Trump smashed his fist against the Resolute desk and winced in pain as the solid material slammed against his hands. Mulvaney took note of the action and made a note to tell the custodians the orange effluence would need to be scrubbed before the next morning.

Trump yelled "space force," "witch hunt," "hoax," and other terms he had picked up on TV and at his rallies, expelling his noxious breath in Mulvaney's direction without concern for the man's well-being. Spicer hadn't been able to withstand the onslaught.

Trump wheezed, signifying he was running out of steam. Mulvaney winced, quickly scanning the disjointed statement he had written down, terrified that the pen would soon run out of ink.

Trump wheezed again and fell to the floor, spent, resting on top of a rug in his own image.

Mulvaney pulled the gaudishly gold-colored blanket Kellyanne Conway packed next to the desk for occasions such as these and pulled it over Trump, tucking the cloth under Trump's skin and shuddering as the little orange puddles formed on his fingertips.

It was over. For now.

— 30 —

Mitt Romney Gets Flipped

A deal with the Illinois devil

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Mitt Romney Gets Flipped

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Headline: “Conservative group tags Romney as anti-Trump, pro-impeachment in ad”

Willard "Mitt" Romney sat up perfectly straight in the chair, thanks to all the hours he had practiced posture during his time as a missionary in France.

Barack Obama leaned in, the musk of his socialist aftershave thrusting into Romney's nostrils.

"You’re one of us now, Mitt."

"For heaven's sake, No," Romney whispered, thinking of how he was betraying all those hours in temple, the days spent carrying the Elder's knapsack, the caffeine-free nights during the early years of his marriage. All for naught.

"Yes," Obama replied, his forked tongue showing. 

The former governor of Massachusetts and 7-time Best Boy at Bain Capital was trapped. He'd signed the document offered by Obama, ensuring a landslide election in Utah secured by the Deep State. But now, to pay off his debt, he was a mole. 

Romney had tasted the sweet nectar of political power and had spent the last few years jonesing for another taste. He felt confident about winning Utah, but Obama had offered him a sure thing.

"You'll spy for me, see," Obama said, puffing on a Jazz cigarette like a hep cat. 

Romney nodded submissively, his perfectly coiffed hair refusing to move a single inch. "Father would not approve," Romney thought, again feeling any chance of living up his legendary forebear slip away. It was election night 2012 all over again. 

"I don't trust him, Barack," said Michelle, nervously shifting her edition of Mao's Little Red Book from hand to hand. "He's one of the God believers, and they always want to ruin our Lord Satan's business."

"I know," Obama replied. "But he's a junkie. A power junkie." 

A tear rolled down Romney's face, sliding down to his perfect chin and evaporating into nothingness.

It was true. All of it.

Obama had him. Again. His stomach churned and flip flopped. He thought happy thoughts.

The car elevator. 

"We've got a lot of plans for you, double agent Romney," Michelle Obama said with an evil grin. "Binders full of them."

Romney sighed.

"Please proceed," he finally croaked. "Please. Proceed." 

—30—

Rudy Asks Forgiveness

The mafia boss was orange.

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Rudy Asks Forgiveness

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Rudy Giuliani walked into the darkened Oval Office, wringing his hands. A liver spot fell from his paper-thin skin and on to the lush presidential carpet.

From the shadows Trump emerged, hair first.

"What's this I hear about a ticket to Vienna, Rudy?" 

Giuliani fell to his knees before Trump, the pain in his knees reminiscent of a few escapades he'd had in old Times Square.

"I'm sorry, Mr President, it was a -- mistake. I meant to buy you some port, but instead I called the airport."

Trump grunted, skeptical. 

"I give you everything, Rudy," Trump wheezed. "The spot next to me in the sauna. Sean Hannity's private line. The webcam to watch Eric in his enclosure. Everything. And this is how you repay me?"

"Im sorry sir," Giuliani said, tears streaming from his eyes and into his mouth. 

Trump shook his head "no," but as usual, his hair did not budge an inch.

"Unacceptable."

He pressed a button on his desk, right next to the one that replayed Fox & Friends on the DVR, and a trap door opened up. 

Giuliani fell through the air, tumbling in the darkness, until he landed on something big, wet, and foul smelling. He looked up and was surprised to see Sean Spicer.

"So, you made it down here, finally?" asked the reality dance competitor. "Get a shovel." 

—30—

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