#ignore the notes on the first one I just wrote down the doughnuts we have to do every day

[froggychair05]

So, I get a lot of free time at work… :)

[pixiescriptures]

We Can Be Freaks Together

Chapter 4 ;

For You, Daily Dawn

There was only one thing that Hyunjoon loved more than his computer and that was the Daily Dawn. And it was his, all his. Of course, he shared the show with a few co-hosts, but he started it. He created it, he perfected it. A proud smile was on display as he walked towards the AV room, listening to the whispers about his show.

"Felix! Did you hear yesterday's Bloom Bloom segment?" "Hyung! Did you hear the Gossip King segment?" "Noona, the Uni News segment was so satisfying!"

Hyunjoon shivered at the praise, even if he didn't host the segments, he hand picked each and every host. He hand picked each and every topic that was brought up. His show.

Stepping into the AV room, he wasn't at all surprised to see that he was the first one there. It was still only 9:00 AM and the Daily Dawn started at 10:00 AM, but he had things to do. Starting with checking to see that everyone had their segment ready.

Hyunjoon opened the group chat with a small smile, proud of the people he'd chosen for his show. He couldn't stop himself from praising them, so he did.

// A/N: ignore the time stamp at the top pls!!

Hyunjoon sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Another bully on campus," he grumbled as the door opened, revealing Kevin with bags under his eyes. "Hey Joon-ah," he hummed, walking to the table and sitting down. "Can my segment be second to last? I need to finalize the script I wrote up."

Hyunjoon nodded, "sure little moonlight boy," he teased. Kevin grinned brightly up at Hyunjoon, "thanks,"

The door opened to reveal Chanhee and Sunwoo, each sporting a box of doughnuts. "We texted Hak to get coffees," Chanhee spoke, setting the doughnuts on the table. "Hyung," Sunwoo spoke quickly, looking at Hyunjoon. "Could I use you as a guest speaker since no one knows Hwall's real identity?"

Hyunjoon thought for a moment before nodding, "Sure, sunshine."

One by one the rest of the crew filed in and around 9:45 they were ready to go. "Okay so, the intro song is 3 minutes long so sunshine, turn us on at 9:57, okay?" A slight nod was exchanged between Hwall and Sunwoo as everyone moved to sit around the table, setting up their microphones.

At 9:57 AM, Sunwoo flipped a switch and the 'On Air' sign turned red. The soft acoustic guitar ( played by our very own Jacob Bae ) was accompanied by a soft voice, Kevin's voice, and sang the sweet intro to the show.

Hwall smiled at his co-hosts, took a breath and then began, "Welcome back to Daily Dawn! It's Hwall here, ready to send you into the sunrise! Today's show might run a little longer than intended because, well, we have every segment running today! I hope you enjoy today's show as much as I do."

Then Younghoon spoke, "Hi guys, its Hoon! The first segment we'll be starting with is..." he glanced around the room, spotting Sangyeon's hand, "University News!"

Sangyeon cleared his throat, "welcome back to Uni News with your host, Sangie! I'm very pleased to say that most of the news I have today is good! Mrs. Min just delivered her baby and will be back to the Arts department in a little under a year!"

A chorus of applause came from, well, somewhere when Sunwoo pressed a small button. "Culture Night is coming up, so remember to stop by the office to sign up! And finally, congratulations to Mr. Kim for his engagement! This is Sangie, signing off."

Hwall smiled before he spoke, "and next, our resident flower boy, New, with the Bloom Bloom segment!"

New grinned, "Bloom Bloom pow! I hope you're listening, today's Bloom Bloom arrangements are sure to give you a cavity! I'm your host, New!" A soft giggle left the pink-haired boy's lips as he glanced down at his notebook. "First off, we have a bouquet of carnations, which typically mean either women or love, but in this case, I assume it's both! The recipient is none other than our gorgeous Tzuyu! Looks like someone's got a secret admirer!"

"Next, a bouquet of an assortment of flowers. Let's start off with the white clovers which mean think of me! The next flower is a blue salvia, these flowers are quite rare to see in a bouquet but they're so pretty and they mean 'I think of you,' which is such a cute message! And finally, red roses, which I'm sure everyone knows mean love! Ah! To Felix, love Chan! How sweet! Aren't they cute together? Chanlix for the win!" He laughed, biting his lower lip. "And I believe that's all for today!"

Younghoon hummed, "and now we go to a song break, courtesy of our resident moonlight boy! What's the song, Moonie?"

"Our first song of the day is a throwback song for me and is dedicated to someone I met a few days ago! It's Mean by Taylor Swift. Enjoy!"

As the song came on, each member turned off their microphones and began to chat, but Kevin's eyes were glued to his phone where he was texting with Jacob.

As the song ended, everyone got back to their seats and turned on their microphones. "And we're back! The next segment is Gossip King!"

Haknyeon took this as his cue to begin, scrolling through the Gossip King twitter page and humming. "Welcome back to Gossip King, your daily tea fix! So, let's sit back, relax and spill some tea!" He chewed on his lower lip, stopping suddenly when he read a comment, "oh my~ how utterly gossip worthy. My fellow students, did you know H.J got caught sucking L.M's dick in the bathroom? Quite hot, if you ask me."

And if everyone saw Haknyeon look at Sangyeon, well, no one said a word.

"Oh wait! This is cute! Canada boy, Kevin Moon, spotted saving several kittens from the rain! How sweet!" Haknyeon giggled as he looked over at his co-host who was currently hiding his face which was, undoubtedly, bright red.

"Hmm.." Haknyeon hummed, letting out a little gasp, "No way! Fuckin' finally! Jennie and Lisa, we all knew you'd end up together!"

Everyone rolled their eyes at Haknyeon's antics, knowing he truly loved the gossip, even when he tried to tone it down. Chanhee had glanced at the twitter page, flinching when he saw one about himself. 'Choi Chanhee, gay or straight?'

Haknyeon simply deleted the comment with a glare at the screen, knowing Chanhee wouldnt like to be outed. "Looks like we got another sinister deed to report. Silent Report time. Oh! It's one of our regular anons, Moon. Hello Moon, hope you're okay! Moon says that Kim Daichi, the son of CEO Kim of Kim Inc. has taken it upon himself to beat the absolute shit out of a sophomore! How dare he!"

"Well, on that note," Haknyeon sighed, "I'll have to sign off. Quite frankly, I'm appalled. I didn't know bullies still existed in college. I thought people would've matured by now, but I guess idiots truly don't. Bye, y'all!"

"And finally, Moonlight Boy, play us a few songs!"

And with that, and the three songs Kevin played, the show was over, and everyone turned off their microphones, settling in and talking about God knows what.

The only person who seemed off was Chanhee, staring blankly out of the window as tears pooled in his eyes, but, well, that's a story for another day.

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

One Shot: The Pond (Bucky Barnes)

Summary: Recovery isn’t easy, that’s the first thing Bucky noted. Healing was a tough road to cross, especially when all you knew was gone and the road was water. This takes place roughly after endgame. 

Warnings: Small mention of not wanting to continue. 

A/N: I wrote this in like 10-15 mins so I’m sorry this is trash. 

----

“Hey,” a hesitant greeting.

“Hey, Buck, come on. You should get up.” a suggestion. 

A suggestion he could either go through or ignore. An option that wasn’t even an option when he worked under HYDRA. 

“You know,” Sam-one of his only close friends- began, “Bruce’s girl brought these mini doughnuts. They’re great man. They’ve got sprinkles and everything. Maybe you should come down and have some,” 

Maybe, the word rang in Bucky’s ears. 

He ignored his friend who was now leaning against the doorframe. 

“You don’t have to act like you did before, you know?” said Sam after a long time. 

“What you did- what you didn’t do, was that. That wasn’t you Buck. You have a fresh start now, friends, and a team that-”

Bucky snarled.

“How can you act like this is all okay?’’ he said with a look of bewilderment. 

“This isn’t okay,” he began. “Lots of people are dead. I-I don’t even know where to begin but this,” he motioned to everything in a circle with his own index finger, “This isn’t okay. Steve’s gone. He’s gone. And none of us can bring him back after all of this.” he shook his head down. 

“I know what you mean,” Sam said, “It’s just like Riley. I can’t bring him back either but it’s just life Buck, we gotta live on with-”

“What if I don’t wanna?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Bucky swallowed, “What if I don’t want to continue? What if it doesn’t get better?”

His friend shook his head, “Why would you- can you just quit it? Don’t say that. You’ve got us,” 

Us. The word tastes bland on Buck’s tongue. Ineffective. 

“Sure,” 

“I’m serious Buck,” Sam said. “You’ve got me. I’ve got you. We work on this even though it doesn’t seem like much, okay?”

There was no response after that. No response except a small ‘okay’ in the back of Bucky’s head. 

=======

The park wasn’t as much as it used to be, thought Bucky. The trees felt bigger-maybe they grew. Who knows. Do trees grow much in under 100 years? He asked himself. 

A small pond stood before him. It almost felt poetic. Some trees decorated the sides, and others, it’s reflections you could see. 

He squeezed the brown paper bag between his metal and flesh hand.

A small action that sent millions of thoughts and questions racing in his mind. 

What if I didn’t fall off that train? 

What if I survived that fall? Could things have been better if I fell under a bush? What if Steve didn’t sign up for the war. 

What if I, didn’t sign up. Would I have still made it alive? Would I have had a family? Kids? Something normal? 

He scoffed to himself. 

Reaching in towards the bag, he felt bread. Soft in the inside, hard on the outside. Out in the pond, he noticed a family of ducks. The mother led the way as it’s little ducklings followed her in a straight line. The father followed back ensuring that each would stay in their place and not side track. 

Kind of like him. 

A voice behind him interrupted his thoughts.

“You know you’re not supposed to feed them bread, right?”

-------

(let me know if you’d like a pt. 2)

[rosyredlipstick]

for the writers ask meme: 1 and 18 if you dont mind?:)

18. Tell us about that one book you’ll never let anyone read.

I’m gonna combine these two with my shame project of the month you can find me working on late at night with a few shots in me ~~

So anyone who’s followed me for awhile knows how just…..not good I am at writing smut. And that’s fine! My talents lie elsewhere. But….there’s a certain fic I wrote one night when I was tipsy. It’s unfinished and messy and was a result of me binge watching the entire yuri on ice season in one sitting. 

I’ll never, ever post it. But here’s the summary drunk-me wrote out in the notes tab on my phone 

-

“We’re not friends. We don’t even speak the same language. All we do is send dog pictures and emojis to each other sometimes. Hardly a friendship.”

Phichit clicked his tongue. “And nudes.”

Yuuri flushed a dark color. “And nudes.”

-

Basically it was a language barrier fic, with the banquet still happening AKA with Vikki still falling madly in love with drunk Japanese boy who can only stop dancing long enough to scrawl his snapchat username on Victor’s arm (Phichit kept telling him needed to use it more okay?????) 

Yuuri wakes up the next day with a headache, a not unreasonable amount of regret, and a new snapchat contact who looks to be as big of a fan of Viktor as he is (Yuuri’s still the bigger fan, he reassures himself as he adds the strange contact, if only because of the several Myspace accounts dedicated to the older skater with not-limited connection to Yuuri himself) 

SO YEAH THAT’S WHERE THE STORY WOULD BEGIN. Viktor, under the impression that Yuuri is always that bold and confident and Eros, makes the first move via snapchat. 

Which happens to be a very, very tasteful mirror ass shot, as Viktor grins over his shoulder, his team Russia jacket hanging down his back, his back arched, his foot pointed out.

(he had facetimed chris in order to get the angle just right, and chris - ever the good friend - complied with helpful tips and an order to put on some mascara before you even think about sending a photo)

AND YUURI’S SOUL PROMPTLY LEAVES HIS BODY AND ASCENDS TO THE HEAVENS AS HE PRESSES THAT DAMN RED BUBBLE 

He’s in public, it’s important to note, waiting in line for his daily post-training cup of decaf tea. There’s a lot of panic, a slight freak out in the line at the downtown detroit dunkin doughnuts, and he exits the app and turns off his phone and cant look at the little square device for a day and a half without blushing. 

he also….can’t stop thinking about the picture. Which he’s almost, almost very certain wasn’t a fake. or an upload because….because yuuri would have seen that before. 

but he doesn’t respond, even as the account send him a mess of Cyrillic and emojis and even another picture of piles and piles of snow at the local park. and he still doesn’t respond BC YUURI DOESNT LIKE CONFRONTATION OKAY. 

Cue viktor feel like he’s being ignored oR MAYBE CHRIS THE PHOTO JUST WASN’T GOOD ENOUGH TO CATCH EROS’S ATTENTION WE ~~MUST~~ RESHOOT IT AND TAKE ANOTHER 

and chris, who hasn’t seen viktor this excited about something in awhile, agrees to help. even if viktor is this excited about sending 

i predict at least, hmm, four yakov rages in this fic? mostly due to viktor’s complete nonchalance about the matter. 

“where do you think you’re going?” yakov demands as viktor slids on his skate guards. it is in the middle of practice and it is no where near the time for lunch. viktor usually has to be dragged off the ice. yakov shows concern by yelling and both of them know this. “No breaks until you skate it clean!” 

“I have to go take a sexy picture of myself to capture Japanese Yuuri’s heart,” Viktor throws out over his shoulder, already unzipping his jacket as he heads towards the locker room, “he seems to particularly respond to shirtless pics!” 

if you watch closely, as Mila and Georgi happened to be, you could actually see the last tuffs of hair slowly fall to yakov’s shoulders. 

Across the globe, Yuuri’s phone will ding, and he’ll know exactly what that small notification means. 

He responds, nowadays, even with a few of his own (as Viktor seemed??? to want them???? at least from his emojis????? and from the delighted paragraphs of heart eyes and kisses, viktor didn’t seem to….hate what he saw???? what????????)

anyways yuuri has no shame and immediately saves a portion of the photos to his phone. Usually just the selfies, and shirtless pics. 

it’s because of his eyes, Yuuri will later reflect on, that’s what gets him, every time

they eventually kiss kiss fall in love, meet up at a competition and go on a romantic candlelit dinner (not really - they get street meat that’s seasoned with garlic salt so now both of their breathes smell horrible, but they laugh and giggle the entire time even though they’re both having trouble getting by in their stilled english. viktor almost chokes on his tongue when yuuri and him share a single soft serve ice cream and yuuri is enjoying it immensely. they fuck and wake up in each other arms and the next season viktor comes to onsen AND IT’S PERFECT)

anyways this is the fic i’ll never finish but it’s fun to write nonetheless. god i love yuri on ice. 

[theraroth]

Death Awaits Us All (from 2016)

I wrote this around August 3-4 2016, for a lit blog that rejected it outright for its brutal honesty and horrific accuracy concerning what we were soon to see as the presidency of Donald (BAAAAARRRRRFFFF) Trump. Presented with minimal edits, I give you:

DEATH AWAITS US ALL...enjoy (or not, it’s your choice):

The rust monsters have sacked my brain. Writing anything creative is a near-impossible hateful sojourn through corridors of frustration. I was recently accosted by the corrosive evil of reorganizing a college level class in order to conform, at least in spirit, with the format of a dreadful textbook thrust upon me, like skin rot contracted from an outhouse in a leper colony. There’s no task as phony and unfulfilling and soulless as revising lecture notes. You can feel your creative juices drying up like a sun-blasted desert oasis. There goes another part of me I can never recapture. Pandora’s Box fits into the analogy somehow, but I am unable to weave it into the narrative adequately so I instead rely on brutal confessions of academically induced impotence, if there is such a condition, and if not let me self-diagnose as Patient Zero for a heretofore undiscovered malady.

Where was I?

Somewhere, out in the desert watching heatwaves rise up from boiling sands…painting a picture with a broken brush is no mean feat, but I think I have risen to the challenge. Rise…risen. Nope, still hopelessly ossified and amberized. I coined that word, I believe. Or I’d like to believe I coined it.

Pointless!

So I’ll conjure a point from nowhere: I was rereading Kurt Vonnegut’s A Man Without a Country, his last published work before succumbing to a head injury at the gruffly tender age of 84 (it was his opinion that old farts like himself had “just gotten here,” so he was therefore little more than a pup, and who am I to contradict a master?). The book, a glib examination of George W. Bush’s America, has aged more rapidly than Vonnegut’s cantankerous literary turns, hobbled in part by the limited scope of the subject, but in spite of that limitation, it ventures into less dated territory or at a minimum more open territory free of political intrigues anchored to that desolate era, and one of these vistas for free range thoughts was in the author’s note at the end in which Kurt mentions that he had recently bonded in a friendly manner, not a love interest mind you, with Ralph Steadman, the artist indelibly linked to Hunter S. Thompson, the late gonzo journalist who, in the context of this aside, had recently taken his life in 2005. And where in the fuck, you ask and rightfully so, is all this digressive bullshit headed? It’s headed toward one of those strange coincidences which plant the idea that perhaps coincidence is a term of art humans created to dismiss the only tangible proof of a higher power manipulating the strings of the world, for I had just received in the mail a copy of Ralph Steadman’s The Joke’s Over, with a forward by, of all people, Kurt Vonnegut. So when I read the passage about Steadman and Vonnegut acquainting, a series of events whose connective tissues were dark to me suddenly coalesced into a definitive line of causality. Kurt met Ralph, Ralph wrote a book, Kurt wrote the forward for the book.

Isn’t it amazing that two people I have admired from afar somehow interacted out of the blue and “cross-pollinated,” so to speak? How does that shit happen? It’s a small world doesn’t do it justice. Nor does that hideously saccharine shit of a song do justice to my ears, real or the virtual stereo in my head that blares it as punishment for writing this, or possibly for writing, period, why-oh-why did I ever travel down that path? it yells at me in a chorus of squeaky castrati frantic to know the whereabouts of their balls…sorry boys, but, snip, snip, all gone but for the empty skin pouch.

If any of this makes sense, I apologize. It was never my intention to impart wisdom. There are more than enough shit-bird seers and visionary with all the answers in the world for a million lifetimes. So I guess one more can’t hurt or at the worst can’t inflict more harm than has already been inflicted. Death by a million papercuts…which cut was the killing stroke, the first or the last or one of the ones somewhere in the middle? Don’t answer that. Only a real asshole thinks he can answer the unanswerable.

Trump.

Balls, I’ve been tap dancing around the proverbial elephant in the room, tap dancing around heaping mounds of elephant shit so pervasive and voluminous I am drowning it in. We all are. Fuck. I need respite from the ugliness or I’ll goddamn well explode. And we can’t have that, can we?

But beware! If you speak of the devil, he shall come forth to heed your call. And in line with that warning, just as I was resigned to submerging and drowning in the muddy trenches of the Trump travesty, some blasted interloper knocked on the rustic steel door I rely on as a barrier between myself and the cruel world beyond. A wave of dread crept up my spine. Dusk time visitations never go well. Could be the authorities paying a call to impart bad news or some Jesus hustler at the end of his shift off-loading surplus pamphlets on the house closest to the tax dodge. God, I hate those fuckers. They have a habit of ignoring the NO SOLICITORS sign taped to the glass. Perhaps a large billboard broadcasting I EXTERMINATE FUCKING JESUS FREAKS might get their attention. When I opened, I came face to face with a fresh brand of trouble: the new neighbors were stopping by, not to say hi, how’s it hangin’? boy it sure is hot and whatnot, but to raise unholy hell (vs holy hell) about ground ivy, a common broadleaf, encroaching on their newly sodded lawn.

My inner cynic lives for these moments, affirmations that people are the real hell on Earth, as they clearly intended to start a territorial dispute over a goddamn plant native to every square mile of land in the world’s innumerable temperate zones, which, as far as they were concerned, excluded their yard. My only recourse? Consult the local ordinances online. Damn them straight to hell, I thought, for I’d sworn to on everything that is holy in the ecumenical sense that I would NEVER EVER consult the local ordinances, out of respect for the fact that I don’t give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut about local ordinances or other petty nonsense crafted by bureaucrats with measuring sticks, prepared to issue citations for overgrown lawns or minute infringements of sacred lot lines. This is the kind of meaningless tripe that sucks your life down the fucking drain, pisses away the hours and scours your nerves to raw fucking bloody pulpy scum. So it was with utter disdain that I broke this promise to the Powers That Don’t Give a Fuck and combed the local ordinance site, state of the art for 2008, and tracked down the arcane passage detailing what manner of flora presented a nuisance to the neighborhood and would bring the wrath of the gods down upon my head, and lo and behold ground ivy was not among the offending species of plants.

But the neighbors more or less told me as much when it was mentioned in passing that they had consulted the ordinances and were at a loss to find a passage with the clout to enforce their milquetoast suburban pursuit of a simplified, unstable, monochromatic, aesthetically drab and understated ecosystem aching to wither and die if a fucking drop of acrid dog piss falls on its tender shoots. I’m not eager to engage in a death struggle over botanical differences. However, people have died for lesser causes.

Trump.

Darkness descends. Evil abounds. Feet itch. Is there no one who can save us? Okay, there’s Hillary. I have confidence in her ability to topple the tyrannical Trumpenstein “turd tornado” (tip of the cap to Ben Shapiro for helping fulfill my alliteration quota for the month). But I cannot shake the creeping doom. It skulks the hallways of my mind. I hear the thundering hoof beats of the Apocalypse fast approaching.  I see other horrifying apparitions that defy description. Lots of wriggling tentacles, gnarly horns shiny with the blood of the innocent, severed nipples—a bowl of them, sitting out like Halloween candy as demonic children (well, children) paw through them seeking the tastiest morsel of nipple flesh. Michael Phelps’s perfect swimmer-nipples figure into the picture, adding a certain glistering, chilling symmetry to an otherwise asymmetric tableau involving hell spawn hungry for nipples, and even more macabre, Halloween was EIGHT DAYS ago.

November 8th promises to be the premiere of a new mediocre, bound-to-disappoint horror flop from M. Night Shyamalan, THE TRUMPENING. Okay, that scared the shit of me. You see, a word I’m 99.9% sure I just made up was ALREADY IN MY GODDAMN SPELLCHECKER. Relax, damn it. There is a logical explanation. Right. Spellcheck for all capital letters, by default, is turned off, and I tend to eschew tinkering with default settings unless they really piss me off, which is harder than it seems. But ’tis the season for rampant, unchecked, unabated, relentless paranoia, and what concerns me most is that the second my new novella arrives on the scene in the fall, there won’t be anybody to buy it. Apocalyptic settings dampen book sales almost as much as the very concept of a book does. Past authors and critics have predicted the end of the novel as an art form, and they were wrong, but their inaccuracy was a matter of poor timing not poor judgment. It is dead, and we killed it, and I cannot envision a novella, even a competently written one with an occasional dash of brilliance, resurrecting the dust and bones of the theater of the imagination. We are adrift in the briny wastes of instant entertainment gratification, and never again shall we touch the shores of useless art made beautiful by intense admiration.

I only wax poetically against my own interests because I am congenitally unable to believe in karmic justice. Karmic injustices proliferate with the ease of ground ivy, and unlike a relatively innocuous plant they swallow everything in their path. Take the savagely unjust conviction of five boys (four African Americans and one Hispanic) railroaded in 1990 for raping, beating, and sodomizing a female jogger in Central Park. After languishing in prison for 6-13 years as sex offenders, exculpatory evidence exonerated The Five of any wrongdoing (a serial rapist serving life in prison confessed to the crime, which led to a round of DNA tests, and none of The Five’s DNA was extant at the crime scene). And who shelled out an estimated $85,000 for full page ads in all four major New York newspapers urging the reinstatement of the death penalty, citing the Central Park assault as just cause and inflaming prejudice against the defendants before the case had been tried?

Trump.

Karma is officially deader than Vaudeville, deader than Caesar, deader than analogies in the “deader than” form. For a “law and order” candidate, Trump has a penchant for viewing mob rule as a functional arm of the Constitution. Deferring to the wisdom of “2nd Amendment people” to prevent Hillary from appointing judges belongs to the white-lighting-fueled ruminations of Tennessee moonshiners vigilant and on the eye for “revenuers” and “guvment men” and cannot be tolerated as just a bit of harmless bluster on the campaign trail, even if the candidate in question is a bloviating armchair politician with the discipline of a baboon wildly masturbating between salvos of shit-flinging.

I could go on and on about the other five billion instances in which Trump comported himself with the aplomb of a one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed lemur performing open heart surgery with a broken whiskey bottle. But when for the love of Zod does it fucking come to a satisfactory conclusion?

November 8th.

I hope?

No, hope doesn’t factor into it. Or faith. Or other invisible forces of the universe. It all teeters on the electorate getting off its asses and voting for Hillary. Every stay at home vote is a vote for Trump. Every vote for Lexus-liberal, vaccine-doubter Jill Stein is a vote for Trump. Every disgruntled Millennial write-in vote for Bernie Sanders is a vote for Trump. But it’s possible every vote for Gary Johnson is a vote for Hillary. Libertarians exist in a kind of pseudo-Republican limbo populated with potheads who bawl for small guvment between bong hits. Trump’s xenophobic, bigoted rhetoric loses its shine once the pot haze clears a skosh and it dawns on them that their dealer, Raul, is a Cuban/Mexican cross-dresser with a lapsed green card, and their backup plan, Timmy the Titwillow, is a gay bartender at a nightclub six blocks from the Pulse massacre.

Never underestimate the influence of self-interest in the electorate. Or for that matter self-deceit.

For as long as Trump is in the race he has a chance of winning, however remote, and we could be living the last fruitful days before a literal madman takes control of the world’s largest nuclear arsenal. If things should take a turn for the worst on Election Day, our only chance for a temporary reprieve from utter annihilation is to pray that that twisted septuagenarian imbecile can come to some kind of arrangement with Ivanka to stick his thrombosis-savaged pecker insider her every Sunday on an onyx altar carved in the image of the Great Old Ones. But given the obviously degenerated state of his body, it’s doubtful even an overdose of boner pills could conjure anything remotely resembling an erection, perhaps a tiny bubble filled with pus and blood and shattered pieces of dick vein floating around in the mucosal soup.

But I kid our future overlord. All in good fun and jest. Lucky for me, the dark, dank confines of a North Dakota gulag are a rich source of inspiration. Besides, I could use a change of setting. A place where I can write the last and greatest Great American novel before the steepening decline of the written word smashes into history’s wall. And upon that wall there is inscribed but a single word:

TRUMP

For the record: damn, was I spot on to worry! And I nailed the culprits of this fucking nightmare, less the Russian collusion, Who could have seen that coming, besides

HILLARY?

Right?