Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, covid19, Poetry, The Potty Mouth Interviews

Breaking News: Ma Interviews Donald Trump

On Juneteenth, Ma interviews @realDonaldTrump before he heads to Tulsa, Oklahoma for the first rally of his 2020 reelection campaign. No animals or humans were harmed during this interview. We’re not sure what happened after.

Ma: Mr. “President”, you’re headed to Tulsa, Oklahoma for a big ass #MAGA rally where there’s also a major spike in Covid-19 hospitalizations. Patients are inundating hospitals and overwhelming the healthcare system. By ‘inundating’ I mean that a lot of sick ass people are swamping the hospitals because they’re very very sick. By “swamping” the hospitals I mean very very sick people are overrunning the concrete building in which sick ass people go to get help. Patients are taxing the local healthcare system and putting nurses and doctors at risk of death. By “taxing” I mean the money that you never pay to the federal government because you’re a fraud and a cheat. By fraud and cheat see @realDonaldTrump. Anyway, wtf do you have to say for yourself?

Ma: Seriously, wtf is your problem?

Ma: Mr. “President”, aren’t you shooting your supporters in the face by holding this rally in an enclosed space for an extended period of time?

Ma: Why is Tulsa, Oklahoma so important to you?

Ma: What?

Ma: Are you saying that we shouldn’t test and that would make the pandemic go away?

Ma: Mr. “President”, as of today, there’ve been 121,000+ Covid-19 related deaths in the United States. I’m starting to lose my paint chips. What do you have to say about these deaths and to the rally-goers you’ll put at risk?

Ma: Is the pandemic under control in America?

Ma: I get the impression that you don’t care about the American people or your supporters. In fact, it seems like you want to make love to the stock market. (My daughter laughs and says you don’t know how to make love.) Mr. “President”, do you know how to make love?

Ma: Mr. “President”, I get the impression you don’t like yourself.

Ma: Mr. “President”, what makes you happy?

Ma: Mr. “President”, what do you love most?

Ma: If you could be anything, Mr. “President”, what would you be?

Ma: How will history remember you?

Ma: Mr. “President”, let’s reflect upon the last 3 years. Despite being a total piece of shit, I’m mean, the combined sewage systems of New York City, Philadelphia and Atlanta, what would you say is your greatest accomplishment as “President”?

Ma: What’s your 2nd biggest accomplishment?

Ma: Sorry, Mr. “President”. I couldn’t hear you. Care to repeat your answer?

Ma: Dude, what’s your 2nd biggest accomplishment as “President”?

Ma: Ok, so, your 2nd biggest accomplishment is closing the border and ending flights. Whatever happened to the wall?

Ma: I was a hooker once. Not surprised you gave $19.9 million to improve Hooker’s Point. Do you know “Hooker’s Point”?

Ma: Mr. “President”, I’m tired of your bullshit. I’m tired of your “Presidency”. I’m tired of your license to destroy the lives of working class Americans. It’s been unprecedented and everyday it seems like a new precedent is set. By “precedent” I don’t mean “President.” I, like 30+ million other Americans, are unemployed. I need to feed my kid. I need to feed my self. I need a roof over my head. I need health insurance. I need a surgical mask. Look at me. Not those. Look at me here. Into my eyes. Do you have any regrets?

Ma: Are you fucking serious? That’s it?

Ma: I’m sorry, Mr. “President”. It’s just a pen. I’m a journalist. I write shit. One last chance, any regrets?

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, covid19, The Mother

Trumptini: Lysol Cocktail on the Rocks

Ma and I had a fight last night. She threw me in the brig, but we don’t have a ship and there’s no brig. She threw me in the closet instead. Ma has no human strength left so I took it upon myself to throw myself in the brig.  I wanted ma to feel a moment of absolute power and control. This is what lifts her spirits in the age of the coronavirus.

This is (more or less) what happened: Once up on a time in a shitty suburban home on a warm and humid night beneath a half-ass moon a woman named ma poured herself a Trumptini: a toxic cocktail that is one part bleach, one part disinfectant, and rimmed with one Tide Pod (or whatever brand you have around). It was 6:49 PM on April 24th, 2020. The kitchen was apocalyptic. I told ma not to take a sip. Ma said, “You ain’t gonna stop me from drinking this drink. I do what I want when I want.” I reached for the glass. Ma reached for my hand. A scuffle broke out between the squirrels peeping-tomming in the window. Bobo the Mutt barked and licked his butt. “This is my goddamn drink,” ma blurted. “It could save my life.” “It won’t,” I told her. “It will kill you!” “I know,” ma said. “That will save my life.”

I thought about this for a moment. And then another moment. Ma always has things to say that make me think about the things I know and believe to be true. In a way, ma is right, death is a solution to life, but not this time, not today.

“Give me that fucking glass,” I shouted. Ma’s nostrils flared like Secretariat after winning the Kentucky Derby. (I love Kentucky Fried Chicken, but not as much as I love Church’s Chicken.) “Today isn’t the day,” I said. Ma said, “Every day is today. It’s all the same in this fucking pandemic lockdown madness. I gotta’ get out of this mess.” “You can’t,” I said. “Bobo the Mutt and I need you.”

Ma went all harlequin on us. Pantomiming her way through the middle part of our fight with a series middle fingers, fist pumps and ending with the Vulcan Salute. That’s when she spoke: “The President says we can disinfect ourselves from this plague.” I rolled the dice, “He also said he can Make American Great Again. Are you better off now that you were 6 weeks ago? A year ago? 4 years ago?” Ma shook her head. Neither yes. Neither no. She bobbled her head and got up. Glass in hand. Ready to strike anyone who tried to take it from her. “Don’t try and stop me, kid” she said. “I know what I’m doing.” “Fine,” I said. “Enjoy certain death.” “I will,” she said and stormed out of the kitchen.

Two hours later ma returned from the laundry room with the empty glass. It’s the first time she ever washed a load of clothes that didn’t turn out half bad. “Look,” she said taking my hand in her hand. “You’re just a kid, but you’re mine. I’ll never leave you like that, at least not without a proper cocktail glass.”

And that’s what happened last night. Today is a new day. One that I won’t take for granted.


(I apologize for using the word shitty and fucking. My not-so-best friend Diego says I shouldn’t curse or use bad words because it makes me sound immature and unreliable. I told him that it makes me even more reliable and credible because this is how real humans talk in the real world when they feel passionate about something. He told me that I’m not real and that whatever I say is a waste of words. I told him he’s a waste of words and a real and unreal jerk.)

 

 

 

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Bobo the Mutt, Characters, covid19, The Mother, Themes

Fimble-famble

Ma woke up depressed, which means she didn’t wake up at all. Bobo the Mutt and I howled and jumped on the bed. Scared the hell out of her. Her eyes discombobulated when they opened. Some of her hair fell out. She batted the air with catastrophic force and her tongue lit. “You foul-smelling cunctators,” she shouted. “Get me my gun!” I lit the cigarette to shut her up. Bobo the Mutt licked her butt. She uncocked the Glock and slipped it back underneath her pillow. I regretted waking her up.

It’s been 33 days of pure isolation and 36 days since ma lost her full-time gig at the bar she called home. The death toll from the virus surged to 37,086 from 21,418 just 6 days ago. There’s really not much else to do but apply for food stamps and unemployment, but the government websites don’t work, so ma made amends to the gods she called friends. It didn’t work.

“Let’s take a yoga class,” I suggested. Ma looked at me and I looked at her. This lasted for about 60 seconds. “Fine,” she said. “I”ll wear my Lululemons.” Ma doesn’t own Lululemons, but she puts lemons in her sportsbra to make her look more crapulous. I searched for “Joachim’s Hot Yoga For Beginners: Pandemic Edition” on ma’s Facebook.

Joachim is a retired elementary school teacher who has way too much time on his hands. He is self-taught, which means he sucks at yoga, but he looks good in athletic wear, which means he doesn’t wear athletic wear. He doesn’t wear anything at all. He’s a yogi, of sorts, the kind that makes you think about the loneliness he must endure. This is fine for ma. Ma has reached the age where form and function are incongruous like Joachim backlit on his patio teaching yoga to vampires in the nude.

The class elevated ma’s mood and stretched her mind. We did down dog, warrior pose, tree pose, upward facing dog pose, warrior II pose, bound ankle pose, and seated forward fold. We also did camel pose, plank pose, side plank, the other side plank, and planted cactus pose. It was a good workout, but ma didn’t really participate in the physical sense. She just watched Joachim stretch his buns in his invisible Lululemons.

“He’s a hot diddy,” ma said. I couldn’t take the temperature of his nipples, but ma was satisfied. That’s all that mattered. Joachim’s insatiable stretching and encouraging words disappeared the prevalence of sadness in our house. When the class ended, ma gave Joachim a vociferous standing ovation. “What a laniferous body you have,” she shouted. Her overzealous smile lasted a generation after Joachim cut the feed.

“Let’s eat,” ma said. “I’m famished.”

Bobo the Mutt licked his butt. Ma crawled into bed instead. I Googled “how to apply for food assistance” and “when will it end” in multiple languages.


I dare you to find the fimble-famble and post it comments.