WOMANIFESTO

 

Congratulations.

You have woken the witch that lives deep inside me.

You have removed the slumber chains from the giant of old.

You have handed me a box of matches and no chaperone

And a world made of lies and polyester.

Congratulations.

 

You have barked up the wrong bitch.

 

Proclaim it:

I have shucked off the good, southern lady’s cloak,

Of the homecoming court, the cheerleader,

The preacher’s daughter, hands gentled in her lap.

They tied it at my neck with a bow, a Gordian girl-knot,

When I was young and bossy and sure-footed

“For protection,” they said.

Whose protection? I wondered.

Enough.

I have sent that shit out to the dry cleaners

I will not pick it up

They can sell it for a profit from a rack on the street.

From now on,

I’m exposing the raw pink edges of my true skin to the sun.

Some things can’t be prettied up.

 

I used to be embarrassed by this side of me:

Messy. Expansive. Unraveled by rage.

The barroom brawler holding out a broken bottle

With a shaking hand

Blood jumping to a punk-rock soundtrack in my soul

Eyes so alive they had to be narrowed to keep the light of all that truth

From burning up the room.

These mornings when I wake,

I feel as if I have eaten a breakfast of gunpowder and a handful of stars

The combination roiling, anticipatory, explosive

My mouth ready to spew out a universe of fire and

An ancestral memory of the silenced women who came before,

Rotting in their shrouds, long dead under the ground

Still angry.

 

No one seems to understand:

That rage has to go somewhere.

Some girls cut. Some girls starve.

Some fuck strangers, tell themselves it’s freedom, not numbness.

Some guzzle gin when no one’s looking.

Some girls swallow their rage down and vomit it back up with the

penetration of a reprimanding finger, stifling the voice,

an Inside Job

The internalized, reflexive police force

Body violating body,

Forever and ever

Amen.

 

I have done all of those things:

Starved. Cut. Boozed. Fucked and run.

I’ve punished myself the way

the world wants to see its women

punished.

Spoiler alert: It’s exhausting.

No.

You exhaust us.

No.

You. Are. Exhausting.

You. And your bullshit.

You, the Senators and Churches.

You, the old men holding the law hostage to your whims.

Blind Justice?

Nah. That bitch sees fine.

Puts the blindfold on herself now.

Stockholm Syndrome, you know.

Happens after a while.

Shrug. Step. Repeat.

Jazz hands.

 

They told me not to raise my voice.

So I learned to swallow all my sharp words.

They told me not to be disagreeable.

So I learned lipstick and smiling, a catechism of femininity.

They told me I was shame.

So I learned to feel shame.

They told me not to curse.

 

Yeah. Good luck with that, motherfuckers.

 

Oh, beautiful for spacious goddamned skies

For “fuck off” and “bite my ass”

Thundering across the parched grasslands of my tongue

Like middle-finger mustangs who won’t be tamed.

Cursing was the first language of my anger.

The poison apple spit out, not choked in.

A weaponized mouth and a sharp wit

To establish a DMZ—“You shall not pass.”

That foul mouth has saved me from myself.

Try to take it from me, motherfucker.

I double-goddamn-dog-dare you.

 

Oh, my anger needs room to roam.

I will spread my legs on the subway seat

Let it take up space.

I will turn up my coat collar and skulk the streets,

Hands fisted in pockets, knuckles turned towards the world, ready.

Oh, it’s on.

I will call up to my sisters at their windows,

“Yo! Leave the dishes in the sink,

and the pantyhose to drip from the towel bar.

Leave your shame on the floor

So they’ll see it first when they come inside,

Expecting you

but finding you

Gone

nothing but a slipped skin, a

warning

To remind them that they were right to fear you

All along.”

Then, soft as a lover:

“Come out into the streets, all you messy ones.

All you angry, hurting, had-enough ones.

It’s time.

Come on out. Come out.”

 

I have awakened to reclaim that girl.

The one refusing the cloak at her throat.

I am an angry woman with a voice

And a foul mouth

And a pen as cutting

as the jagged teeth of a bottle

that has been broken too hard against the bar

and is now a weapon

in a barroom brawl.

 

Your move.

Come at me, motherfuckers.

 

 

 

 

 

An Announcement from Muffy Higginbottom

AN ANNOUNCEMENT FROM MUFFY HIGGINBOTTOM
PRESIDENT OF DELTA SIGMA TAU,
ON THE OCCASION OF THE WOMEN’S MARCH
AND THE WORLD JUST GENERALLY BEING A FLAMING POOP FIRE

Dear Sisters,

Thank you for coming downstairs for this meeting on such short notice. I appreciate y’all taking time away from the things you’ve been doing to cope, like staying drunk, listening to “Lemonade” on repeat, and Instagramming pics of your soon-to-be-outlawed IUDs with moody filters and hashtags like #YouAintGettinNoHandmaidsTailFromMeAnymore. 

I get it. I do. Like every time I pass by the Election Day Cake Ji-won and Margarita made with the top breaking through an edible glass ceiling and that sagging banner of a winking HRC drinking a celebratory Colt 45 under a “Number 45 BITCHES!” banner, I feel like crying, then vomiting out a poisonous fire blood that would lay waste to the smirking patriarchy like a feminist Cronenberg film. But, as they say, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is for marching in the streets like a crew of motherfucking bosses.” I think that’s how that phrase goes. I don’t shop Hallmark all that much, tbh.

Okay, first, let me drop a dollar in the Delta Sigma Tau swear jar for the MF I just spewed. Just so you know, I’m gonna be real hardcore about the swear jar in the coming months. Let’s face it—these are XL sweary times, sisters. Even my MeeMaw, who is so Baptist she calls Dancing with the Stars “Dancing with All the People Earning a Fast Pass to Hell,” dropped a real swear scorcher on Inauguration Day. She’s mostly recovered now, although she’s not welcome at my cousin’s next baptism. The point is: If you let slip with a mouthful of swears that could strip the paint from the walls, woman up and put your dollars in the jar. We’re gonna need that money to pay for our Norwegian pap smears.

But this is not a wake, sisters! This is a call to action! it’s time to buck up and hit back like the true Delta Sigma Tau resistance fighters we are, y’all! I am so proud of the work many of our sisters are already doing.

Like Aisha. Where’s Aisha? Y’all, Aisha is on Birth Control Resistance Work. She figured out how to get into Speaker Ryan’s P90X fan club bank account and transfer allll that money to Planned Parenthood. We call it our Affordable Care Hack. Our back room is currently stacked to the ceiling with boxes of contraception paid for by the Speaker of the House. We’re gonna go Pussy Wilding(TM), handing out birth control pills like Pez. There’s some postcards of armed uteruses in Che Guevara berets—thanks Lindsay and Oksana!—which y’all can send to Speaker Ryan en masse to thank him personally. Remember: We are Deltas, and we have manners. Thank you notes are très importante.

So many snaps to our STEM girls, LaKeisha, Vivian, Charlie, and XY-XX for our brand-new panty line which we the Shock-and-AWEsome. First of all, LOVE the polka dots and lace combo. So. On. Fleek. But these super-Modcloth-worthy panties are actually imbued with a patented, Anti-Pussy-Grabbing grabbing technology: It’s part panty, part Taser. If some Overcomb-pensating, Putin acolytes with the moral suck of an open spaceship airlock feel emboldened enough to grab a handful of your lady parts, they’ll receive 50,000 volts that’ll make it hard for them to choke the monkey or, I don’t know, sign offensive legislation for quite some time. I understand that the smaller your hands, the more it hurts. It’s almost Valentine’s Day, ladies. These make darling gifts. Stock up now. I have a feeling we’ll need them.

And speaking of Valentine’s Day—how about some additional snaps for our filmmaking team, Esther, Haruka, Jennifer and Jennifer! Ever since GODDESS Ava Duvernay decided she was So. Over. This. Patriarchal. Racist. Bullshit. we’ve been nurturing a team of Delta Sigma Tau filmmakers to storm the walls of the Hollywood Boys Club. I’m pleased to announce that they’ve just finished their first movie, just in time for Valentine’s Day, called “Well, Actually….” It’s a rom-com in the style of “Love, Actually” that follows the lives of several women, told via simultaneously unfolding, intersecting and intersectional plot lines in which…oh, none of that matters. Because each plot line is interrupted by a character called Annoying Dude in Your Timeline who pops up to tell the ladies what each of their stories is ACTUALLY about. Every time he does, we take a drink. Y’all, we are gonna be soooo drunk! Par-taaayy!

Anyway, SPOILER ALERT: At the end, all the ladies come together and wrap the Annoying Dude in a roll of #NotAllMen duct tape and leave him in the desert while he complains that he’s actually the victim of reverse sexism, and the ladies respond, “Well, ACTUALLY…” to a laugh track stolen from a Chuck Lorre sitcom as they drive away in a vintage Cadillac that they absolutely, positively do NOT drive off a cliff. Fin. So stoked for our first screening! And those 12 bottles of vodka.

There’s also some amaaazeballs work from our Delta Sigma Tau WOC committee—Achutebe, Nahla, Preeti, and Tiffani—who have compiled an anthology of resistance essays: “Yeah, We’ve Been Doing This Shit a Long Time Where the Fuck Have You Been?” Yes, Hazel, I know there’s another dollar for the swear jar. Somebody’s getting a pap smear in Lillehammer tonight! Anyway, all proceeds from the anthology will go toward writing workshops to empower the next generation. And if you subscribe to the Delta Sigma Tau WOC podcast, “Pissed Off, Live and In Color,” today, you’ll get a free baseball cap: Make America Stop Being Such an Asshole.

Moving on: Our theater arts team is staging a 24-hour reading of Lysistrata on the Capitol steps. There are sign-up sheets in the back. Ladies, let’s do this now before our NEA funding gets slashed like a couple of fornicating teenagers in an 80s horror movie.

If you have any musical talent and you’d like to join a Delta Sigma Tau Women’s March band, please see Sakura, Ashley, and Ashleigh at the back. I think the band name they’re going for is Alt-Fact Pussy? And they’ve written their first song, “Your Con Ways.” It goes: “Kellyanne, Kellyanne, spin that shit from the Capitol Klan, kiss the ass of the Orange Man, WTF’s your damage, Kellyanne, Kellyanne?” A note from Sakura: Need a cowbell. And a chainsaw.

Okay. That’s a whole lotta dollars in the swear jar.
True fact: OB-GYNs in Norway warm the stirrups first. It’s practically heaven.

As you can see, we’ve set up a merch table with an array of homemade t-shirts, and every cent goes to funding candidates who will fight back against the erosion of our rights:
Dear Dear Congress: I Am Not Fallopian with You.
My Rights Trump Your Wrongs
There’s an Us in Uterus, Motherfuckers.
Snatch My Rights & I’ll Snatch Your Seat (Women for Congress 2018)
This Beaver Bites.
Poon-Tang Clan.
And, of course, the ever-popular, My Lady Business Is None of Yours.

(Dollar. In. The. Swear. Jar. Done.)

Okay. On a heartrending note, Maria, Alison, and Yumei have started a Go Fund Me page to see if we can get some necessary spinal implants for the House and Senate Democrats. Senator Gillibrand has graciously offered to be a spinal donor. We hope to raise enough money by 2018.

In conclusion, Delta Sigma Tau sisters, I know it’s tough going. I know we’re all in shock and dodging flaming poop balls daily. I know we’re trying to come to grips with the idea that an Oompa-Loompa-hued, sentient DSM-V manual who seems to be following the script of a “Saw” movie while signing literal death into legislation with a swipe of the pen clutched in his freakish baby hands has been unleashed on the country, and, as usual, it’s gonna be up to a bunch of pissed-off women to keep democracy safe so we can go on making 73 cents to every man’s dollar while fighting for the rights to own our own fucking bodies while having to listen to a host of Congressional douche nozzles “Well, actually…”-ing at us 24/7, and yes, Sally, I know that’s another dollar. (By tomorrow, I could probably fund a tour group to Norway’s finest gynecology clinics, like a Napa tour but without waking up wondering why you’re wearing a Wine Not? T-shirt that’s not yours.)

But this is not the end. This is the beginning. They can’t stop all of us. I swear to Angela Davis they can’t. Remember our motto: Clear eyes, full hearts, Tasers on stun, can’t lose.

I fucking love y’all. For reals.

(*puts all the dollars in the jar*)

Xoxo
Your President and Sister,
Muffy ❤

BEING THE SONG

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why I write.

For months now, I’ve been wrestling with the demons of Diviners 3 which, yes, still lacks a proper title. It’s a plot-heavy book. There are, after all, eight main characters plus a host of secondary characters whom I do not regard as secondary in the least but as vital components of the whole vast circus. There are several mystery threads which must be teased out in satisfying fashion. There are backstories and flashbacks. And there are many elements yet to be written which I do not fully understand, which I may never understand. More on that in a moment.

It’s a lot of…choreography. It makes my brain hurt. At times, it makes me feel dumb as a bag of socks. But also, it often feels mechanical. Like performing sex via a VCR programming manual: “I am now to say that I love you and find you desirable. Ah, good. Could you stand a little to the left while I do so? Thank you very much.”

When I get fidgety and want to throw my computer in the river is not when I’m having trouble with a plot point. It’s when I no longer feel that I’m reaching into the abyss and pulling up something that feels both utterly unexplainable yet necessary to tell, that lives on the knife’s edge of the deeply personal within and the hopefully universal without. How do we write about alienation, isolation, love, a moment of William Blake-ish ephemeral joy, the unreliability of memory, identity, sexuality, gender, our fear of and attraction to death and destruction, rage, loss, envy, our deep desire for connection, our recognition that we are, each of us, alone? How to create work that courts the transgressive or, at the very least, asks us to risk exposing our own vulnerability? Work that requires that deep, hard look into the well of the soul?

Right now, as I type this, my brain is saying, “You should be working on your book. It’s due. You have eight hours and seven minutes left in your writing day. Stop this nonsense and report, soldier.” My soul? My soul says, “Fuck off. I’m busy here.”

Fuck off, I’m busy here is, I’d argue, a necessary part of the writing process.

There comes a moment in every book, when you can’t see what you’re writing anymore. You are utterly lost inside your mess of a world. None of it makes sense or hangs together. It feels awful then. Like you are dumber than anyone suspects. That you have no right to be doing it at all. You a fraud, an imposter. I like to think that, at those awful times, your book is smarter than you are in your misery, and it leaves you clues that, later, you will see anew and go, Oh, shit. Riiiight. Because the book comes from your unconscious, from your depths. Despite our writerly manipulations, the true story comes out.

Which brings us back to this: Not all of what I write makes sense to me. It never will. And that’s fine. In fact, that’s kind of the point. If I could explain it readily in a Power Point, there’d be no reason to write a story.

It’s hard work, these acts of creation, of willing nothing into being. It takes time—time to think, to reflect, to ask questions. It also takes time to allow for the unexplainable and ambiguous to get past our defenses and happen. Whenever someone asks me to tell them about something I’ve written, I often want to answer, “I can’t. Not really.” The truth is, I don’t always know where it comes from, and if I try to explain it, it falls apart.

The reader is a better judge of the novel because she/he/they are experiencing it, interacting with it. The alchemy takes place in a space of communication that we writers cannot see or describe—it is a moment of theater shared between writer and reader but taking place offstage. It is beyond our control.

We live now in a time of content providers. Of rapid, nearly feral consumption of any medium. This creates a demand for more and faster entertainment. This is not a judgment or condemnation of where things are, simply acknowledgment. Personally, I love both drive-thru burgers and movie explosions on occasion. I just hope that there will continue to be space for work that makes us uncomfortable. That challenges. Demands. Pushes boundaries or defies expectations. Work that mystifies and does not necessarily explain itself but that makes us feel different on the other side of it. Work that, perhaps, leaves us with more questions than answers: A John Coltrane Love Supreme. A Velvet Underground album. A Langston Hughes poem. A Nina Simone song. A Patti Smith spoken-word free association. Kanye West’s “Blood on the Leaves.” A George Saunders book. A Nova Ren Suma anything.

I hope that I can get past my own limitations enough to go where they lead. I am not completely divorced from market pressures. I can’t write a book a year. I’m not fast enough. Sometimes, that makes me feel like shit. Other times, I call upon my inner philosopher, who is a Texas-Brooklyn-potty mouth philosopher who squints at me in supreme irritation from the couch and says, “Yeah, fuck that,” before swigging Dr. Pepper and belching. But that girl doesn’t always show up. I ask myself, Is this story still YA? I don’t know. Is it frustrating, weird, non-linear? Maybe, possibly, probably. Is it, in its draft infancy, stilted and not nearly true enough yet? Yes, times one hundred. Will it take me somewhere new? God, I sure hope so.

It’s easy to let my vanity or ego get in the way of the work. Like everyone, I struggle with “writer’s cocaine”—that need for validation. It’s tempting to want to protect myself and go for what could garner likes rather than open everything up for examination. For the blood-letting. Sometimes, when I can’t figure it out, I come here to this blog to wrestle with it all. Often, when I can’t get through the words, I turn to singing. The act of opening my mouth and letting sound and vibration move through my body via a song is a way of connecting not to an idea but to an in-the-moment feeling. That is being both within and without. You cannot ask yourself, mid-song, “Is this going to pay off in Book 4?” You just sing. You are the fucking song.

I want to be the fucking song.

I am in my fifty-second year as a human on this fascinating planet. I have less time to waste. I feel it deeply. I want to do good work. I want to be more honest with myself and with you. To risk messiness and transparency. I don’t have a brand. Unless that brand is Swedish Fish, which I’m a big fan of as far as brands go. Odds are good that I will never have a brand because when I’m not writing or singing, there’s a shit-ton of laundry to do and some goddamned lovely friends to see. Some of them even make music.

I’ll just keep hacking away at the story, trying to find it, or, if I’m lucky, allowing it to come and find me: The alchemical moment; mystery, happening. The shift from doing to being, the two blurred into a single, straight line.

I hope, I hope.

 

 

 

GHOSTS

img_1211

Walking through the Marigny at 6:45 a.m.

Morning clouds are a thick gray cap

on the skull of the day.

Streets, empty.

Gutter puddles hold tight to Sunday night’s revels:

plastic cup shards, scattered like teeth knocked from an angry mouth

a strand of abandoned beads,

pale blue constellation calling from a dirty sidewalk sky,

Don’t forget me

Passing Frenchmen’s Street, the last stretched note of a

Dixieland trumpet lingers,

swallowed up

by the metal whine of an unseen garbage truck.

Ghosts.

Everything is an explosion of color here.

Bright-aqua doors. Maroon wind chimes.

Mustard-yellow trim slapped along the drooping slats of falling shutters.

The defiance of a pink house, Who Dat?

Old brick beauty, a courtesan in decline,

her fading bricks striated by a history of floods.

A record.

A witnessing.

A voice.

Nothing is erased.

There is the you now carrying within

the you that has walked these streets before

Young and broken

Drunk and sober

Alone and not

Lost and searching

A St. Jude prayer card, random

gift of a strung-out Bourbon Street stranger

tucked into a pocket, pressing against

the raw, grasping hope of your fingers.

The town a forgiving mother, cradling you to its bosom.

Ghosts. Ghosts.

At the intersection of Royal and Elysian Fields,

where Stanley cried for Stella,

close your eyes for just a moment.

Hear the faint rumble of a long-gone street car

carrying Memory as its passenger.

You wait for the green signal, a safe crossing.

Up ahead, there’s a break in the early morning rain clouds,

a thin pink mouth slowly opening up

in a fat shout of light.

The sun coming through.

As it will.

As it does.

RNC Final Day with Rachel Maddow and Brian Williams reporting

Brian Williams: Good evening and welcome to MSNBC’s continuing coverage of the Republican National Convention live from the Quicken Loans Arena here in Cleveland, Ohio. I’m Brian Williams.

Rachel Maddow: And I’m Rachel Maddow. Brian, tonight, we’ve been hearing from lots of people who know Trump, and they’ve been sharing stories that show a personal side of Trump they say many on the outside don’t get to see.

BW: Indeed, Rachel, last night on this stage, there was soap actress Kimberlin Brown’s amusing story about a dinner party at Mar-A-Lago during which Trump had everyone play charades—

RM: –Forced. I believe she said forced them to play charades—

BW: Yes. And Trump proved he was no quitter, playing well into the wee hours until he won all the trophies. Apparently, even guest Vladimir Putin threw in the towel saying, “Just give it to him, already! I want to go to bed.” Paul Manafort, as Trump’s campaign manager, what do you say about that?

Paul Manafort: Well, I think the story humanized him. Just like the skin suit he wears. The one made out of women.

BW: Because…the women are human?

PM: Well, not anymore, Brian. Technically, they’re now a suit.

RM: Let’s…move on. Mr. Manafort, the campaign has come under fire for issues of plagiarism and permissions. In addition to the controversy surrounding Melania’s appropriation of Michelle Obama’s Democratic Convention speech, there has been the repeated use of music from bands who have refused permission.

PM: Well, Rachel, when bands say no, they really mean yes.

RM: *blinks*

PM: Those songs should not have put themselves out there on the radio, dressed like that. It’s just common sense. They were asking for it.

BW: What about Melania Trump’s speech? She lifted an entire paragraph from the First Lady’s speech from 2008.

PM: Frankly, Brian, Michelle Obama should thank Melania Trump.

BW: Uh…how so?

PM: Melania made the speech a “crossover hit” with white Republican audiences who just are not familiar with concepts like African-American female lawyers with degrees from Princeton and Harvard Law who can also throw down at Carpool Karaoke with Missy Elliot. Melania made Michelle Obama famous, to use another Melania quote.

RM: Pretty sure that’s Kanye West. And no, she didn’t.

PM: Yes, she did.

RM: Literally did not.

PM: Rachel, we’d like to invoke the My Little Pony defense.

RM: There’s no such thing.

PM: There is now. We just said it. No take backs.

BW: I think we can all agree that it speaks volumes about this election and what it says is, “Start readying your Canadian visas.” You know, Rachel, one of the things Americans have to ask themselves, after they’ve poured their morning vodka and had a good long cry into a godless universe that has long since forgotten about their pain, is what will a Trump presidency look like. Can you walk us through that, Paul?

PM: It’s going to be the first Reality TV presidency. It’s going to be terrific. We’ve already got Gene Simmons and Kris Jenner on board to star in the first season. And Wayne Newton will open the casino.

BW: The casino?

PM: Yes, Brian, the White House is a casino now.

RM: Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but the next speaker is taking the stage. This is…Immortan Joe. He is listed as “Lord of the Citadel and Commander of the War Boys.” He is a veteran of both the Oil and Water Wars, so he’s got experience with what we’re going to look like in another ten years after the collapse when we are all foraging in drainage ditches for GMO-infected food scraps and drinking our own urine to survive. According to Beltway Insiders, Trump has promised to make him Chancellor of the new Handmaid’s Tale division. It says Immortan Joe combines the “feel-good” factor of Cormac McCarthy combined with the swingy insouciance of 1970s-era J.G. Ballard.

BW: I understand the person who used “insouciance” has been shot.

RM: That’s confirmed. That word has been flagged by Trump’s Ministry of Elitism as “foreign, possibly socialist” and so has been taken out of all the dictionaries. Most words have, Brian.

BW: Yes, Rachel, but we still get “incredible” “terrible” “loser” “so great” “Yuuge” and “Shake-n-Bake-faced Muppet-wig.” I can tell you, attacking dictionaries is not going to sit well with intellectual freedom-fighting librarians, Rachel.

RM: The libraries are on fire, Brian. They were the first to go.

BW: *clears throat* Right. Now, we have the national anthem as sung by Governor Scott Walker of Wisconsin. Says he’s been singing a long time, since grade school, where he was taught music by his beloved third grade teacher, Mrs. Gillivray. According to Governor Walker, “Mrs. Gillivray was the first person to encourage me and make me feel like I could achieve my dreams. She was the best.” Well, I sure hope she’s watching tonight, Rachel.

RM: Brian, she can’t. Mrs. Gillivray has been living in a box under an overpass since Gov. Walker KO’d the teacher’s union.

BW: Well. That’s a shame. *pause* Governor Walker certainly has a lovely baritone. *pause* I don’t remember the words “Death to our enemies” in Francis Scott Key’s original. Are those words a new addition, Rachel?

RM: Yes, Brian. It joins, “TrumpAmerica™, the Beautiful, Okay?” and “It’s a Grand Old Flag Which I Will Defend with My Open-Carry AK-47, Pew-Pew-Pew.”

BW: Rachel, let’s take a moment to talk to this fellow over here. This is a fun thing—Republicans for Pokemon Go! What’s your name, sir?”

Kevin: Uh, Kevin. Wait, are you wearing a wire?

BW: We’re with MSNBC. You are catching Pokemon here on the convention floor, sir?

K: Yes. And then deporting them.

RM: I…I’m sorry?

K: It’s called Pokemon Go! Pokemon Must Go. Gotta catch ‘em all. Gotta send ‘em back. We’re orchestrating a Pikachexit.

RM: Why are you deporting Pokemon exactly?

K: They’re undocumented! Bulbasaur. Alakazam. Gengar. Charizard. Those are not American names. There’s no screening process for these Pokemon.

RM: Actually, there is, sir. They only exist on a screen. Because they’re virtual. They’re not real. They’re…Pokemon.

K: That’s what they want you to believe. Report them! We’re on to you, Pikachu! You won’t put me to sleep, Jigglypuff!

RM: Brian, I want to direct your attention to that area in the upper left behind us. It appears they’ve put Ted Cruz in a dunking booth and they’re using baseballs with Antonin Scalia’s face on them to drop the Senator from Texas into a pit where he’s forced to wrestle alligators before climbing his way back up.

BW: That’s gotta hurt, Rachel. And that water must be cold by now.

RM: There’s no water, Brian. It’s just an open pit that reaches all the way to the depths of Mordor. We do expect the Balrog to give his endorsement sometime this evening. Brian, let’s go back to the stage. Chris Christie has just given his speech. Many at home watching may have seen him blink out “Please free me. They’ve got my family” in Morse code. And now you see Trump’s VP pick, Mike Pence, from Indiana, waving to the crowd. Paul Manafort, what should people know about Mike Pence that they don’t know already?

PM: Well, he’s a plainspoken man with a sunny disposition, what people call “Indiana Nice.” Whenever people talk about Mike Pence, they always preface their remarks with “Well, he’s a nice guy.” Like, “Well, he’s a nice guy…who also wants to deport all Muslims.” “He’s a nice guy who also just happens to hate gay people and support legislation making it okay to discriminate against them.” “He’s a nice guy who wants to force women to have funerals for their miscarriages.”

RM: Brian, do you still have that bottle of vodka in your briefcase?

BW: I do, Rachel. You should know I added a morphine kicker to it.

RM: Delicious. Pour Mama a big tumbler of that, will ya?

BW: I would, but my arms no longer work. I’ve had half the bottle.

RM: Understood.

BW: Uh-oh. Looks like there’s some kind of commotion breaking out on the convention floor. Let’s go to our correspondent, Katy Tur. Katy, can you tell us what’s happening down there?

Katy Tur: Yes, Brian and Rachel—the delegates from, ah, from, shit! From Texas, led by Immortan Joe and his War Boys—Hey! Don’t touch me!—are, um, are roasting and eating protestors right here. It’s…it’s absolute carnage, you guys. The fire is…out of control…and the smell of burning flesh, oh god, I’m…I’m gonna vomit…

BW: Well, Immortan Joe said he’d get straight to work, and he appears to be a man of his word, Rachel. We’ll get back to you for an update later, Katy—

KT: No! You can’t leave me down here with them, you fuckers! Get me out! Wait! Wait—No! I’m not with the media! I’m…I’m with ESPN! ESPN! Sprechen ze ESPN? Sports? You like sports?

RM: Katy? Katy?

BW: She’s used a zip line to escape. She’s resourceful. But it looks like we’ve got some technical difficulties? The video screen has gone completely dark.

RM: It’s committed suicide, Brian. It left a note. The speeches will now be accompanied by a continuous Chuck Norris loop on a giant Viewmaster.

BW: Loved his work in Total Gym Fit. The man knows his way around an infomercial.

RM: Brian, the moment everyone has been waiting for is here. Donald Trump has arrived via a golden litter carried on the shoulders of Marco Rubio and John Kasich. There’s a giant egg-shaped chrysalis balanced atop the litter from which, one assumes, Mr. Trump will emerge.

BW: He is accompanied by Rudy Giuliani’s Rage Against the Machine dancers who wowed the crowds on Monday night with their dance routine to The Clash’s “Rock the Casbah” complete with video of a ghostly Joe Strummer sobbing. The former Mayor of New York City out in front there, acting as dance captain, surprisingly nimble for a man of seventy-two. Have to say, the red-white-and-blue sequined unitard is a surprise.

RM: As are the full splits. That’s a…daring choice.

BW: Rachel, it seems he’s stuck? I can see the stage crew readying the Medivac.

RM: Meanwhile, Brian, Donald Trump has emerged from his fog-filled chrysalis. It seems he is now an enormous orange slime monster-praying mantis hybrid.

BW: That would explain the egg sac.

RM: Indeed. You can see the pincer claws at the ends of his long, molting, and, frankly, quite disturbing arms.

BW: Rachel, we’re getting word that we should now refer to Donald Trump as Overlord Trump of Planet Earth.

RM: Oh my goodness: Overlord Trump has just eaten the head of Rudy Giuliani. It’s playing very well with the crowd, though. They are chanting, “USA! USA! USA!”

BW: The road crew are just attaching the voice box Overlord Trump will need to speak to us tonight in human tones. Their work done, the road crew has now become food. According to MSNBC entomologists, Overlord Trump will need to feed fairly often to sustain the energy needed for a tough campaign.

RM: This crowd is on their feet. The base is fired up. This is what they’ve waited for—a unifying speech from an alien life form bent on complete annihilation. You see there Overlord Trump thanking the crowd using his pincer claws.

BW: Or possibly threatening them with those pincer claws. It’s hard to tell.

They’re really tiny.

RNC Day #2: An Address from Ben Carson

Good evening, Cleveland.

I’m…

*Looks to teleprompter*

Ben Carson.

Folks, I am concerned for the future of this great nation under God if Hillary Clinton is crowned President in November. I want to tell you about Hillary’s unholy agenda as put forth in her college thesis.

A thesis is a paper you write in college if you are an elitist. I Googled it. My Google is made of string and aluminum foil connected to an old Impala battery with googly eyes on top. It scorches my tongue when I connect it with jumper cables the way Steve King told me to, but I trust him. He is from Iowa, where the Pharoah’s granaries live.

Anyway, according to my battery-operated Google, Hillary’s thesis advisor, Better Call Saul, dedicated his book “To Lucifer…the first radical.” Is this who we want leading our God-Fearing nation? A President with LadyParts who cavorts with the Devil?

I am here tonight to tell you what will happen if Hillary Clinton scores a President Goal at the World Cup of America in November.

Number One: If Hillary Clinton is President, we will all have to eat Devil’s food cake. We have certain inalienable rights, to Twinkies and Little Debbie oatmeal pies and those Hunt’s snack pack puddings with the pull-top rings. Sometimes Mike Pence opens mine for me but only if I promise to “sing that one Michael Jackson song I like.”

Would Lucifer open my pudding snack packs? No. He wouldn’t.
You know why? Because he’s the Devil, and the Devil is mean.
Besides, his fingernails are really long and gnarly which means he probably can’t open a pull-ring top, either.
I’ll bet Lucifer gets manicures, which is a homosexual thing to do.
I don’t open pull-tops because I’m a surgeon with Gifted Hands.

I want to tell you more about what Hillary and her Vice-President, Mr. Homosexual Manicure Lucifer, will do.

For one, there’s the Devil’s Food cake issue, which I just told you about and which you can find out more about on www.luciferiscomingforamericassnacks.com, which is a website I have personally funded with my own money from the sale of my book, Where Is Cuba, Again?

Okay. Number Two: Hillary and Lucifer will empty all the grain from the Pharoah’s granaries out in Iowa and Egypt, which is part of America if you believe the Bible, like I do. This is how they fund Head Start and other communist school programs: Soylent Green is people. And free breakfast is made from Pharaoh grain stolen from the Heartland. Don’t be fooled.

Number Five: Secular Progressives. I personally have a pair of progressives and they help with my reading at night, but it is a fact that if you wear Secular Progressives, you cannot read the Bible and you will start reading about science and climate change and watching John Oliver. My progressives allow you to see into the core of the 6,000-year-old earth where the Devil’s minions manufacture ISIS fighters like in that documentary, “The Lord of the Rings,” which is okay to watch because it has Lord in the title.

This is what happened to the Unicorns, by the way. ISIS got them.

Mike told me if Donald Trump is elected, I can be Minister of Unicorns.

I will feed them pudding snacks.

Number Ten: Hillary and Lucifer will come for your guns. You know why? Because if you have guns, you can demand a change to the menu. If you say, “I don’t want Devil’s Food Cake! Bring me one of those Sara Lee butter pound cakes that are so good! And put some dang Cool Whip like on top like they do at Denny’s and as guaranteed in the Bill of Rights where one of our Founding Fathers, John McAdams, who is not Rachel’s cousin, by the way—I Googled that, too, which is why my tongue’s a little swollen today; sometimes Steve forgets to take off the cables—John McAdams said, “Give me Cool Whip or give me death!” Our Founding Fathers were awesome. I wish I could make a time machine with my Gifted Hands and go back to the 1600’s and give them all pudding snacks.

And if Lucifer marched into Congress and tried to shoot us with his pitchfork devil guns, I wouldn’t just take it. I’d yell, “Hey, everybody! Let’s attack him! He can’t get us all!” Then, as America’s Minister of Unicorns, I’d charge Lucifer, and I know Steve and Mike and The Donald would be right behind me, because we are friends, and they are going to invite me to their country clubs for golf any day now.

Don’t let America go to the Devil.
Guard your guns and your Twinkies.
Thank you and may God bless you all.

*Whispers* Where do I go now?

Wait, are we in Cleveland still?

Can I have my pudding snack now, Mike?

We still friends?

I made you a lanyard bracelet. With my Gifted Hands.

I really need some pudding, Mike.

Mike?

Mike?

Mike?

RNC Tuesday morning all-staff meeting, led by Bob, who is the greatest Bob of all the Bobs

Good morning, RNC staffers! Rise and shine. It’s me, Bob, your RNC point person for today, which is Tuesday in case you’ve forgotten–haha! Day Two, and the excitement’s just begun!

So last night was fantastic, right? Yuuuge success! Incredible, really. Honestly, what can I say that hasn’t already been said better and by Michelle Obama eight years ago? We are going to America so good today it’ll make people go, “Whoa! I am so full of America I feel PREGNANT with America!”

Okay. I know we’re all excited, but first, a couple of housekeeping matters before we get to tonight’s run-of-show. Tyler—you’ll be manning the Make America Grill Again table for the Trump Steaks Club sign-up. Remind folks that they can get an extra rump roast if they manage to vote more than once in November. Monica: You forgot to turn off Tom Cotton’s battery pack last night and he’s pretty much frozen. I know. No, I know it’s hard to tell whether he’s on or off; you have to use the finger-snap-blink-response test. Just load him on the golf cart and wheel him over to Cheney’s lab, please? Thanks. Steve: Ben Carson’s in the fountain again. Yes, we have all explained it’s not a magic portal to UnicornLand. Just…get him out. Skip: I’m gonna need you to make a Party Barn run for more dry ice. After last night’s The Donald: The Rising, everybody wants to enter with smoke and green ice. At least I put the kibosh on Paul Ryan flying in on a Freedom Harness.

Pamphleteers? Where are you? Oh, over there. Great. Okay. Fresh from Kinko’s, here are your one-sheet packets. Lay them out nice and neat so people can grab them on the way in. We’ve got, “Trump Science: It’s Time to Make Earth Flat Again.” “Facts, Schmacts: The Left’s Dishonest Campaign to Confuse You with Information.” “Climate Change Condo Buy-In: Trump Beachfront Property in Ohio for only 10% Down! Buy Now Before the Rush!”  “Devil’s in the Details: Alex Jones Proves that Satan Designs Hil-LAIR-y’s Pantsuits Made from Radical Islamic Terrorist Fabric Line Manufactured at Bohemian Grove Sleepaway Camp!” Great stuff. Just great.

Also, we’ve got some projects to keep the little ones busy in our RNC Kids’ Korner, if somebody can set that up. Let’s see, there’s “Muhammad Ali, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Shaquille O’Neal: A Christian Sports Stars Coloring Book!” A picture book, The Art of the Deal, Jr.  A card game: “One Fish, Two Fish, White Fish, White Fish, White Fish, White Fish.” And, of course, some Benghazi Bingo cards.

Now. Where are my motivation teams? Wave to me, please? Fantastic! Lets see those smiles! Bigger. Biiiggerr! Great! Spread those smiles around today! Get close to folks! Hug ‘em! Then whisper, “You are not safe. You are never, ever, ever safe.”

Okay. It’s Day 2, and I don’t need to tell you we’ve got a full slot today.

In the Quicken Loans Arena Registration Center, there’s an open mic from 3-4:00 PM. I see from the sign-up sheet that Chris Christie is bringing his one-man performance piece, Letters to Bruce: Boss, Why You Don’t Take My Calls No More? The MINUTE the Governor starts crying and singing, “You’re the One,” you’ve got to cut the mic. We need him game-face ready for tonight. If he gives you any lip, you just tell him Rick Perry is already in hair and makeup and ready to take over.

In the Quicken Loans Arena Cosplay Room, Basement B-112, our costumes should be pressed and good to go. Men’s costumes include Thomas Jefferson, John Wayne, Ronald Reagan, Wayne LaPierre, Magnum P.I., Tom Brady, Toby Keith, the cast of “Duck Dynasty,” Robert E. Lee, Buff Jesus Christ, and Bruce Willis. Women’s costumes are Betsy Ross and last month’s Playboy Playmate.

At 4:30 SHARP, it’s Early Bird Special time. Do NOT open the pudding station late. You will regret it. There’s a meet-and-greet with Emperor Palpatine in the buffet line and Iron Throne photo ops at 5:00. Pre-show starts promptly at 6:00 with The Rudy Giuliani Rage Against the Machine Dancers, Swimsuit competition, Crowning of Miss Trump Towers, and the modified airplane version of “On Golden Pond.” Skip: Hit the air siren for wake-up call at 7:55 but not at full blast; we’ve got a lot of people with pacemakers. At 8:00, it’s time for our speakers! Right now, we’ve got Dana White, Mitch McConnell, Tiffany Trump, Donald Trump, Jr., the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Hologram Charlton Heston, the Ghost of Nero, Vlad the Impaler, & a sentient AK-47 that fires digitized sperm bullets at a mock-up map of Planned Parenthood clinics shaped like uteruses which then morph into smiling, pregnant, Christian white women all decked out in Trump BabyHands(TM) Maternity Wear.

Martin, your job is to make sure Scott Baio does not also try to impregnate the map. I’m very serious. He’s quick. You have to watch him like a toddler.

When Tim Tebow comes out and goes down on one knee, that’s the signal to release the balloons. No, for real—release them. We told them they were coming to Cleveland for a child’s birthday party. No balloons would volunteer, people, and decisions had to be made. They’re in a back room of the Quicken Loans Arena high on helium, disoriented, and frightened. No, not the speakers, the balloons. Try to keep up, people. WE ARE PEAK AMERICANING TODAY!

There’s a perception spread by the Lame-stream media that the RNC is out-of-step with the younger generation, which is ridiculous, just ridiculous! Whoever started that is a loser, okay?  A clown! Donald Trump is the most in touch with the younger generation, so in touch that most people just can’t understand it. It’s like he’s Indiana Jones knowing not to look at the Ark because God–who is on record as voting for Trump in November according to some very good friends of mine, high-ranking, top-dollar friends–God would turn those dopes into puddles of candle jelly. By the way, Hollywood wanted Donald Trump to play Indiana Jones but he was too busy. You can tell from Harrison Ford’s body language in those movies that something weird is going on and that he knows he was second choice, which must be killing him, okay? Loser. What important roles has Harrison Ford ever played, okay? Total. Failure. Still. We’ll prove how wrong the media is about Trump and the young people, so Skip, put up lots of pictures on Swiffer and The Facebooks, and, uh, what’s that Polaroid thingy? Right, Instant Grahams. Like the cereal? Martha and I eat cereal every night before bed. Love cereal. What? Insta…wha? Instagram? Stupid name. Kids these days are stupid. They’re losers and clowns. Whatever. Just do it, Skip. Thanks.

A reminder: We have got to be out of the Quicken Loans Arena by midnight. If we’re having any trouble clearing the floor, that’s your go-signal to bring out Mike Flynn. He can clear a room quick.

REMEMBER: WE ARE THE WINNERS! AMERICA WANTS TO FEEL OUR MUSCLES! AMERICA IS WINKING AT US! MAYBE AMERICA HAS A HOT SISTER WHO IS ALSO NAMED AMERICA AND SHE WILL GO HOME WITH US AFTER THE SHOW!

Finally, we will close with a local pastor, Pastor Bob, who, if asked, is not being indicted on 12 counts of fraud—okay?—but is a great, great guy, the greatest preacher since Jesus. I didn’t say that, by the way–it’s in the Bible. In Two Corinthian Leathers. Look it up. And even if it’s not technically in there it could be in there which is just as good as actually being there as everybody who isn’t a total dummy-loser-clown-clown-loserpantsface knows. Anyway. Pastor Bob will ask everyone to bow their heads as he gives the benediction: “God give us the strength to smite our enemies: Hillary, immigrants, anchor babies, loud birds, books, Hillary, terrorists, Barack Obama, house plants that need watering because that’s socialism, cans that are hard to open, losers, clowns, dummies, gay people except for any gay people singing songs we might want to use at the convention, abortions, non-hot women, Liberal Hollywood, Liberal Media, Liberal Liberals, parallel parking, whoever canceled “Matlock”, Hillary, radio stations that won’t play Ted Nugent Two-fer Tuesday, Affirmative Action, non-stretch pants, HBO, government handouts—except for my Medicare and FEMA flood check, gun control, female Ghostbusters, Harry Potter, the Prius, people who only leave a little bit of toilet paper on the roll, did I say Hillary?, breaking in a new pair of slippers, too many sofa pillows, Cool Ranch Doritos, the Internet, new things, the future, hope, other people’s dogs, other people’s cats, other people’s children, other people’s feelings, other people’s needs, other people’s rights, other people’s tears, other people’s anguish, other people’s misfortunes, other people’s dreams, other people’s atoms, other people. In Jesus’s name, let us pray for unity and peace. Amen.”

It’s go-time, people!

Now, let’s get out there and America like it’s the very last day of America.