technology

Don’t Drop the Democracy

Well, well, well, America. Aren’t we full of surprises. You little freckle-faced rascals!

You’ve done something good. You’ve made a start on redeeming yourself; made a little wobbly-oopsy baby-step towards taking America from a state of total insanity back to the regular, day-to-day state of verging-on-insanity that we all know and love.

Democrats control the House — unprecedented wins for women, women of color, Native, Muslim and LGBT candidates — you’ve been holding out on me, you sly puss! Sincere and heartfelt congratulations.

We won’t, not yet anyway, take on those topics of: Gerrymandering and voter suppression, Republican specialties, and it is a toss-up whether you’d classify these activities as art, for the exquisite finesse in the redrawing of boundaries; or sport, for the breathtaking speed of execution and their brazen exhibitionism.  Either way, any close-call vote is suspect, notably in Georgia, where I understand the person in charge of the election’s integrity is also a candidate.  Conflict of interest much?

The post-mortems are already underway, but as a Canadian I can just take the day off and spend it sighing with relief.  I can still remember — and, youngsters, let me take a second to hook my thumbs behind my suspenders — how my loins shuddered and my flanks trembled from my absolute shock a couple of years ago when, in the wee hours after the election, I heard a crowd of voices outside my apartment on Sherbourne Street, in Toronto — if you’re not familiar with the geography, just think “up there” — then somebody saying something like, “Holy fuck, TRUMP!”, then everyone bursting out laughing.

It was, indeed, holy fuck Trump, and were I to say that you’ve exceeded my expectations by reining him in a little, please note that this is sincere — but also a bit like those desperate compliments you give your friend who’s just made their acting début in the local amateur production of “The Mousetrap,” where they say the line “dinner is served” with the gawdawful stiffness of those who have thought too much about how to say “dinner is served,” then disappear for the rest of the evening.

And you are obliged to sit through the whole damn play because you have to go backstage afterwards and tell them, “Well, gosh, Darlene, I’ll be honest — I never knew you had it in ya!”

So, here’s the deal. You got your common sense back, sort of — though it involved waiting until Trump was literally on the verge of holding a fascist-style parade, I can imagine the armed Boy Scouts in formation and modestly-clad girls performing gymnastics, because healthy women are needed to breed the Amerikanisches volk — and you have partially put a little bit of a check on Republicans run amok —

But—and I have to go here, yes—you just couldn’t elect another ssssshhhhh! black! man! for Governor of Florida, could you? That was way too much to hope for. That’s still just too errrrrr crunchy and difficult to get your heads around. We understand, and don’t forget — baby steps! It’s important not to take on more menschly normal than you can handle at a go. Saving the Free World from Trump is just fine for today.

‘Cause we know how the last black guy worked out, right? I mean, can you just imagine those Klan members’ brains, with those racist neurons and synapses firing back and forth — slave!/POTUS! slave!/POTUS! error! error! error! — until the cognitive dissonance was just too much overheating of the circuits. The greatest cross-burning opp of a lifetime, and whitey’s got mind-frazzle!

And, right on cue, like an army of rejects from a Cronenberg casting call, comes The Awakening. In this riff on The Manchurian Candidate, an entire shadowy doppel-nation of slumbering fascists is stirred into action by the opening words of Obama’s inauguration ceremony. Their eyes take on a remote, permanently glazed appearance as they stock up on ammunition, check the tire pressure, maybe research the End of Days, because what else could this be?

(Your best friend has changed his name to “Biff,” buzzed his hair and joined The League of Pretty White Boys. Next thing you know he’s going skinny dipping in the bayou with his new buds, putting “Gurlz keep out!” signs on his treehouse and getting suspiciously interested in Physical Culture. You can no longer have a meaningful conversation because your values don’t align and besides, it’s really hard to talk when he’s playing “Ein Heldenleben” at full volume…

Democracy is not the default.  Goodness is not the default.  Fairness and empathy and love and justice are not the norm.

… And I know, like any marketer knows, that sequels are a shoo-in because they combine just enough novelty with a big helping of the familiar and predictable. In which case, I think it’ll knock ’em dead in Des Moines, how about you?)

All that ugly racism awakened, yet from Obama: class and grace and decency, eight years of taking the high road . Like, what was that crazy-ass American Dream fucktard-ery all about?

I mean, stop the merry-go-round of normal! I need to take my crazy pills and chase them with a big, hot, foaming, rabid Trumpstein of white supremo!

— so, you’ve made a tiny initial act of reparation for the sinking-in-synch of democracy worldwide that Trump has enabled. You’re like the door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman who throws dirt on the lady’s carpet so he can demonstrate how “nothing sucks like an Electrolux.”  Or you threw a banana peel in front of good government and it slipped and broke its ankle and now it’s finally off the crutches, and where does that leave us?  Right back where we started.

So don’t go all self-congratulatory and amber-waves-of-grain just yet. Keep going, and don’t lose this momentum. Take out your smartphone now and make some movies or even animated GIFs of all of you being happy and jumping around so you have a reference if you forget what momentum means.

Don’t lose momentum. Prove that you’ve learned the lesson:

Democracy is not the default.  Goodness is not the default.  Fairness and empathy and love and justice are not the norm. These things are precious and extraordinary and they have an exquisitely fine-tuned eco-system, an equilibrium that can be destroyed.

Prove that you know: the fight for democracy is never done.  There is no time off.

We will never let you forget that, somehow, you guys  were put in charge of democracy— god only knows why — and then someone yelled, “Chicken ‘n biscuits ‘n Red-Eye Gravy!!! AND FRAHS!!!” and you all just spun around and you lost your grip and you dropped it.

Jeezus Murphy.

Just don’t drop the democracy. OK? Wear rubber gloves if you need a little more traction.

40803-1t1-qff2ypb0es7yc5-0voq
Blue Wave Ish.

Also, get Young People to vote. If they ask what voting is, tell them it’s something easy that they can microwave and eat right out of the box and someone else will wash up after them.

In fact, tell them that voting is all about them and you’ll do it for them, if they’ll just come along. You’ll have their socks pulled on and their laces tied and their noses wiped and them ready to head to the polls faster than they can say, “That’s so, like. Totally woke!”

Also, make sure Bernie doesn’t run again. For anything. Maybe run for coffees, at least that’ll get him out of the house. But in that case, make sure he’s the only one running for coffee, take care that he knows that you know he’s in charge of the coffee, and if he drops the coffee, just pat his little nutty professor head and say there, there and tell him you didn’t really want coffee anyway.

I mean, you dropped the democracy, you’re no one to judge.

Because I would say, work on your universal health care. Work on this one concept, so you can shout those words in, say, a crowded theatre, without someone screaming back “Satanic Socialist Hillary Communism Obama!” and you’ll have taken an important first step. Leave the hygge and the full-frontal free-meatballs-for-all social democratic platform with lingonberry sauce until you’ve got a little more practice under your belt. K?

And please, it’s alright. No, honestly. Don’t apologize about your little mishap with the world’s peace, order and freedom.

Just don’t friggin’ let it happen again.

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Bell Canada Introduces New Mental Health Program for Canadians Who Choose Bell Canada

Bell Canada today announced the launch of “Talk To The Hold Button!”, a new mental

health initiative to support customers who have been driven insane by its price-gouging, entitled attitude, bored, outsourced employees and devious billing practices.

“We recognize that many people who were previously happy, calm and full of self-esteem are quickly reduced to haggard, listless complainers once they’ve had to deal with us,” said company spokesperson and part-time excess data counsellor Lloyd Spackle.

“And that’s even before they go to small claims court to contest the four-figure roaming charges!

“We want you to know that we totally expect your business and will promise anything that keeps you hopeful and coming back, if only to try and understand why a $50 Bell Mobility plan costs $328 plus tax.

“So go ahead and “Talk To The Hold Button!” Just because we’re not going to listen doesn’t mean you can’t get it off your chest!”

Increasing numbers of consumers are exhibiting what psychiatrists are slowly identifying as a whole spectrum of “Bell-ogenic” mental health concerns, such as “Bell’s Palsy”.

Intrigued, we visited BP sufferer Mildred Anderson at CAMH, where we attempted to interview her through the tiny, barred window of her padded cell. However, we were shocked when she responded inappropriately with what seemed to be random security credentials.

“Ten-digit phone number! M4X 1K3! ‘Anderson’ with an A! I already told you! Star hash-tag zero six hash-tag! ‘Gone With The Wind’! No, I don’t have the original packaging! Phone number! I was speaking with Karen! Postal code! Blue! Mother’s maiden name! I already told you! Oh God!” she screamed before collapsing on the floor.

“She was on hold for forty-eight minutes,” explained Head Nurse Susan Blanchard, spraying aerosol Valium into the cell.

“Then the twelve people she spoke to over the next hour asked her for the exact same information, put her on hold again, then passed her on to another one. Luckily, one of the more senior employees stopped laughing for a second, heard Ms Anderson hyperventilating, then left a handwritten note on the lunchroom bulletin board saying someone on the morning shift should probably call 9-1-1 if they had a moment, but only if Ms Anderson could fax them four pieces of photo ID.”

As our investigation ramped up, we became aware of the existence of a shadowy network of “Bellaholic’s Anonymous” support groups, where grieving customers who’ve simply given up on limited “unlimited” data plans and returned to landline phones can try to obtain “closure”.

We managed to infiltrate a meeting of one of these highly secretive groups, held in a mid-town Toronto church basement, by posing as former iPhone X owners.

“We admitted we were powerless and that Bell Canada had become unmanageable,” the group intoned.

“This meeting is now open for sharing,” said the group leader for the evening, Harry M. “Yes, Steve!”

“I’m angry!” said a young man with red, puffy eyes.  “I’ve been awake for three days drinking coffee and trying to understand how a loving Creator could make beautiful, perfect babies, then allow Bell Canada to exist! It just doesn’t seem to make sense!”

“Hi, I’m Betty and I’m a former Bell user,” said the next person to share. “Eighteen months this Wednesday by the grace of God! I spent ten dollars a month for five years to rent a twenty-dollar modem, then they charged me fifty dollars and barred me for life because I didn’t wrap it up and Purolater it back to them with a nice thank-you card!”

Betty’s lips were trembling. “Am I a bad person?”

“I spent thousands of my tax dollars so Bell could do research, then they charge me hundred and fifty a month for TV!” said an elderly woman who self-identified as “Sally Y”. Sally’s arms were covered with crude tattoos and her hair was pulled back into the taut ponytail known as the “Ontario Works facelift”.

“They sent me to Penetanguishene for six months, eh, cause I hacked into American Netflix with an Android box. Jesus Christ, all I did was watch a couplea ‘Golden Girls’ re-runs!”

“Hi, I’m, like, Tiffany, and I’m three days Bell clean!” said a girl of around sixteen, to encouraging smiles and murmurs from the group. “But then I signed up with Virgin, is that, ummm, like, a relapse?”

Following up with Lloyd Spackle by phone, we asked whether Bell wasn’t being a little heavy-handed and even a teensy bit criminal, considering it was sustained for decades with public money but now seems determined to restrict, mislead, even terrorize its customers.

“You don’t seem to be in our system,” he explained.

“Can I have your ten-digit phone number followed by the pound key?”

“Talk To The Hold Button!”™

fake bell

New Levels of Needy: In which I force you to read my new “page”—

— but, let’s be honest, you’d never read it otherwise.

Would you, my collective Virginia?

There’s nothing worse for an artist stroke writer stroke lazy buttwad than labouring like ten toked-up Tolstoys over something vaguely humorous, in order to distract himself from that Mrs. Danvers voice in his head urging “Jump, little unnamed protagonist, jump! It would be so easy!”, then realizing that his feckless followers will take one look and say,

“Oh, he’s updated his Privacy Policy! Could someone shoot me in the head while I’m sleeping?”

—or something equally supportive.

What’s wrong with you guys?  Am I not paying you enough?

wix-about

Poot, snicker, Mrs. Danvers, totally.

Today started with me posting on Facebook about how I was going to go great guns on my marketing (a.k.a. forcing you to buy stuff from me that you don’t want, I did a course).

But then a page called Weird History caught my infinitely distractible eye, and a post “revealing” that cowboys in the old days of the Wild West used to rely on the culinary, and, ahem, other, favors of their fellow cowdudes when there were no gun-totin’ mamas around to, as it were, cook their breakfast.

Well, run me down with an army tank!

Cue the snarky, unnecessary comments from a couple of str8-tards (“is this trying to prove this is normal, not insane”) and naturally something about “extreme liberals”—because there’s a Venn diagram overlap between the “str8-tard” and the “conserva-tard” wedges, and those slack-jawed Dorito-munchers will cram the Ugly Sisters cookie-foot of their bigotry into any old cowboy boot they can find, glass slipper be damned.

Also spotted in the thread were the usual tired insults aimed at those who apparently qualify for the labels “femo”, “Nazi” (in its str8-tard sense of “someone who I dislike on principle”), “Lesbo” and “Bumfucker”, with “transgenders” thrown in as a free gift, as if to make it absolutely clear that these guys have been clicking the maybe later option on their own firmware updates since around Grade 9.

So there’s an hour gone already as I address each objection point by point with my gobsmacking, conversation-stopping rebuttal.  That would have been fine until—

—my computer turns itself off without warning, with a moist, mucus-membrane-y sound halfway between “snicker” and “poot”. Do computers even have mucus?

Reboot. Poot-snicker. Reboot again. Mrs. Danvers. Now the desktop icons are “large” rather than “medium”, they’re on the other screen, including one for a program I don’t recognize, and the desktop background has changed.

WhatEVERRRR! Marketing, marketing!

But first, Gmail!  I’m chuffed as all get-out to find I’ve received a response from my City Councillor to an email I sent decrying the high cost of Internet and cell phone service, and under their complimentary close that all but explicitly states, “Thanks for the laugh, go fuck yourself”, is an invitation to check out whether I would need to register as a lobbyist.

Would I like to check this out?  I totally think I would!

Now comes a merry ninety minutes as I ponder the minutiae of Toronto’s Lobbying By-law and legal definitions of conflict of interest, real or apparently real, including a wonderfully sleazy tale of the late Rob Ford and his brother, Doug, being wined, dined and tennis-matched by the president of the company that owns their family business.

This was the Mayor, you understand.   Marketing, marketing!

But first, flog my shit!  Two P.M. by that point. Galloping madly off in all directions, it’s to “letgo” I go to sell my air conditioner to help pay the rent.  But every time I complete a description so painstakingly enticing it would have you eating the eco-friendly coolant of my 8,000 BTU portable unit for your tea-time walnut cake—my arthritic old-guy fingers missing only every other letter and frantically jabbing at the wrong spell check suggestions as I type, because some vegan millennial developer has mandated, as a passive-aggressive attack on actual adults, that this all must be done entirely on my phone—the whole description disappears and is rendered as “gray portable air conditioner description suggested by app translation by Google” while I tear out my nose, ear and armpit hair with frustration, until—

—the computer turns itself off without warning. Mrs. Danvers Poot-Snicker. Reboot. But first—! Do I want my hamburger medium or well-done? Is it time to make some mayonnaise from scratch? Oh, yes. Totally.

Which brings me to you, and a gentle nudge with my toe. Pssst. Come to, my little sycophants or I’ll have to nibble on your earlobes. Herewith some insight into the behind-the-scenes mechanism that keeps this blog—afloat? Well. They say that some people always see a life-raft half empty.

But I see one half-full.


Below is the content of my new permanent

page, and here’s the link to it: Care and feeding of, a.k.a. legal stuff etc., but you can still ignore both of these then just send me a fake compliment.  

Can you believe the amount of validation I need? Seriously. But I can’t find my internal locus of control. Or the remote for the TV.  


There are certain conventions

I follow on this site, and I flatter myself that you might like to know about them.  Play along—you have no idea how needy I can get.

General:

  • I’d put you on salary to wake up every morning and click my “Like” buttons if I could afford to.
  • I use a lot of special characters, especially the “M-dash” (—),  curly quotes (“ ”) and my favorite, the right guillemet (») which I use to set off a link, now that it’s no longer those heady “I just coded my first web page by hand in only two and half months and filled it with animated GIFs of PAC-MAN” days, when the geeks waged war on the creatives and mandated that all links for ever and all time would be underlined in bright blue when unvisited, but dime-store-lipstick red when active. So I’m scared you might not notice them.
  • I also spend a lot of time memorizing the Unicode key combinations for these special characters, which I realize is about as impressive as the check-out millennial at Loblaws knowing the product code for broccoli.

Links to external sites:

  • All external links open in a new window.  Always. So get over your “pop-ups thing”. This is no longer those heady etc. etc. (see “I use a lot of special characters”, above).
  • I’m not necessarily endorsing the content of any external site.  Go there at your own risk.  But I usually approve of the content I’ve linked to, because why would I publicize it otherwise?  You know something, I just thought of that.

Copyright:

  • If it’s not already obvious, all writing on this site is my original work and is ©David Roddis, 2014-2017, except short quotes and excerpts where noted.
  • My writing is covered by a Creative Commons “Pass off this work as your own and say goodbye to answering your front door after 5 P.M.” license.
  • I even took a lot of the photographs, but not all of them. The ones I didn’t take myself I stole from the Internet. Honestly. Do I look like I have access to Melania Trump? I try to keep my weight down, but I’m still too big and unimportant to hide in a fake Egyptian urn and just jump up with a Nikon and a speedlight and snap her before she’s had a chance to Photoshop her face.
  • If I’ve stolen your image and you’re not suitably grateful for the extra notice it’s getting you, but instead are feeling all resentful and antsy about it, send me an email and I’ll apologize to you and take it down. I really will. But trust me when I tell you that I’ll roll my eyes and sigh when I do it, which anyway you won’t see.

Privacy and use of personal information:

  • Really? You spend your days off in a negligée doing “exotic dancing” on Chaturbate and you’re worried I might find out your address?  Never fear. Bro’s gotta stick together, Yo!
  • You probably have to give an email address when you comment so I know you’re not a bot. As if I care! Which reminds me, I’m still trying to fool Margaret Atwood into lending me her celebrated remote-signature machine, which I will then use to sign her name to abusive comments about Alice Munro before posting them to the Times Literary Supplement.  Let “The Divine Feud, Canadian style” begin!
  • If you purchase any of my heart-stoppingly beautiful merch, the whole shebang will be handled either by PayPal or Shopify, both of whom use the latest 4K-Ultimocryptothon technology to make sure your pre-paid gift card from Shopper’s Drug Mart is safe.
  • I never have access at any time to the personal information you provide during the purchase process.
  • Note to George Clooney:  You gave up your right to privacy when you stole my heart, baby—

—now answer the fucking phone.

Wednesday WaWa: An offering from AuntyMeme(TM), and can I just say…

aintitgrand

… you know, it boggles my substance-addled,

Swiss-cheese-resembling remaining chunk of gummy, wet brain to realize that we can simulate a moon-landing so convincingly, give all mankind the illusion that the Earth is round, create a fake fossil record out of a secret underground facility in Oregon AND uncover through painstaking minutes of reading the National Enquirer that it was “The Jews” who trashed the Twin Towers—

—(they’re behind everything, you see, and I tell ya, a guy does gasp at the chutzpah with which they managed to pull it off, PLUS have enough spare time left over to co-ordinate six million of their Jeezus-shtupping brethren to fake all those Holocaust death camps—genug schon already, guys!—

—and can I just say, if any of you reading this should, god forbid, bang your goyisher kuhp on a Daniel Goldstein or a Manny Lipschitz or some similar gozlin as they aim for the CN Tower while strapped into a small aircraft, can you get His Mensch-iness to verify that “The Jews” own all the media, then ask him to please please please get me American Netflix?  Thanks, I mean, “shalom” )—

—but apparently we just can’t figure out how to engineer a content management system so that I can get the special character for “trademark” to appear in the title of a BLOG POST!!!

Fuck the Twin Tower slammers, alter cockers every one.  For this WordPress incompetence, I blame “The Muslims”.

Yessiree, those li’l freckle-faced rascals!

It must be The Terrorist Towel-Headed Islamo-Tards who have infiltrated and now surely form the greater part of the WordPress Special Blog-Title Standing Committee on No-Superscripts-For-You-ooh.

Totally!

As a bonus, choosing a new, fresh-off-the-life-raft scapegoat now and then adds a little diversification, not to mention “sparkle”, to a guy’s portfolio of blatant, self-serving racism.  It’s win-win, but with both “wins” for me, and if that ain’t the Chicago School of Economics, what is?

So, In’sha’Allah, babywhich means “if God is willing”, and all I can say to that is:

Yep, HE sure is willing when you think of Beethoven; but
Nope, HE sure is super-retarded not willing when you think of cancer.

Let’s just agree HE’s more willing than the average Allah, except, in fact, most of the time, and not push our luck.

You know, and just for the record—I don’t blame “The Muslims” because it’s true.  I blame “The Muslims” because it’s trendy.

OK, taking a deep breath now and shaking all my feathers so that they fluff and whirr and rustle into place as I blink myopically at something totally different on either side of my head.

~

You may be wondering.

Well, it’s countdown to eviction here at my basement in the sky,  and I know it’s affecting me because Will, the tall, broad-shouldered, horse-dicked, fuck-yer-brains-out-gorgeous yet regrettably psychotic homeless person to whom I offered a couple of free meals (successfully) plus my ass (unsuccessfully) the other day, barged in, locked himself in my bathroom so he could scream at an invisible enemy in private, then came out of the bathroom and said,

Did you dye your hair?  It looks lighter.

Which non sequitur, admittedly a bit “L’Oréal” for someone who lives in a drain pipe, made me realize that I’d gone grey, like the protagonist in “Descent Into The Maelstrom” by Edgar Allan Poe.  And I can barely stop myself from quipping, “That was no maelstrom, that was my life!”.

(It’s also sobering to think that a guy who’s so crazy he thinks he’s god and I’m a shape-shifting demon still isn’t koo-koo enough to take advantage of me, even bribed with a blue-plate special and a free subway token.  Coming soon to a psychiatric ward near you: Me, dressed like Napoleon and doused with Glade Room Freshener as I attempt to speed-date.)

What do you do when you’ve got 48 hours to dredge up another $200 towards January’s rent, yes, that January, the one that’s over, and—because one has learned the hard way that dealing with two catastrophically, crazy-making-ly impossible financial demands at once doesn’t win you points for “multi-tasking”—you haven’t even started thinking about how you’ll manage February’s?

Since you asked:

You invoke your inner AuntieMeme™, you fire up Phototard and you create an inspirational artwork with just enough bitterness to keep it Adult Entertainment;

You take the tattered net of desperation down to the Sea of Disaster and dredge for oysters; but you keep the shells for yourself and pitch the pearls of wisdom at your sneering audience;

You turn on the headlights so you can aim straight off the cliff with no swerving.

Then— you make Kraft Dinner. With hot dogs, hold the broccoli.

 

picture-of-me-32

Five-minute study reveals: Allowing rich people to launder money, avoid taxes by hiding assets in offshore accounts, while vacuuming up entitlements like they were all-dressed crinkle-cut potato chips, actually ISN’T a great thing after all.

joseph-stiglitz

Willy Arschfecken*, unemployed bricklayer, shares the results of his five-minute study of offshore accounts at the World Economic Summit, Brussels.  Yes, like the sprouts.

Nobel prize winners stunned by presentation; “Who knew?” says Chairman of World  Economic Summit, Brussels.  (Yes, like the sprouts.)

BRUSSELS¹: Unemployed bricklayer Wilhelm “Willy” Arschfecken stunned the World Economic Summit today with the results of his five-minute study of the offshore accounts that the top 1% use to hide their trillions of dollars, in order to avoid paying taxes and other unfair stuff.

To the amazement of everyone, he has turned conventional thinking u pside down and concluded that offshore accounts are not the excellent thing we all thought they were.

“After looking at how much dosh is in these accounts, and then looking at those UNICEF pictures of starving African babies, I thought, you know — maybe rich people should just, like, pay their friggin’ taxes like everyone else,” said Willy, as he unwrapped the waxed paper from a tuna-salad sandwich he’d made earlier in the day.

“Like, here’s my, whaddayacallit, analysis: You got a country with lots of rich people. Say, two or three. The progressives are always getting up in the House or parliament or whatever, complaining that social services are missing, say, a trillion dollars to make them work.

“Then some conservative yells “Socialism” and everyone laughs and goes for a drink. Right?

“Then I thought, wait a minute — what if the rich people actually were hiding, like, a trillion dollars in back taxes? If they paid up, that would solve the problem!

“Am I being, you know, like — simplistic?”

It was apparent from the thoughtful nodding, beard-stroking and shoe-gazing of the attendees that Willy had struck an extremely resonant chord.

 

Tuna : Mayo + crunch factor = economic insight?

“Then I was kinda tired after all those, you know, five minutes of economic analysis, so I made myself a nice tuna-salad sandwich — I’m a big Hellman’s fan, and I always add some “crunch factor”, like, you know, celery, and lots of pepper — and I watched Days of Our Lives. You ever seen that? It’s wicked good!” opined Mr Arschfecken, to the sound of tumultuous applause.

“Anyone want the rest of this sandwich? There’s half a dill pickle, even,” he concluded, before shaking hands with the Chair, waving farewell to the still-cheering audience and being escorted briskly out of the conference chambers.

Then some conservative yelled “Socialism” and everyone laughed and went for a drink.

The World Economic Summit will be awarding Mr Arschfecken a couple of scratch-and-win cards.

“Such a pity, we’re fresh out of Nobel’s,” explained a spokesperson. “But we’d like him to have these.”

Bernie Sanders is very, very old.


¹ Brussels: Yes, like the sprouts. I know,

(Photo Bing-searched and repurposed by:  David DelaRoddis, author of  New York Times Bestseller, “Photography is Friggn’ Hard Unless Of Course You’re Me LOL”).

*Suit supplied by Mr Arschfecken’s ‘friend’, Georg “Lili” Schwanzlange.  Don’t miss Lili in “Ich BIN Lili Marlene, Piss-Königin des Anschluss!” at the KitKat Klub, Hamburg, every Thurs at 11PM. Free disposable raincoat and bottle of Sekt !