

WTF! This is a Liberal Utopia!

Frank B. Thompson, III
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.

WTF! This is a Liberal Utopia!

Novelist's website: http://fbthompson3.com

@fbthompson3

Political Satire website: http://idiocracy.me

@idiocracyme

© 2014 by Frank B. Thompson, III

Rights reserved, 3rd Edition

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-13:978-1500643850

ISBN-10:1500643858

Published by Frank Thompson at Amazon-Createspace

DEDICATION

To my wife Laura. Thanks for always being there for me.
CONTENTS

Note From Author

Dedication

Prologue

Early Background

Current Times

A New Day

Great Escape

Rude Awakening

Taste of Metamorphosis

The Corn Field

Closing Remarks

Part Two

Opening Dialog

NMASA Headquarters

Sidekick Is Back

Trouble Spotted

White Trash Gertrude

Back in Waycross

Santa Clause FEMA

The TV Interview

Glossary

About the Author

Other Books

Connect With Author
Note From Author

The first ten minutes of Idiocracy genuinely resonated for me, a movie that depicts the stupider people taking over the world and what becomes of their triumph. The reason for the morons' success is an absence of natural predators, an ample food supply, and a pastime where the imbeciles excel...breeding.

Most I've talked to who confess to seeing Idiocracy have had the same general reaction: "This could honestly happen!" Subsequently, after watching the movie a second time, some individuals, like me, have taken our revelation one bunny hop further: "This is actually happening!" My inspiration for scribbling out this novel begins with Idiocracy, that and the actions and events now rolling out before our very peepers...let's hope the present is just a blip for the history books. But enough about those minor issues...now, on to what is really important...me.

My sojourn into writing began many moons ago, in the 60s, before long hair, marijuana, surfing, driving and girls had come on the scene. The 60s was an era when the musical duo Simon and Garfunkel, the television show Kung Fu and the comedy hour of Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In were in vogue for teens my age. It was before Woodstock so you were either a jock, hoodlum, cool, uncool, popular, a wallflower, a nerd, or a brainier type who took Latin, while the rest of us took Español.

I was sitting at my desk peeking out at freedom from a third-story window, the tardy bell would have already sounded followed by the English teacher closing the one and only door of escape. I was a straight-A student at the time, so it wasn't like I hated school...just English.

The hour slowly ticked by as the red second hand of the wall-mounted Simplex chronograph advanced with that hesitating, analog motion. As the minute hand closed in on the end of the period, Mrs. Goldberg announced she would be reading a short story from one of her students; someone in one of her five classes who deserved meritorious mention.

Mrs. Goldberg started reading the paper and I still remember thinking, Wow, that's really kind of killer...I wonder which goody two shoes wrote it! It wasn't until the second, or third paragraph into her monologue that I realized the teacher was reading my paper...a short story on the final thoughts of a convict waiting to be taken to the electric chair or gas chamber. Macabre I know; nevertheless, that was what I assessed the homework assignment called for and besides, as a preacher's kid I probably believed I was a prisoner of sorts at the time having to give up every Sunday for church activities, which invariably took away an entire day of fun. Anyway, being put in the spotlight for that moment had never happened before, and therefore resonated with me and became one of my notable memories.

I still call to mind the pride I felt as the classroom listened in stony, near-riveted silence and what's more, everyone in every one of Mrs. Goldberg's classes was going to be forced to listen to my brilliance...Yea! My conclusions had to something like, I will finally be recognized for something! Sadly, that was not to be the case. What notoriety that might have arisen that one day was gone...gone before I realized it, but the instance led to an idea that I might have a knack for writing, a revelation I promptly deep-sixed, a far-flung memory that would resurface a half-century later.

Now on to why I have decided to write about liberalism in an Idiocracy-like way.

My reason for writing WTF! This is a Liberal Utopia! is my belief that the today's 'moderate' can be reached through humor, humor that is provocative and gets them to see 'the light.' Those in the middle need to know why the geniuses on 'the left' are wrong and why we can thank most of their ideas and policies for this great booming economy of ours, for putting the comic and his entourage in the White House, and for turning the country up on its noggin.

I hope my theory is right.

Frank B. Thompson, III

Dedication

Special gratitude to the motion picture Idiocracy and Cyril M. Kornbluth's 1951 Sci-Fi Classic The Marching Morons on which the movie was based for the inspiration in writing this ongoing serial novel.

Further appreciation to those organizations and the people behind and inside them for working...working extremely hard for the good of humanity including: CBS, ABC, NBC, PBS, NPR, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Chicago Tribune, USA Today, the Associated Press, Reuters, Hollywood, the NAACP, the ACLU, the NEA, the President, Congress and the thousands upon thousands of distinct institutions and organizations which I do not have occasion to enumerate at present.

My gratitude extends out to the breed of folks who are helping morph this country into their idea of a panacea on our behalf including...the so-called watchdogs of democracy: the journalists; the reporters' bosses 'the editors' and their bosses' bosses 'the publishers.' My blessings go out to today's "card carrying" school teachers, every notable Hollywood performer with the exceptions of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne (deceased), and let us not forget those "slip and fall," trial lawyers...thank you guys and gals for all the great work.

Kudos to the ninety-seven percent of all tenured college faculty; the Democrat politicians impersonating Republican politicians; every living, breathing Democrat politician; the Amazons wearing the "pink hats," nearly everyone living in New York City, the State of New Jersey and anyone in Boston, and nearly every one of the 2,790,000 men, women and children who work tirelessly on our behalf in one of 456 U.S. Federal Government departments and agencies. This novel is dedicated to you, for your commitment, your fortitude, your farsightedness, your greatness, your wisdom, your genius and your spectacularness.

Thank you liberalism and all the other 'isms': illusionism, nihilism, feminism, socialism, immoralism, communism, collectivism, absurdism, for providing humanity with the blueprint for the 'Garden of Eden.' I know someday...hopefully soon, you will succeed and your "grand strategy" will succeed, and when it does America will be a much more sensational, wondrous land: a greener place with more trees; a much happier setting in view that none of us will have to work: a venue where everyone breathes fresh, clean air owing to the actuality that you will have gotten rid of all those fossil-fuel-burning contraptions. The Nirvana and paradise of our dreams. A dominion where everyone will drink pure, clean water directly from the spigot. A place where exceptionalism does not matter; where everyone is taxed into equalityism; a spot on earth where some unseen bureaucrat controls our every move to ensure our collective happiness. A country where that immoral, wicked 'industrialism' and that heartless, villainous 'capitalism' are put out to pasture, to never again threaten the existence of 'Gaia'...liberals' label for their deity, "Mother Earth." A loving, tender country where anyone forced to work would do so in "Green Industries" in an American society that had finally returned to its roots, 'Agrarianism.'

We implore you, continue the fight, continue your duty up to the time the goal is reached. You have been bestowed by birthright with brilliancy, splendor, magnificence and silver tongues with all the answers to mankind's and womankind's questions...do not ever forget that.

Someday, Americans will see what you have created, see that your creations are outstanding. No, make that great. No, better make that cool, marvelous, breathtaking, spectacular. Yes, that's it...and the very exceptional, awesomeness will be all around...far and wide for everybody to see! Yes, everywhere all will see the fruits of your genius...the stupendousness of your clairvoyance...the magnificent results brought about by your righteous cause! And, we will need statues...lots of statues to honor you...you who will have created this veritable paradise for us...this utopia we have all been dreaming of for so, so, so extremely long.

...Nevertheless, some of us are beginning to get a little fatigued...burnt out on waiting and what's more, more than a little alarmed, almost schiessenless, at what are starting to appear like 'empty promises.' Most of us are most definitely getting worn out on all your clichés...all your criticizing and moaning...all your finger pointing. We just want what you have been promising us for the last fifty years. Give us a demonstration, some small shred of proof that what you've been saying is true, that it's not been just a pack of lies, that it's not just a further hair-brained, social experiment with the American people the guinea pigs.

Come on, give us a little taste...a little taste of paradise...a little taste of the forbidden fruit...a little bite of that apple.

Prologue

The magnificent human beings had succeeded beginning soon after amnesty was declared for tens of millions of low-skilled, uneducated, illegal aliens whose votes had helped them secure control over Washington.

Nevertheless, as they basked in the glow of their victory, the monster they created grew in size and appetite. The beast was a new American majority: menial, uncultured, insatiable, lazy, but voters all the same, voters who devoured any and everything the politicians threw their way. Nevertheless, they were voters who always wanted more...and more...of the more!

It all of a sudden dawned on some of the geniuses...What happens when our voters want too much more? What happens when we run out of more of the more...and there is no more? What happens then?

WTF! This is a Liberal Utopia!...a cynical, satirical look at what awaits us all, a future with many "unintended consequences," the logical outcome of today's progressive agenda, a future where the liberal panacea finally makes its presence known!
Early Background

Our story literally got underway some thirty years ago on one fine, spring day in the year 2020. Our hero, Professor Felix Schwartz, was walking with one of his underage students, feigning interest in their conversation, busy admiring her curves, preoccupied with not-so-nice introspection. Without warning, the last thing he recollected seeing was the front end of an oncoming 'Mack truck' then...then the lights went out.

For three decades our hero lived a life in complete bliss, void of any thought, unaware that the country was going through some major transitions around him. By the year 2050 his fraternity of buddies had long since left him, and moved to France to escape what had become the greatest liberal republic on earth.

The Ivy League faculty member was oblivious to his current living conditions, quality of the meals he ate, or the single garment the former professor wore. Nevertheless, as it turns out, Schwartz was in a great situation, one of the best places to be considering the state of this "New, Future America."

In that thirty years our hero's appearance had degenerated into something bordering on the comical, nothing like his undusted, venerable portrait hanging askew on one of the walls of the now-shuttered Butler Library of the now-shuttered Columbia University campus. The academic's hair was unkempt, oily, long, stringy, and a mix of white and grey. The former "educator-indoctrinator" was no longer clean-shaven, but now sported something resembling a bird's nest. It was bushy and doubled as a dust bunny broom on those nights when the overcrowded conditions forced him to snooze on the floor. The fashionable ascot the scholar was pictured wearing under a fashionable tweed jacket with elbow patches had been replaced by a less than fashionable doggy collar and something resembling an untied hospital gown. Instead of the bright, intelligent smile, the academician now often wore an imbecilic grin that showed off what remained of his yellowed, stained teeth. The nails of his hands and feet were long and un-manicured. The last time it rained was a week ago, consequently the academic smelled a lot like his sanitarium residence: a mixture of bleach, porridge, urine and schiessen all combined into one pungent, toxic, vile form of air pollution that accompanied the former guru wherever he went.

"Wait a minute, what is 'schiessen?'"

Schiessen (pronounced shy-zuh) is Swiss for "shit" and is used throughout this book in speculation that it might someday become required reading, if not in American Literature classes, then abroad in studies on the rise and fall of the United States of America. Casual, or speed readers, those who skim through the pages not reading every important, carefully chosen and articulated word will likely not even notice the replacement, but obviously you...you must be one of those who eagerly devours every word, perhaps even reading the whole nine yards out loud. For you the exchange should come as a blessing...especially if there are youthful innocents around. So, now that I've addressed your question, let's get back to the professor...

"Wait one more minute, why the Swiss version, why not use some other nationality's word for shit?"

Cuz dear reader, the differing options: mierda (Spanish), schießen (German), cac (Irish), дерьмо (Russian), stront (Dutch), צואה (Hebrew), σκατά (Greek), dritt (Norwegian), et cetera, et cetera, just did not have the same kind of zing as schiessen...well, possibly "cac" (pronounced KAK, or KAHK) would also work, but the others...the others just didn't have the same kind of zing to them, or they were simply incomprehensible for most who might pick up this book...so, can I move on?

"So, are you going to use 'cac,' too?"

I have to admit "cac" does have a kind of nice ring to it...valorous, undeviating, one syllable, and it even appears like it could double for several dissimilar four-letter pejoratives. "Cac" sounds like it could even be used out of context, conceivably even to throw off some of those speed readers who just don't understand how many hours of toil and sweat go into a work of art like this. I must admit anything that might slow those people down would be completely justified. Sure, why not? "Cac" is in, and sure we will use it occasionally out of context.

Now let us return to our adventure...

"Okay, let's go."

To look at Professor Schwartz now, no one would have ever guessed this character had once been one of the "haves" among America's highbrow, an Ivy League English professor with all the pins, ribbons and plaques attesting to his blue-blood pedigree...but of course that was then and this is now. The former scholar no longer looked like the spit-and-polish American aristocrat he had once been. Instead the former kingpin had the same undesirable appearance as every other inmate in the place, and appeared like a mindless, disheveled, vagabond who was barely clothed and so drugged up the man had little to no idea he was even breathing, let alone alive.

Over the course of three decades, Schwartz, like his compatriots, had been called many things, including just about every disparaging four-letter name the orderlies could dream up, given their limited education and vocabulary. There was, however, one thing that always stuck: the one common thread that followed the former academic no matter what institution he was in. That one thing was the faded number everyone could still see stenciled on the front of the gown he had been wearing for the past ten or twenty years: "No. 112."

It was admittedly a shame none of the personnel, nor administrators knew anything about Patient No. 112; they had no clue that in 2050 America, the professor would be considered one of the "most educated" and possibly "brightest" inhabitants in the union...that was if the light upstairs were ever to come back on.

Why make such a bold statement? Cuz it was true! Patient No. 112 was educated, and by inference intelligent, right? He had not only graduated from elementary school, something ninety-five percent of the Americans could not now claim, the former English professor had also graduated from both middle school and high school! This bloke had gone on to college, not just for four years or six years, the professor had never left! By 2050, the professor's PhD put him into extremely rarified air, one in 152 million to be exact. Sure the doctorate he held was in English and worthless outside academia; nevertheless, still his accomplishments represented something very unique in the country. If only Patient No. 112 could somehow wake up, the nation would learn of his smartness and historic role in helping put today's ignorant, poverty-stricken masses up on top and in the driver's seat!

Most Americans do not like to face the fact that if it were not for high-minded know-it-alls like Professor Schwartz, indoctrinating generation upon generation with their ideology under the guise of education, news, or the arts, today's know-nothing masses may have never come to prominence, never reached the joy of joys they now enjoyed, and never have become the ones calling the shots!

The workers...no, the entire country owed personages like Patient No. 112 a debt of gratitude...gratefulness for the land they now called "home," the republic they now called "theirs," the country they had turned into something resembling the third-world countries from whence they had all come.

The point is, would Americans ever learn that this man, this English professor, was like one of their "founding parents," like one of the original signatories of their highly revised U.S. Constitution...one of the twenty percent of Americans in 2020 calling themselves "liberals" who helped facilitate the metamorphosis today's Americans needed to become the preponderance of voters?

Schwartz was one of those brilliant visionaries, someone who saw what the populace could become, one of a hundred-or-so of those exalted munificents to still live in America, who hadn't moved overseas like the rest and were now enjoying the fruits of their clairvoyance; albeit, in the former professor's case, unconsciously. Would the former English professor ever receive his just due? Would anyone ever find out how truly great and important this smelly white guy was? Only time and this rambling story will tell.

So, what had been Patient No.112's role in changing America? How had the college academic, when he was a real, reasoning guru contributed to the cause of today's masses? Suffice to say, this scholar was like most within the liberal enclaves of the time: the Democrat Party, academia, the media, the unions, the arts, law and entertainment: men, women and those in between who were convinced of the purpose of their cause even though the realities belied virtually every one of their representations. They were devotees who, when challenged, 'would not' because they 'could not' defend the realities that accompanied their positions, all that did not matter...no, it did not matter that the ends they sought went in opposition to reality. Why? Because these self-appointed demigods like this professor were above all that...all that minutiae. They were simply looking at the bigger picture, merely willing to overlook truth in the interest of following that imaginary "Yellow Brick Road" into their imaginary "World of Oz."

How had people like the former university professor succeeded, one might ask? Well, for one, Schwartz was part of a clique of liberals who practiced 'moronicism,' a unique way of living, a philosophy of life that led to lifestyles beyond "foolish," or "dull," but more typified "stupidity," or the painful lack of good judgment. Moronicism was more than mere 'moronism' for the sheer level of idiocy; the practice was beyond anything your typical moron could dream up. No, 'moronicism' only worked if one were a 'moronicist' meaning people who were accepted by and educated in the Ivory Halls of Academia. This invariably meant members of this club had to have money...lots of it, which translated into being from either an upper-middle to upper class family. Only with bona fide breeding and the proper education could someone become like the professor...someone who could use more confusing, haughty, flowery phraseology than necessary with the sole purpose of baffling any and everyone with their absurd theories and constant mental masturbation...and their strategy had worked. By 2050, largely everyone in America had accepted the moronocists' version of reality. As a result, the republic was well beyond the point of no return and a prime example of a veritable, liberal paradise on earth.

So, the only question that remained was: now that these "leftist do-gooders" had succeeded, how were the American citizens enjoying their lives? How were they benefiting from the actions of the "wizards of smart?" What was life like in this so called, liberalized society? We will soon see through the eyes of our hero what the realm had become and just how good things had gotten.

Would the moronicist, Felix Schwartz, love his "New, Future America?" Would the English professor embrace the results of the enlightened experiment, or would he, like his brethren, flee to France...if the former aristocrat could?

...Again, only time would tell.
Current Times

To this day Professor Schwartz had lived out most of his comatose existence in low-security institutions that mirrored the appearance of correctional facilities, institutions that came in all shapes, sizes and could have even been, for example, churches, museums, or airport terminals at one time, or another. Security could range from armed sentries to part-time help from local temporary agencies. Facilities could be high-security, prison-like places, or low-security, prison-like places and all generally had chain link fences surrounding them.

The place Patient No. 112 now called home was Grey Hall Sanitarium, an all-male facility and former elementary school, a red brick with white trim building surrounded by a chain link fence and an impenetrable wall of shrubbery that kept the tenants of the surrounding housing project and inmates free from seeing, though not from smelling or hearing one another. Grey Hall was a low-security facility where patients were docile, heavily sedated, only partially clothed and stinky.

During our hero's time at Grey Hall, or any of the myriad of facilities the former scholar had once called 'home,' the former big cheese never uttered a coherent word, was often seen drooling, and frequently just stared off into oblivion...something his former colleagues would have thought a sign of intelligence. There was no higher consciousness, no brain waves to speak of, just the mind of a primitive with those blank, blue eyes occasionally blinking. That goofy smile unexpectedly appeared then, just as suddenly, disappeared...and the stench...the reekiness of his countenance remained a constant reminder that it needed to rain soon. Whew! It needed to rain REAL soon!

His records gave no age, no indication of where the former faculty member had come from, or why he had been admitted, even though the last point was fairly obvious. The answers to those and other relevant questions had gone up in smoke during the Food Stamp Riots of 2025.

By 2050, over eighty percent of citizens were wards of the State: alcohol, pot, crack, crank, uppers, downers, hallucinogens, et cetera, et cetera, had become legal for anyone above the age of fourteen, and the republic's economy was still mired in what the media establishment were calling "The Greatest Depression of All Time," still claiming the Republican Party were the ones at fault, still forgetting the Republican Party had ceased to exist some two decades earlier.

The empire was bankrupt, the money was worthless and the private sector...well the private sector had been taxed into nothingness and was now predominately owned by the Department of Bankruptcy. Literacy had fallen to such a low juncture most Americans could neither read nor write and English...English was now being called something else depending on the region of the country, either Ebangish (Pronounced ē-ˈbang-ˈish), or Egangish (Pronounced ē-ˈgang-ˈish), or Edangish (Pronounced ē-ˈdang-ˈish): Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish.

In the past, the odd slang of uneducated people had been back stage, only in use when people moved in and out of different cultural situations. Now, those once strange localisms were up front, center stage and embraced by the entire nation. What had started out as local social snafus had become national treasures with phonetics the centerpiece and star attraction. Americans were using sounds for pronouncing words, for spelling out terms, for writing expressions and for making up utterances. Sounding expressions out was fun and well within the grasp of today's masses...a truly, wonderful and wondrous thing.

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish was an example of what happens when you take a large homogeneity of commonality and confine it to neighborhoods where the most alluring kind of work was hustling drugs or pimping out prostitutes. They were locations where schools were little more than places where someone might usually get shot. So, given circumstances like these, it is no wonder concern over learning English made little sense and naturally fell off everyone's radar.

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish was literally twenty-five cultural bastardized variations of original English all rolled up into one spectacular, out of this world, sensational means of communicating with one another. To give you an idea of how far the republic had fallen, one only had to ask any European forced to interact with today's ordinary American; they would often describe conversations as very similar to exchanges with the Irish by around mid-afternoon: generally incoherent dribble, a few words making sense, but mostly drunken, meaningless sounds...but, so what! Who cares what the foreigners thought! It doesn't matter what they thought anyway, not as long as one's fellow Americans understood what in the world each other was saying...at least enough to make out some of the conversation.

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish was sort of like conversations you would find in the Amazon rainforest...you know when you've got a diverse collection of tribes interacting with one another to discuss things like how to make shrunken heads, how to properly dress out a tree sloth for dinner, or how to get the tarnation out of the bug-infested jungle and to some sort of civilization.

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish had been spawned by a variety of cultures whose origins ranged from white-trash trailer parks of the South, correctional facilities all across the nation, low-income housing projects of the Northeast, Bohemian districts in places like San Francisco, New York...any major metropolitan city and just about any migrant community from any third-world dominion south of the border, including the Caribbean and West Africa (except for Guyana)...basically, your ordinary, everyday Democrat voter.

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish had much-of-a-muchness sounding expressions that had some similitude with English, a language that was no longer 'numero uno.' It was something more akin to Latin, the basis for many terms, but otherwise totally extinct and unused outside one of the half-dozen remaining centers of higher education. This was quite probably going to be the professor's worst nightmare. After all, his whole waking life had been dedicated to the now defunct style, so his credentials would in all likelihood also be worthless. Who knows, the possibility might exist that the former scholar had some money rat-holed somewhere the IRS could not find it? Conceivably the moronicist was still a "have?" Perhaps the professor could avoid debasing himself from activities associated with that four-letter word all liberals loathed with great disdain, "Work!"

Nevertheless, what if the former English professor did not have anything? What if Patient No. 112 was no longer a "have?" What then? I mean really, what could the gentleman do with a PhD in Literature? Taxi driver? Garbage collector? Possibly a gig at the United Nations as a translator?

This line of reasoning leads us to a further series of riveting questions. Why had English been transcended by Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish? Was there any chance English could be resurrected? Was there a chance the scholar's PhD in English might be worth something in the "New, Future America?"

The answers to the last two questions were unequivocally, No! No, for good reasons, reasons that also answer some major points surrounding the first question. For one, English was an exacting jargon and arduous to learn. English was inflexible, almost like it was written into stone and totally nonuser friendly. Sure, English could be used in conversation, the dialect could even be used to communicate through the written word, but alas, the damn thing was too exacting and much too difficult for today's American majority...a populace which had been "dumbed down" so far, well, the Tower of Babel in the Book of Genesis comes to mind.

God...no, not "Gaia." God came down to see what humanity had become and did not like what he saw. Then, like now, there was a universal language, in this case for the union: English. God then said, "Come, let us confound their speech." This was the part where the liberals picked up the ball fostering the surge in popularity of various confusing dialects. That's why Congress adopted the 32nd Amendment, relegated English to history and replaced it with the more than accommodating, more confusing, Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, the discourse of variation...the lexicon of the future!

Communities across the land wholeheartedly embraced their own confounded languages and all was good. The lemmings, however, did not realize that the move by the authorities was all part of a "master plan," a plan to keep them permanently uninformed, a plan that hampered the ability for Americans to unite...because the liberals helped confound the speech of all. But, there was much good to come out of the transition thanks to the phonetic diversity of Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish.

Phonetics was indeed the strong suit of the new, national style, that and its colorfulness, breadth of variety and abundant use of four-letter words for emphasis...DAMN IT! For example, the professor's name, anyone's name, evolved with time to become increasingly fascinating, more colorful, more confusing; it was much like the evolution of surnames during the Middle Ages...only this was 21st Century America! The transformation of the professor's name would never stop changing thanks to the phonetic diversity of Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish.

Some of the orderlies now called him "Bic," the one nurse, "Dick," and the doctor that visited every six months: "Vik." At least they were consistent in never getting his real name right; nevertheless, truth be told, Schwartz did not actually care what he was called. The former English professor responded to just about anything the orderlies yelled at him: "Hey idiot," "Hey mo'on," "Hey stoopid," "Hey imbécil," "Hey Bic," "Hey Dick," "Hey Vik," so long as whoever it was trying to get his attention whistled first.

The tweeting of a whistle...Tweet!

If there were a problem with Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish it was that it was not consistent, was forever changing, becoming more sophisticated, more refined and yet, would never legitimately lend itself to being written, or read, which as it turned out was fine on account that it was fun. Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish was a lot of fun...and took no kind of real education to figure out...a real necessity for today's elementary school dropouts.

Tweet!

Oh yeah, the whistles. Patients like the professor responded to the noise of the whistles as much as having something resembling their name yelled at them. Wait a minute! Every patient responded when someone blew a whistle leading to more than a little confusion at times.

The sanitarium staff found a police whistle worked best; each had one tied around their neck in view of the reality that it needed to be real handy, a person could lose their voice yelling at the patients all day. So, the police whistle was standard equipment, that and fly swatters. If the tweeting of a whistle did not get a patient's attention then, WHACK!...the fly swatter was sure to work, but the whistle generally worked best.

All day and much of the night the sweet sound of whistles could be heard throughout the surrounding government project.

Tweet!

It was, for all practical purposes, like the neighbors were living next to Grand Central Station.

Tweet!

The neighbors must have loved those sweet, piercing tweets when they happened every five to ten minutes, carried on the winds, filling their ears morning, noon and night!

Tweet!

More than once the neighbors had displayed their gratitude for the shrill, piercing sounds of those whistles by hurling rocks at the former schoolhouse, shooting guns in the same general direction, or by tossing an occasional fire bomb up over the hedge at night, apparently to keep what the freeloaders, the housing project tenants, called "retards" entertained. The fires the neighbors created from time to time were a real treat for those patients not tied in their beds. Those that were ambulatory would gather around the windows peering out at the flames, most with their glassy, empty stares standing stationary up to the time when the next whistle caught their attention.

Tweet!

The reaction of the patients to whistles had become so Pavlovian most of the orderlies amused themselves by standing at opposite ends of the long hallways taking turns blowing their whistles. Most of the patients thinking, or not thinking, they were being called would follow the whistling noise moving back and forth from one end of the hallway to the other, back and forth, back and forth. This could go on for hours depending on how many orderlies were involved. The administration endorsed the practice, saw the active herd of zombies for what it was, a genuine way to improve employee morale, provide some laughs and stimulate the patients, cardiovascularly speaking.

Those whistles; they could be heard going off all day...and much of the night.

Tweet!

You will see the patients being referred to as "walking vegetables," or "zombies." That was because that's what they looked like most of the time largely after the morning gruel was served.

The Food and Drug Administration had long ago endorsed and mandated the use of tranquilizers for prison inmates, sanitarium inmates, military personnel up through the rank of 'Major' and youth over the age of fourteen. By the time Americans reached adulthood, they were usually strung out on some sort of drug, or corn liquor, so there was no need for authoritative mandates to kick in, at least until that time was reached when that part of humanity became miscreants, or insane and entered a penitentiary, a rehab center, or a facility like Grey Hall.

Tranquilizers were seen by the "Forever President" as one of the best methods for helping curb violent behavior, creating a more compliant populace and maintaining what was left of the economy through drug taxation. The Food and Drug Administration only described what dosage and kind of barbiturates could be used on the youth, or in the military; the choice was left up to the individual institutions to decide those issues for themselves.

At Grey Hall patients were fed a combination of saltpeter and horse tranquilizers in the morning gruel: a mishmash of mostly corn, some unpasteurized milk, peanuts, beans and sunflower seeds all blended into something like a thick, pasty porridge. On notable occasions: Earth Day, Food Stamp Day, May Day, Labor Day and Federal Day; the cooks would even throw a case of bananas into the mix, a real treat that would go largely unnoticed by most patients in their near catatonic states.

All right, so that's some background on our hero's little world. We have reached a time where you, I, and in all likelihood, the author, can start getting into the "real meat" of this little adventure. A time when the primitive mind unwittingly took the professor on the road...literally onto a highway...the first series of steps into this new, fantastic world...the world of the moronicist's dreams!
A New Day

The summer skies were cloudless, the birds were singing, the bees were buzzing, the dogs were barking and the patients in their fetid, stained gowns were shuffling around the hallways reeking to high heaven.

Outside the now rare spectacle of a jetliner crossed the sky leaving in its wake a white contrail. It used to be you could see those vapor trails everywhere crisscrossing the heavens. Now, you might see a single airliner once a month if you were lucky.

Wait! What's that?

The familiar contrail turned a brownish color for a few moments. Was that smoke? Was the jetliner having engine trouble? No, there was the familiar white contrail, once more. What in the world was...Wait! There it is...again!

Hold on a second.

The sound of rustling papers...Rustle...rustle...rustle

I don't see anything in the script on what on earth is happening. Wait a moment while I check.

The noise of footsteps moving off into the background...Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump...tap...

The creaking of a door opening.

What sounds like two fellows whispering in the background...Pssst...pssst...pssst

Someone asking, "What?" out loud, nevertheless muffled like they're talking from a room farther away.

More whispering...Pssst...pssst...pssst

What sounds like the narrator's voice, "Oh, that's right!"

Noise of a door closing shut...

Thud

The noise of approaching footsteps....Thump...tap, thump, tap, thump, tap...

Sorry, the novelist forgot to clue me in on just what was happening to that airliner. Seems what looked like smoke, the brownish stuff, was simply the Department of Energy at work; an energy-saving measure allowing the airlines to simply dump (flush) the passengers' cac into the heavens.

"What the f@!*?"

I know, but remember this is 2050 and things have changed a little. There are now bureaucrats running the country who could very well have been living in a jungle, mud huts, or using outhouses...just last year!

In today's America the regulation made perfect sense; less weight meant better mileage, nevertheless getting the authorization...that had not been easy. The Department of Energy was fought tooth and nail by both the Environmental Protection Agency and the Department of the Sierra Club, both of which had a cow at the thought that this simple act might reignite Global Warming.

The media establishment was calling the court battle that ensued the "Case of the Century." Ultimately the legal struggle worked its way up to the Supreme Court which, up to then, spent most of its time reinterpreting the U.S. Constitution and any laws that no longer made any sense...largely any previous law on the books. After years of bickering back and forth, the Department of Energy ultimately prevailed with its lawyers using the rationale that cac was good for plants (fertilizer). The speed of the aircraft alone would blast everything into sub-particles, which by the time any of it reached the ground would be so dispersed, most Americans would never take notice of the drizzle. Just the same, the measure had created a mass exodus along the few remaining commercial flight paths, but at the same time had the unforeseen benefit of creating a small windfall from new foreclosures for the agencies 'Fredrico's Mea' and 'Fredricka's Mack.'

\-----

The bright sun lit up the interior of the doddering schoolhouse, and a gentle wind blew through the chicken-wire screened windows, carrying with it the stench of the patients into the surrounding neighborhood apartments. The occupants of the projects did not seem to mind much, after all, D'HUD, the Department of Housing and Urban Development, had been using "open air" settling ponds for human waste for years...most everyone was now acclimated to the miasma of schiesma everywhere.

The reclamation ponds worked wonders, except for the bouquet, or when they filled up, but otherwise were entirely environmentally friendly and helped save the planet. Waste ponds were also shown by experts to have other beneficial side effects, including helping forestall the depletion of the ozone layer, helping save the gray whales, the polar bears, the snail darters, the grey bats, the spruce-fir moss spiders, the zayante-band winged grasshoppers and thousands upon thousands of other mammals, amphibians, insects, birds, fish, lizards, frogs, clams, plants, snails, rats, mice, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Settling ponds were a good thing...No! They were a very good thing! Why? Owing to the fact that a consensus of experts in Washington said so...and consensuses of experts were always proven to be consensually right.

Okay, so enough about the 'cac ponds,' let us now turn our attention back to Patient No. 112 who was sitting with the first shift of retards...you know that's honestly not right calling crazy inmates "retards." I know the neighbors call them "retards," nevertheless they're "ignoramuses" themselves. There's got to be a middle ground..."patients" and "inmates" just isn't edgy enough. There's got to be something more gripping and just outside the boundaries of "political correctness."

"What about just keeping to 'idiots?'"

"Idiots" is not unique enough sounding.

"Fair enough, what about something from the Urban Dictionary?"

Good idea, let me take a look.

Seconds pass...

The noise of someone slowly pecking at a keyboard, in all likelihood only with their index fingers.

Tic...

Click...

Tic...

More time passed with more slow pecking.

Schiessen (the teller of yarns had made a typographical error).

Click...

Tic...

Click...

Click...

More time passes, more slow pecking.

Click...

Tic...

Schiessen (a further typo).

Click

Tic...tic...

"What's taking so long!"

How do you spell "dictionary?"

"What?!@, you're kidding, right?"

No, I've almost got it.

"The hell with this! I'll take a look!"

Tic, tic, tic...click, click, clickity...tic, click, tickity, click...just a few seconds pass.

"Okay, I'm there. Most of the options appear to be fairly obvious: nitwit, stupid, dumbass, douche, dork...wait, here's one, 'f*$#!tard!'"

I am of the opinion we would have a bit of a hard time getting a word like that past the "Word Nazis."

"Word Nazis?"

Yes, basically any person who believes themselves to be smart; was, or is in academia and looks for any excuse to come down hard on another's literary work. They generally lack intelligence, soul and most will in all likelihood end up as elementary school English teachers...or at the very least have bad marriages and then go to hell.

"Oh, wait! Here's one more good one, 'dipptard.'"

I have to admit that does sound darn good.

"No, it sounds perfect! It is a perfect play on words, 'dip' like in 'dip-schiessen' and 'tard' like in 'retard,' dipptard!"

Wow, you are right! No one can claim it's not "politically correct," it's not like the Urban Dictionary qualifies as a Webster's Dictionary, so the 'Word Nazis' can't hold us accountable.

"Darn right!"

How do you spell it?

"Dipptard, d-i-p-p-t-a-r-d, dipptard."

Good, "dipptard," "dipptards," and "dipptarded" are now a part of our repertoire.

"You're welcome."

Fine...now let's return to...

"What, no thanks for the help?"

Jee whiz! All right, thanks, now can I return to the story?

"I'm not sure I like your tone."

My apologies, it was a late night. That author and his unholy snoring.

"Damn it must be real bad."

You don't know the half of it, anyhow let's get on with this rambling account, all right? The quicker I can get through this book, the sooner I get to go on that cruise the author has promised me.

"Lucky...sure, go for it."

So, the professor who thirty-minutes earlier had been led into the former, school gymnasium by a dog leash...I know, I describe the reason for the dog collar and leash in a bit. Anyhow, the professor was one of a third of the inmates who were squeezed into the old gymnasium and pushed onto the benches of the picnic tables. Things were a bit tight, instead of normal eight adults per table, twelve inmates were smooched together inevitably leading to some pushing and shoving. Throughout mealtimes, dozens of inmates would inevitably get nudged off the end of their bench, which would start a chain reaction. For someone glancing in from the outside mealtime would have appeared to be some kind of game with the dipptards imitating what appeared to be a human variation of the 'Executive Ball Clicker,' or what some call 'Newton's Balls.'

Picking themselves up the fallen patients would force themselves back up onto their perch sending a shockwave through the other five, or so inmates inevitably pushing the dipptard off at the opposite end. The second, fallen crazy person would repeat the actions of the first and the process would repeat itself throughout the duration of meal time...at the dozen, or so tables!

Thankfully Patient No. 112 did not suffer such inconveniences, in reality this professor was something of a celebrity at Grey Hall, not because of what the professor had been, or done, but owing to the fact that he was an antique, the longest, living relic to have been in "the system."

The kitchen personnel had already made the rounds with their rolling tables carrying steel caldrons ladling the breakfast slop into the feeding troughs that acted as a centerpiece for each picnic table. The employees were now in the process of handing out the plastic spoons when the unmistakable noise of fly swatters swatting filled the air...Whack!...Whack! A couple of patients had gotten over eager and not waited for the spoons. They now paid for their insolence with the unmistakable, reddish mark of a fly swatter branding across their foreheads.

Special cases, like Patient No. 112, had unusual seating assignments. Sure, most had their arms and legs tied to the table and had to be hand fed. Many at Schwartz's table required that sort of handling. Most were mentally impaired with only their autonomic functions like traipsing, breathing, sneezing, munching, swallowing, doing #1, or #2 their only competence. Two orderlies responsible for feeding these more unique cases, let us call them the 'Old Hand' and 'New Hand,' were now carrying a bucket of slop from one patient to another shoveling breakfast into each inmate's mouth.

Soon, it was the former faculty member's turn.

"Okay Bic, open up," said the Old Hand.

No reaction, Professor Schwartz just continued staring off into limbo.

Sometimes for inexplicable reasons the 'intellectual's protoplasm' would not agree to the Old Hand's command, the normal Pavlovian Response to the verbal command would not work, right now appeared to be one of those instances.

"Bic, open up!"

Once more, no reaction.

"Okie dookie, you'd aks't fo it." The Old Hand now pinched the academic's nose close and moments later like magic...

Pop!

The mouth of Patient No. 112 snapped open.

Now that his mouth was open the New Hand shoveled in a spoonful of the delightful, tasting gruel...just enough so the patient would not gag. Then the Old Hand let the veteran dipptard's nose go. Immediately the professor's mouth shut like a trap.

Chomp!

"All right Bic, now chew it down real fine," said the Old Hand.

This was where the primitive part of the academic's brain automatically took over. Like clockwork the "academic's body" went through the mechanical motions of chewing...then swallowed.

While the two waited to plug a further spot of joy into "No. 112 body's mouth" the New Hand axes the question, "Why don't we let dese idiots dat..."

"Wait just a minute!"

What?

"Didn't you mean to say 'ask?'"

No, common expressions in English have morphed, or dropped completely from the scene. Words like "ask" have become terms like "aks," or "ack," "business" has become "bit'ness" and if there were any libraries still around "library" would now be called "lie-berry." "Axe" in this case is completely within the guidelines of Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish; the tense is correct and usage in that sentence is perfectly fine.

"'Axe' is the same thing as saying 'ask?'"

Yes, "axe" is the same thing as "ask" for all twenty-five iterations of Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish. You could also get away with using expressions like "aks," or "ack" in place of "ask," those would also work. I know what you're contemplating and yes writing in this new, national dialect can be a bit confusing in as much as the whole ball of wax is spelled and written...phonetically. You could end up with several dozen different ways of spelling terms like "ask." All to say, these subtle innovations in how expressions and sentence structure are composed to arrive at a perfunctory result are very tremendous things with "artsy fartsy" coming to mind when trying to describe the national language: Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, a truly super-duper advancement over the aged, might as well be Latin, English.

"Enthralling...I understand; nevertheless, you, I mean the author, is writing this book in English, right?"

What's your point?

"So, why use the phonetic spelling 'axed'? In all likelihood 'axe' and possibly 'axing' in place of 'ask,' probably 'asked' and possibly 'asking'...now?"

Hmmm....

I don't know the answer to that. I guess I am going to have to ask the author a further question? Be right back.

Once more, the noise of footsteps moving off into the background...Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump...tap.

Again, the creaking of a door opening...

Frank...[Narrator]

Silence, no answer.

Frankenstein...

Again, all was quiet and no reaction.

Hey, Frankie...!

Continued tranquility, again with no comeback. This time, however, the exchange taking place in the next room can be heard; there is no longer any mumbling.

What in tarnation are you doing?

"Uh, uh yes... I'm sorry, I must have been taking a nap," responds the voice of the author...

A nap! Are you kidding? At his hour!

"Why, what...what time is it?"

It's daylight...you fool! If you were awake you'd know that! Why don't you sleep when it's dark out like most normal seniors your age?

"But, I do?"

You realize that does not sound very good, don't you? Some guys may conclude you're one of those carbohydrate-addicted slobs who do diddly-squat all day except lay around eating potato chips, drinking high-calorie sodas, gaping at the 'Jerry's Bastard Junior Show,' or the 'Opie's Adopted Daughters' Network,' or waiting for the opportunity to screw any woman: plain, ugly, fat, would not matter; that might darken your doorway.

"I did not realize that. Hey!...I take offense to your comment about plain, ugly, fat women. They could end up reading this...this 'series novel.'"

I, in point of fact, doubt that, this is strictly a 'man's read!' You can't tell me you really believe a woman, any woman, dyke, or otherwise would ever pick this up and actually read it? Just look at the cover! The cover looks nothing like a Harlequin Romance novel!

"What's your point?"

All I'm saying is you better wake up and "smell the leather." Males...most males buy and read books by other guys...real men, not phonies that take naps...capishe!

"Jeez, I thought everyone my age was doing the same thing. I judged naps were just part of getting up in one's years. I suppose..."

Wait a minute! You, in point of fact, sound like you could be one of those slobs who lays around all day ingesting potato chips, downing high-calorie sodas and the like...while I'm busting my ass narrating this "non hit" of yours. Are you overweight?

"Well, maybe a little."

What's a little?

Hmmm...

"Possibly, twenty-five..."

Pounds! How...how tall are you?

"Perhaps five, eight."

Do you know what that means? Your body-mass-index is off the charts! Now, I know you've got a real "macho" image problem. Not only the napping part, but you're obese to boot! If you genuinely want real men to pick this up and read the series, you're going to have to adjust your image.

The noise of crickets...

Are you listening to me?

"Yes, I'm just a little speechless."

You should be, so do us both a favor...some dudes might actually want to read this thing; nevertheless, they won't if they get a look at you!

"Damn, don't get so upset."

Are you still listening to me?

"Yes, I'm listening."

Good, now look into my eyeballs...I'm serious, look into my eyes!

Okay, now repeat after me...

I promise...

"Is this honestly necessary?"

Repeat after me, I promise...

"Okay, I promise..." comes the author's voice with little enthusiasm.

I won't take any more naps...

"I won't take any more naps..."

When the teller of tales is yarn spinning.

"When the narrator is narrating."

Are we good?

"Yeah, I suppose we're good."

Good! Now to the reason I woke you up. Come with me...get off the sofa! Look, your one and only client is waiting for some answers.

The creaking of a door closing shut...

Thud!

The noise of two sets of approaching footsteps. Thump-thump...tap-tap, thump-thump, tap-tap, thump-thump, tap-tap.

The narrator and writer are now in the same room.

I know you can't see him; nevertheless, this is the author. He sure can write one infernal book can't he?

You, of course, have not decided if this character does in reality know what he's doing when it comes to writing, so you withhold a response, but you now cordially ask...

"Isn't the author going to say 'Hi,' or something?"

Don't just stand there, say something!

"Hello mister, misses, or missus 'reader.' So, you're one of the lucky ones to have found this packed-full book of revelations of mine," responds the author.

You are very likely put off by the author's comment. So what if he wrote a book! "A simple hello would have sufficed."

Huh! The yarn spinner senses hostility brewing. What's going on here? Are they fighting already?

Wait a second! I'd say we've had enough of the pleasantries for the moment, so let's get to "the reader's" questions.

The person reading your novel and I would like to know why the schiessen you're using "axed," possibly "axe" and in all likelihood "axing" in place of "ask," possibly "asked" and probably "asking"...in this book?

The self-taught, untrained novelist responds, "Well, first of all this is a 'series novel', not just a book, and the reason I've included the new terms in the script is in view of the actuality that I believe it's important today's Americans embark upon making the transition to our peachy future now, so they won't get blindsided, so they will be ahead of the game, so to speak."

Well, that certainly makes sense to me.

"I'd say that depends, what's the probability the United States will become what's described in this book?"

"'Series novel,'" restates the author. "It is a 'series novel.'"

"Don't you mean 'serial novel?'"

"'Serial novel?' That certainly sounds the same as 'series novel' to me."

"I am of the opinion that the real question is if 'series novel' is even a real term. Did you look it up?"

"Uh...no," replies the author, "it sounded right."

The noise of fast keyboard typing.

Tickity, clickity, tic, tic, click, click, tickity...click.

"I just did an internet search and zippo comes up for 'series novel.'"

What about 'serial novel'?

"Just one moment."

A moment passes...more fast typing.

Tic, click, tic, tic, click, click, tickity...clickity.

"Yes, 'serial novel' comes up all over the place. Here is one definition: serial novel...a serial novel is a publishing format whereby a single, large story is presented in contiguous, typically chronological installments...numbers, parts, or fascicles."

There you have it! sites the Narrator.

A stillness descends upon the setting...tension is in the air, that is up to the time the author apparently remembers the person now reading the novel could very well be the only person to ever read the thing.

Of course, the writer has already forgotten the original question, so breaks the chill in the air with, "You said you had some questions for me?"

What's the answer...what's your answer to "the reader's" original question about probability?

"Hmmm...that's indubitably hard to say with any accuracy. Nevertheless given all that's happening today: the fifty percent of Americans on the government dole, double-digit unemployment, liberals' control over the education system, the media and pretty much all of Washington...I'd say ninety percent."

"Ninety percent!"

"Both you and whoever is reading this masterpiece need to keep in mind this adventure takes place...let's see 2050 minus 2013 is thirty-seven years out. In that time what's described herein is an easily doable putt."

"Hey, don't be despondent; you two should look at this more positively. You'll have plenty of time to either make the necessary adjustments...or move overseas."

The sound of more crickets...

"I guess you two are in a little shock, but believe me, you will get over it. One more thing, you may see other terms like 'aax,' or 'axd' thrown into the mix, so don't be confused; they mean exactly the same thing."

Thanks.

"So, do you need anything else from me?"

No, I think we are both hunky-dory."

"Good, then I am off to take...I mean to do some pushups."

The noise of footsteps moving off into the background...

Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump...tap.

The creaking of a door opening...and closing shut.

Thud!

What sounds like the door being locked.

Click!

Now, nothing except the muted sound of crickets...

More crickets...

"I bet he's going back for some more nap time."

Or...hit the refrigerator, the fatso. Hey, wait a second, how did you know?

"You two weren't exactly whispering earlier."

Then you heard the whole kit and caboodle? The "scent of leather" part and all?

"Yes, but, so what."

Of course, you're right. Let us move on with this fairytale. I'll berate the author later if he's not taking my advice. I mean would you pick up a book from an author that did not have machismo?

"I read a woman's novel once."

So, you're telling me image doesn't matter?

"No, I believe you're right, but why are we spending so much time on this topic?"

You're right, the hell with this matter...back to the moronicist.

Remember that the former scholar was being assisted by two orderlies, the Old Hand and the New Hand, with his breakfast. That was when the New Hand aax, "Whay don't we's jus let des mo'ons datt can't feed themselves starve?"

"A'cuz, ya' honkyfool, we wants' de vegetable types. Dose unruly ones, even wid de ho'se tranqs, kin be real hard t'manage. Some is even waaay downright dangewous," answered the Old Hand.

"Shit, I mean schiessen! What on earth did all that mean?"

I have not got a clue, but luckily the author has included a translation of these new fangled conversations in Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish. There's also a note from the novelist.

"To whom it may concern. As a courtesy, an English rendering will accompany all exchanges, at least up to the juncture where your average everyday, high-school student should have a working grasp of the future, magical, inspiring language and can transcribe things for themselves."

"That's not going to happen."

You're not leaving that up to me are you?

"If you want me to read this thing, yes."

Gulp...Wait a second. I will just find the author when I need something translated! Brilliant, right?

"Whatever you have to do, all I know is I'm not going to learn, never mind attempt to translate, this...this near, meaningless bilge."

No problem, I've got this conversion thing covered. For now, let's continue with the dialog...and transcriptions.

Now, we are at the point where the Old Hand has said the following, "A'cuz, ya' honky fool, we wants' de vege'ble kndes. Dose unruly ones, even wid de ho'se tranqs, kin be real hard t'manage. Some is even waaay downright dangewous."

[This roughly translates to, "Cuz you naive boy, we want the easygoing dipptards. Those unruly ones, even with the sedatives, can be very hard to manage. Some are even downright dangerous."]

"Dange'ros?"

"Yeah Dog, dangewous...Ah' saw one dude dig some piece uh his ear bit off once weh tey be too clos weh munch'in. Anoda' time, Marty lost his too'f when one uh dose mo'ons bonkie'd some fo'ken hed in hed mss'n hed...Dog!"

[Yes, dangerous...I saw one person get a piece of his ear bit off once when he got too close to one of the knuckleheads when he was eating. Another time, Marty (another orderly) lost his front tooth when one of those morons accidentally butted him in the noggin with his noodle]!"

"Gaut all mighty, Dog!"

"Yea, dat's right, Dog!" [Yea, that's right!]

By the way, it should be noted at this juncture that "dog," "bitch" and "bitches" are expressions used extensively by the multitude of the future. Dog, or dogs, is used in place of terms like man, or men; male, or males; boy, or boys; dad, or dads; father, or fathers; et cetera, et cetera. Likewise, the expressions, woman, female, girl, girlfriend, wife, spouse, daughter, sister, mother, aunt, et cetera, et cetera have been replaced by "bitch" in the singular...and "bitches" in the plural. Calling everyone dog, bitch and bitches might seem absurd today, but they do have some meritorious qualities, which we will discuss later.

"Now ya' see dat one upside dere" [Now you see that one over there], said the Old Hand pointing at another human wreck sitting a couple of picnic tables away, facing them with a couple of his front teeth missing.

"De one miss'in his fwont tee'f [The one missing his front teeth]?"

"Yea Dog, eye fow and eye...a too'f fow a too'f." [Yea Dog, eye for an eye...a tooth for a tooth].

"Yea, but he's missin' uh his front too'fs, looks mo'e likes 'eye fow and eye...a too'f fow a too'fs'." [Yea, but he's missing a couple of his front teeth; looks more like eye for an eye...some teeth for a tooth].

"Yea Dog, Mawty mighta gotten cawwied away." [Yes, Marty might have gotten carried away].

"But-tom wine, you've to make suwe these nut-basket mo'ons eat this crap, othewwise they can a'be wil' becames vio'ent stoop'ids, WORD!" [Bottom line, you've got to make sure these patients eat this cac, otherwise they can and will become violent dipptards, capishe!]

The Old Hand now noticed Patient No. 112 had swallowed its first mouthful of gruel and the primitive mind had learned its lesson and opened "Schwartz's mouth" without any prompting.

"Okay, Bic's ready f' anodeh."

It took a few minutes for the "intellectual's mouth" to finish up breakfast. The two orderlies moved on to the next patient and a half-hour later another whistle blew.

Tweet!

The Old Hand yelled out, "Hey yo' mo'ons!" [Hey, everybody listen to me]!

"It's time t'git outside." [It's time to get outside].

"It is a right purdy day junts." [It is a beautiful day].

"Yer a-gonna love it." [You are going to love it].

"Now, git gwine." [Now, let's get hoofing!]

Now, the orderlies began to knock their charges off the picnic benches to get things in motion, and before long the floor was covered in heavily sedated inmates. A half hour later with a lot of whistle blowing, shouting and fly swatter action, most of the nuts were on their feet and shuffling their way at the staff's insistence to a pair of double doors that led to the playground. Some were still moving too slowly for the Old Hand's patience.

Tweet!

The Old Hand blew his whistle once more.

Tweet!

...and added, "Ah said, git th' fuk Out yo' stoop...ids!" [Please everyone, please pick up the pace people!]

Another whistle blew out in the hallway.

Tweet!

Someone could be heard yelling, "Okay id'iots, time fo' bustfast! Git a move on!" [Okay everyone, time for breakfast, so hurry up and get a move on]!

Tweet!

One of the high points for the patients at Grey Hall was walking, or standing around on the playground all day. The grounds were a little over an acre in size and wrapped around the former schoolhouse on all four sides. There was a long, clay-dirt driveway that led up to the steps of the main entrance once it passed through the chain-link front gate. The front gate was electrically operated by the guard in the guard shack just inside the fence.

On the north-facing side of the school, obscured from the view of the guard in the guard shack, the herd of zombies descended the steps as they emerged from the double doors. The direction they walked depended on the direction an insane person on horse tranquilizers was pushed. It was remarkable how each patient eventually moved off to every point of the compass, save for those first few to get penned against the security fence around the garbage just to the right of the exit.

Some dipptards would inevitably get turned around in the chaos, ended up facing the way they had come and tried to saunter back into the cafeteria. They were greeted with kind expressions and a little nudge.

Another whistle blew...

Tweet!

"Turn back aroun' yo' fools an' hoof it in a diffrunt direckshun befo'e ah git pissed as a weasel in a blender off!" [Please, please turn back around you ingrates and go for a walk in another direction. Please listen to me, else I might genuinely get mad, and you really do not want to get me upset!]

"Fry mah hide [I'll be damned]!"

"Okay, ah warned yo'...take thet yo' stoopid, idiota mo'ons!" [Okay, I warned you...take that you impudent humans!]

One crazy, drooling, cross-eyed patient got whacked on the noggin with a fly swatter; one more dipptard to the butt by a sandaled foot; a further drugged out insane character back on the noodle with another fly swatter. Even plants respond to harsh treatment and these walking vegetables were no different. Eventually, all were turned around to face another point of the compass, off to wander about the less-than-scenic landscape for the rest of the day...in an utter fog.

You might axe, "What happens when a patient runs out of real estate? Most, after all, only strolled in straight lines."

The answer is, if it was not too hot out, most of the zombies would mosey up to the security fence and simply stand there peering off with blank stares into the wall of shrubbery up to the time some movement caught their eye...a bird perhaps, maybe a bee, a rock from one of the neighborhood kids...or the flies which never looked as if they would go away.

On piping-hot days, or when it rained torrentially, the inmates would congregate like cattle under the cover of several oak trees that had grown up outside the security fence. The zombies would stand there for hours grunting, moaning, drooling and every thing else. The only thing to break the monotony and their combined noise making, that did in reality sound a lot like cows mooing, would be the late afternoon whistle calling them back into the schoolhouse for a further round of porridge...or the occasional lightning strike. Those lightning strikes were nature's way of culling the herd and giving those that survived a little added elbow room at the picnic-table benches.

Some of the dipptards, however, became what the staffers called "pinballs." Pinballs were the patients who wore doggie collars, like Professor Schwartz, and were led around on leashes. Otherwise, they would walk and amble and tromp around all day long. Once the restraints came off, pinballs would take off on one of their endless treks. Any time a pinball came up against an obstacle like the enclosure, or the red brick wall of the timeworn schoolhouse, or the two basketball posts with no backboards, or the one swing set with no swings, or the guard shack where the guard slept; they would switch directions. It unquestionably would have been a marvelous, wondrous thing to see film footage of those pinballs slogging around all day...say in fast motion...say on national television. It was an idea that had almost made it to the "Big Time."

The Food and Drug Administration had its own television network and was constantly on the lookout for something new and engrossing to air. Come to think of it, all the federal government agencies had their own television networks and most spent their budgets on programs that appealed to the majority of Americans, illiterates with Intelligence Quotients of sixty-five, or below.

To be fair there was no way to test the IQs of most Americans; those tests relied upon written and verbal exams that were designed for a populace with at least a 6th grade education and who used some sort of ordinary, boring language like Spanish, French, German, and yes, English. Today's citizens could barely read, never mind write in anything ordinary, and the education system was not going to be a lot of help what with it appearing more like a coed, K-12 penitentiary with drugs, gangs, and the teachers acting the part of prison guards. Besides, most of today's youth would drop out before they reached 3rd grade to join their parents and fellow amigos, embarking upon pursuits of hedonistic pleasures...and rioting.

"Rioting?"

Yes, rioting and looting.

By 2050, rioting had become akin to a national pastime, that and something resembling professional football with hockey sticks. For your average, everyday American, rioting was so common an event that they ignored them completely unless, of course, they were caught in the path of one. Most, however, were lucky, never finding themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time thanks to the NMASA, the National Mob Alert System Agency, the hurricane tracking system for mobs of rioters.

Like on the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Channel, the NMASA had twenty-four hour coverage of the changing nature and progress of lawlessness just like the weather across North America. The NMASA even used similar terminology like "Cone of Destruction" on account of both resembled the ruination wrought by both natural and man-made phenomena.

In the early days, peace-loving Americans had no answer for the chaos. 'Potluck' was what kept them from driving down the wrong street, walking around the wrong corner, or taking the wrong mass-transit service to get wherever they were going. Sure, Americans had no problems with riots in their own neighborhoods; they knew through their local 'community organizers' when and where their own free-for-alls were going to take place. The "what for" never appeared to matter; nevertheless, it could range from having your pooch run over by an ambulance to just having the need to blow off some steam at your fellow citizens' expense.

The "race card" was no longer a driving matter and had been completely taken off the table when the liberals opened the floodgates to every third-world nation south of the border to get more Democrat voters. Yesterday's minorities had become today's majority; they were the ones calling the shots. They were the ones running the show from "el Presidente" down.

"What happened to all the liberal elitists, the prodigy who helped create this awe-inspiring, fab 'New, Future America?'"

Before I answer that I have a question for you.

"Go, ahead."

How many times would you guess the novelist has plugged some variation of "liberal" into this novel?

"Twenty, or thirty times."

Try three-hundred and fifty-six.

"What the f@#&!?"

I know because I counted them last night. Now, for what reason would we give progressives free billing? I mean, the liberals already have the entire spectrum of the media pitching their crap twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

"What are you suggesting?"

Do you still have the Urban Dictionary open?

"You want some options for 'liberal?'"

That sure would be nice. I'll throw up, otherwise.

"This should take just a moment."

Tic, tic, tic...click, click, clickity...

"This could be fun."

Tic, click, tickity, click...

"Okay, here are some of the options: 'liberoner,' 'liboner,' 'libtarded,' 'libturded' and 'libtwerp'..."

Do they all have to have "lib" somewhere in the spelling?

"Give me a moment to check, no, no, no...Yes! Here are a few that show up that look propitious. Something called a 'goofnad,' then there's a 'moonbat,' an 'asshat,' and 'assclown.'"

Those sound promising. What's the definition for each? That may help with our selection.

"I'm paraphrasing here, but a 'goofnad' appears to be a derogatory play on words equating liberals to being goofballs, 'goof' short for 'goofy.' 'Nads' is an abbreviation for "gonads," so I suppose we're supposed to draw the conclusion that a 'goofnad' is a 'goofy nut.'"

"Goofnad," that certainly sounds relevant.

"Next is 'assclown.' An 'assclown' is someone who, through the fault of their parents giving birth, is considered a skid-mark in society's collective underwear."

Darn, that sounds auspicious, too!

"Then there's 'asshat' which is a close cousin of assclown and is a person whose behavior is so uninformed, arrogant and obnoxious that you wished someone would make them wear their own asses for hats."

Schiessen, that term sounds superb, too!

"Last, but not least, the 'moonbat' is someone who is not endowed with the power of reason, is probably mentally unstable, and has decidedly, strong affiliations with any extreme leftist cause. Wow! I'd say that describes what I've seen of liberals on television pretty well."

"I know my vote would be for the last one, 'moonbat.'"

You know, I don't have a problem with using all of them: "goofnad," "moonbat," "asshat" and "assclown" in lieu of "liberal," or "progressive." The definitions fit perfectly with the stereotypes of what people on 'the left' are...I think we should use them all!

"All of them? Won't using those kind of derogatory terms unsettle most readers?"

Hey, it isn't like the novel has been composed for mass appeal, and besides, the only people who might get upset would be those wishy-washy moderates, or some flakey 'goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown,' both of whom aren't likely to make it past the dedication section. No, the only way a 'goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown' would ever thumb through this novel would be if the writer paid them to edit the blasted thing. Since, Frankie isn't likely to win a 'writer's lottery,' chances are one of those unemployed, liberal stooges, with their degrees in English, will never edit, or see themselves being referred to as a 'goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclowns' in this serial.

"Yes, and even if a 'goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown' did see himself or herself being called a 'goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown,' who cares, right?"

Darn right, I could care less what some 'goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown' thinks. So, we're both agreed; all four terms will be used.

"Yes, I'm even feeling happier now."

Me, too...so, let us get back to the answer to your question. What happened to all the moonbat elitists who helped create this high-minded, delightful, heaven on earth. The answer is, those that could, jumped off the sinking ship did so and were now living in France. Those that stayed behind either moved to Canada, or one of the "Free Zones" I will discuss later.

Back to the bedlam...local throngs of civil disobedience could, of course, be avoided, but the schedule and paths of metro-wide, or national free-for-alls were always a grey area. It was not until Congress was ordered by the "Forever President" to create the new agency that the godsend came into being.

"A 'Forever President?' You've used that reference twice, what are you talking about, a dictator?"

In essence, yes. Once things began to metamorphose demographically speaking, one of the first things the assclowns did was abolish the 22nd Amendment, you know, the part of the U.S. Constitution that limited a President to two terms. Fidel Castro's great grandson was serving as Commander in Chief at the time and quite naturally became a permanent fixture in the White House, in all likelihood forever, hence the title "Forever President."

"Fidel Castro's great grandson?"

Fidel Castro, IV.

"How is that possible?"

We can thank the news media, Hollywood and moonbats in general for the Castro dictatorship. Those touchy-feely, irrational, well-meaning, nevertheless unrealistic, reformers quickly threw their lot in with the Cuban probably on account of they were blinded by the name "Castro."

The goofnad establishment, no matter what they said in public, always secretly loved, envied and idolized the original numskull dictator, even wishing they too could one day follow in his footsteps. Needless to say, it did not take much for the fools, I mean assclowns, to throw their lot in behind one of Castro's namesakes; no matter how inexperienced, inane, or stupid his descendant was...the Cuban was still a "Castro" and that was all that counted for 'the Left.'

"That's a terrifying thought. So, what was the reason behind the 'Forever President's' actions?"

Seems one of Fidel's bastard sons, number twenty-something, had been caught up in one of those unpredicted tempests with his pants down in a brothel and was ruffed up a bit. That was what spawned the call for the emergency legislation by the national leader and thus the National Mob Alert System Agency was created!

Today, if you were not close to a television set, or listening to the radio, you could always listen for the NMASA sirens giving their audible warning. Much like air-raid sirens of Britain in World War II, or the United States during the Cuban Missile Crisis (more than a little ironic), the alerts from NMASA loudspeakers could be heard across the land, filling the air with their wailing...

NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE..NAA!

Filling the air with the warning cries...

"War'in'! War'in'! Oh wriott be gonad de haided yo' way!" [Warning! Warning! An angry pack of upset proletariats are coming this way! Clear off the streets! Run for your life to the hills! Hide!]"

"Wor'in'! Wor'in'! Ah ry'it be had youse way!" [Warning! Warning! An angry pack of upset neighbors are coming this way! Clear off the streets! Head for the housing projects! Lock your doors!]

Followed by added wailing...

NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!

...more warning cries.

"Warm'in'! Warm'in'! A byot be hamm'ined yo' way!" [Warning! Warning! An angry pack of upset degenerates is coming this way! Clear off the roads! Head for a hiding place! Lock your cellar doors!]

"But, what about Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish? Don't the vibrant, magical utterances have regional variations?"

Of course, you are right, but the NMASA planners had thought of that, too! Notice the subtle differences in the un-translated warnings above.

A riot warning like, "Warnin' dogs e' bitches, a riot be haided yo' way," would be understood in communities like Harlem, or Oakland, but not in other parts of America. That's why the warning message was specifically tailored to each particular region and dialectal variation.

Along the southern border the warning had less of an Ebonic edge to it and more of a Latino ring.

NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!

"Warn'io! Warn'io! Un riotesea e head'io yo' way'o! Warn'io! Warn'io! Un riotesea e head'io yo' way'o!" [Warning! Warning! A fuk'in pack of angry amigos are coming! Get the ficken off the dirt tracks and into the fields!]

By the way, you can learn more about the Latino American vernacular in the glossary section.

No response...

In the Northeast the warning had a more metropolitan, "Streetish" flare.

NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!

"War'in, yo'! War'in, yo! Raa'ots, de a cum'n, schiessen-za yo!" [You're in for it now! You're in for it now! A big, fuk'ing group from the projects is coming this way! Get the schiessen off the boulevards! Lock your doors! Shutter you windows!]

"War'in, yo'! War'in, yo! Raa'ots, de a cum'n, yo'!" [You're in for it now! You're in for it now! A big, fuk'ing throng of goons is coming this way! Get the hell off the streets! Lock up your homes! Hide in the attics!]

You can also learn more about both New Yorker and Bostonian-American vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish in the glossary section.

No response...

In the Appalachian Mountains region the warning had a more "earthy tone."

NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!

"Wawning ya'll! Wawning ya'll! A wiot be haided youw way! Wawning ya'll! Wawning ya'll! A wiot be haided youw way!" [Revenuers are coming! Revenuers are coming! Run for the hills! Run for the hills! Hide!]

The Appalachian American vernacular is also in the glossary...

"Okay...okay I get it."

I just thought you would like to know there is some absorbing history surrounding each dialect and they're all in the glossary.

In all there were twenty-five variations of the NMASA warning message, so all the bases were theoretically covered. Many Americans were theoretically safer and through the diligence of the agency their property and lives were safer, too. No longer were everyday citizens subject to the laws of Murphy, no longer did everyone have to rely upon potluck.

NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!

The NMASA, a sophisticated, scientific and proven early warning system with ninety-two percent more efficiency in preventing...

"What...what about English? It was still being used, right?"

English was still out there; nevertheless, it had become a shadow of its former self. When the writing on the wall became apparent to most English-speaking Americans, who also happened to be the vast preponderance of taxpayers, that they were going to lose the United States, most departed to a better climate, for the most part Australia and New Zealand. The exodus had been so massive, the movement of wealth so vast, Australia followed closely by New Zealand, and they quickly became the two wealthiest nations in the world. Not unlike the American Revolution, once the Yanks showed up in the tens of millions, one of their first moves was to cut the strings to the financial leeches back in England, while at the same time giving the Queen of England the middle finger. The Yanks quickly reformed Australia into a true democracy and were now calling themselves 'Ausmericans' of the United States of Australia. Further, that completely monotonous sport of soccer, mistakenly referred to as 'football' by the rest of the world, and its close cousin, rugby, were ditched in favor of 'real' football! Sounds like my kind of place to live.

"You can't be serious. Every English-speaking American citizen took off for Australia, New Zealand, or France?"

You know, you're right! Those Americans that remained behind did originally speak English, but in less than a generation, they were assimilated into the culture and dialects of the 'new majority.'

Any more questions?

Silence...

Getting any ideas?

"I'm going to have to check my bank account before I answer that, but please continue."

Back to what I was saying moments ago...the NMASA, was a sophisticated, scientifically designed and proven early warning system with ninety-two percent more efficiency in preventing loss of life than the nation's police and military combined. Designed by the Swiss, manufactured by the Germans and installed by the Norwegians, the NMASA watched from space the human torrents that descended upon the American landscape.

One stationary satellite orbited overhead collecting and transmitting data to the underground NMASA headquarters in Waycross, Georgia. Sophisticated computer algorithms projected the "Cones of Destruction" rioters would take. The air-raid sirens were then triggered by NMASA employees in the field, all to save lives, some homes, but sadly few cars. It was a marvel of engineering and the cost, a pittance!

"Wait a minute, I thought you said the American economy had tanked, and it was broke. That would mean the currency was basically worthless, too. So how did Washington pay for the NMASA?"

America's trade with international partners had evolved into a system long used by humanity, dating back to before recorded time, largely disappearing after the 'Dark Ages.' Bartering and its stablemate auctions were reintroduced into the market and had become the bedrock behind the American economy...a truly, great and marvelous thing.

"Bartering...auctions...those do seem like a childish, almost a simpleton's means of trade. So, what did Washington have to exchange, or auction off for the NMASA?"

Not much when you look at the bigger picture: the American Virgin Islands, the Hawaiian Island of Maui, Charleston and Seattle.

???

"So, were the multitudes in those bartered-away regions in any way unsettled by the government actions?"

No, actually it was just the opposite; they were elated that they had been so lucky. I mentioned "Free Zones" earlier. Free Zones were former parts of the United States that were free from the "Flat Tax" you will hear about later, and the gibberish-speaking bureaucrats who were forever trying to control everyone's lives, but back to my original point...

The 'outstandingness' that came out of the exchange was a real benefit for most Americans. No longer need U.S. citizens despair about going outside their residences, no longer need they rely on potluck to stay out of the path of human chaos. The cadence of their ordinary lives could return, except for those unlucky enough to be caught in one of those "Cones of Destruction."

Americans were generally safer, for the most part from robbery, from physical violence, from the threat of death at the hands of their fellow citizens. Polling showed the National Fear Index surrounding everyday anarchy was dropping slightly for most Americans. Nevertheless the trend was unmistakably there. Perhaps, one day the jitters over lawlessness would become a distant memory, perhaps disappear completely! The consensus among experts said terror in the streets would one day go away. The scientists were always proven by other consensus's of scientists to be right, ergo this consensus among the experts had to be correct. All Americans had to do was wait...wait to see that their predictions had come true...hopefully within their lifetimes.

Did I already mention autos were still being torched, retail stores ransacked, property pillaged and burned to the ground? If I did I am sorry for repeating myself. The point is, overall rioting took a turn for the better...thanks to the negotiating skills of the "Forever President," his administration and the NMASA!

The National Mob Alert System Agency: PROUD, STRONG and a KEY PART of today's modern American society!

Now, enough about riots and the NMASA, let's close the loop on the subject of government television networks.

Government TV networks were constantly on the lookout for new ways to keep the public entertained and their minds off their misery. The Food and Drug Administration Network, for one, had even approached Grey Hall with the idea of a documentary series that displayed for all to see the antics of inmates on horse tranquilizers. The speeded up footage of pinballs like the former scholar with their doggie collars was thought to have some appeal to the masses of today's average Americans. Besides being hilarious, the documentary may have even answered important, scientific questions like which way did most pinballs go when they ran into things...right, or left? How many times did the zombies bump into something in a twelve-hour period? How did a heavily medicated human promenade about and use nature's powder-room at the same time?

All appeared vital at the moment, as their discovery could prove to help in the design of future homes for the insane. In addition, such a television series would have imparted the subtle messaging the "Forever President" wanted to pass on to all Americans; perhaps their lives were not as schiessen'y as they thought; drugs might hold the answer to their miseries and Percocet, Valium and Quaaludes were all available over-the-counter at their local grocery store in the aspirin and children's sections, or the checkout counters.

Regrettably, the idea of featuring sanitarium inmates lost its luster after the Food and Drug Administration accidentally discovered Americans might prefer seeing someone "executed" over watching some nincompoops bouncing around a caged school playground all day.

It was just by chance that one night, while pretending to work late, the Television Programming Director of the Food and Drug Administration Network, the "Forever President's" fourth cousin removed, mistakenly typed in an "H" for the "F" for his favorite porn site, so instead of BedouinFemales.net the bureaucrat was taken to BedouinHemales.net. What popped up? A website featuring video footage of a race still living in the 7th Century.

What caught his eye was the front page video showing some robed, toothless, desert tribesmen who looked to be in the process of chopping off some poor soul's noodle. The soon-to-be headless person was hooded so the political appointee could not tell if the victim was a woman, his primary interest at the time given his dropped drawers and some kind of lubricating jelly on his desk. But, before the bureaucrat lost interest and turned his attention back to the women that so reminded him of his mother and his favorite donkey, Pedro, the former Cuban citizen remembered his other mission.

The reaction of the Medieval-appearing fellows wielding their swords was one thing, but the audience...the audience of primitive-looking lowlifes reminded him of his own American audience: inerudite-appearing, disheveled, filthy, most near toothless and wearing rags that resembled the President's line of designer clothing...and they were all going berserk with joy!

Hmmm...very appealing, the bureaucrat thought to himself. These goat herders look like they're really having fun! Was it decapitation that turned them on? Beheadings, no of course I can't show beheadings on national television. There's at least fifty agencies that would contest that sort of stuff...but someone on death row, that might be a different story!

The Food and Drug Administration Series Execution soon followed and quickly became a blockbuster hit sweeping all prime time spots and wreaking havoc among the ratings of all other networks. With the Food and Drug Administration Network ratings going through the roof, polling started showing viewers felt better about their schiessen'y lives after watching at least three episodes and even made some reconsider the whole act of rape, murder, robbery, but not adultery, nor incest.

The bureaucrat porn-surfer went on to win the Academy Award for Best Television Series; Best Documentary; Best Nonfiction Series; the Nobel Prize for Peace, Fun and Enlightenment; and the Presidential Medal of Castro.

Drug sales went up across all "New" Fifty States of America. Puerto Rico and Cuba, of course, had become the 51st and 52nd states before the number was knocked back down to fifty when "el Presidente" auctioned off Alaska to the Russians and New Mexico to, you guessed it, Mexico.

Television networks for agencies like the Environmental Protection Agency, the Department of Education, the Department of Agriculture, the Department of Transportation, the Department of Commerce, the Department of Energy, the Department of Health and Human Services, the Department of Homeland Security, D'HUD, the Department of Justice and four dozen other similar networks did not have a prayer.

The Department of PETA Network would come closest to matching the success of "Execution" with its real-life series "Slaughtered." Nevertheless footage of whales, dogs, cats, birds, anything being butchered, did not have the same kind of appeal for American audiences as seeing someone fry each night in an electric chair.

Some networks like the Department of Education Channel had it even worse because the Food and Drug Administration owned the rights to any film making featuring drug use. Only with the FDA's approval could a competing network air coverage like the humorous footage of say...the drugged-out youth still in one of those pseudo-schools.

All of this to say...so what! Enough crap about television, enough about the "Forever President" and the National Mob Alert System Agency. It's time to get down in the trenches, down to ground level. It's time for us to embark into this new, future American paradise, as seen through the peepers of our hero, the professor...to see for ourselves just how the populace has faired...how much better the country has become...just how close the nation has gone to becoming that magical place of Oz!
Great Escape

A grey-haired, Hispanic-American fellow stepped from the entrance of the old schoolhouse and yelled out in the direction of the guard shack.

"Yo, Dog!" [Hey, Thomas!]

"Yo, Dog!" [Hey, Thomas!]

"You's gots some muhfuka rap rod call'in!" [You've got a nice sounding, 'ficken' woman on the phone for you!]

"It's fum one o' yo' bitches." [She says she's an old girlfriend].

"What in the world does 'ficken' mean? Is this another word substitution?"

It is! You must be one of those extraordinary people that slowly devours every word of a book; that is the only thing that could shed light on how you picked up on the subtle substitution.

"Ficken" is there for the slow reader, especially if they read out loud...and have "chillan."

"Chillan?"

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish for "children." Time to spark things up a bit. Chillan [children] is self explanatory, but "ficken" needs to be expounded upon a bit.

"Ficken" is German for all made up tenses of the expression "ficken" including: ficken, fickening, ficken'in, fuked, muthafuka, muhfuka, so on and so forth, all rolled up into one tidy little word the "Word Nazis" won't likely understand. So, instead of "ficken you" this book will use "ficken you"...all in the interest of maintaining a PG-13 Rating, of course.

Ficken is there, so if you must read out loud, you can do so in the privacy of your home, airport terminal, anywhere! That said, reading "out loud" suggests you could be a little dimwitted, and if so would mean your progeny will fit in perfectly with tomorrow's American majority.

"Okay, I get it! I don't read 'out loud,' so just move on already!"

All right, jeez...So, the security guard responded politely with, "Which muhfuka one be it dis time?" [Did she happen to say anything about when we might have last met?]

"Na, de rap rod only says ha' dojigger be Deltonia says she gocha a burfday pesant for chu, WORD!" [She says her name is Deltonia, says she has a birthday present for you, you lucky fool!]

The guard stepped out of the hut door while axing [questioning] himself, Debbieonia [Deltonia] Which one be the bitch [Which beautiful woman was she]? Oh, yea...fuk that hoe [Oh, now I remember...she's the one who did not let me engage in sexual activities with her!]

The grey-haired man laughed at the younger fellow when he saw his puzzled look. The old 'dog' knew this cat was like so many his age, a regular Valentino who had knocked up so many bitches in his short, twenty-five years that he was forced into working.

The one thing that could take away one's freedom and life of leisure in this "New, Future America" was being rewarded one too many times with an outcome from promiscuous activities. That magical number was six, six new additions to the welfare roles. Hey, even goofnads have to draw the line somewhere.

The old dog now yelled out, "Yo! Dog!" [Hey, Thomas!]

"Which one be she?" [Which one is she?]

"Foe, o' five, o' six?" [Four, or five, or six?]

The young guard replied politely, "None o' yo' bidness with muhafuka beeotch!" [None of your business my friend!]

"I ain't got no worries." [I'm running from half a dozen pregnant chicks; I only have this schiessen'y job and no wheels.]

"Okie dokie, I'll be right thar! Fry mah hide!" [Okay, please tell her I'll be right there, thank you! And quit chapping my ass]!"

Convinced the part-time, security guard had stood his ground on the obvious insult, the young man hastened off with a stiff to talk to his forth, fifth, or sixth love of his life...but...but the temporary, agency rent-a-cop did not close the door in his haste! Not completely!

Five minutes passed and the young man had not returned. Eight minutes passed and still he was nowhere to be seen. Ten minutes later and still no Thomas, but life in the courtyard just did not stop, owing to the fact that the young fellow went missing, no...life continued and the pinballs were still bumping into and bouncing off of sundry obstacles.

A wind was blowing, a sort of angelic breeze...

What's this? Can't be? The door that was ajar is now open...wide open!

It was exactly eleven minutes later when the first pinball strolled through the door accompanied by another, then one more.

What's this? One more gust from that same heavenly breeze and...and the door...the door that was open was now closing shut!

Clump!

Inside the guard shack, confusion reigned. Picture, if you will, three near-comatose, crazy men in a five-foot by five-foot shed, each trying to walk in straight lines; running into each other again, and again...each continuing to try to march in straight lines over, and over...each time getting only a half-foot before running into each other, or one of the walls. Naturally one of the dipptards accidentally bumped into the "red button" that opened the front gate. The inmates in the yard may have been crazy; nevertheless, some of them recognized an opportunity when they saw it...in this case it was a chance to finally meet the neighbors!

Schwartz was one of those caught up in the bumbling rush and carried along with the herd of nuts out the gate to the noise of grunts, moans, farts and an occasional shout of joy. For five long minutes no one noticed the inmates escaping. As usual the sanitarium personnel were having their midday siesta and now...now the ignoramuses in the surrounding housing project were in for a real treat!

One of the crazy chaps inside the guard shack now backed into the same "red button" closing the front gate, stopping the rest of the two hundred, or so inmates from departing, keeping the appearances that all was normal, nothing had happened, and all was sterling.

Two hours later, the guard returned from a little afternoon 'smash' [sexual intercourse] with what turned out to be his neighbor's wife. The security sentry would open the guard-shack door to find three patients locked in his hut, embracing one another from shear exhaustion, sweating, drooling, standing and reeking to high heaven, but nothing to let on that there had been a mass departure of mental patients out into the hinterland...a "Great Escape!"

\-----

It was about an hour later that the married bus driver was busy talking with a 'slutchops,' a word combination derived from "slut" and "chops," chops being common slang for "mouth." Anyway, the slutchops just kept laughing while repeatedly saying, "You nasty," which translated into, "I am intrigued by your proposition, but due to our current public setting I can't blow you right now." Any way, the driver was too busy to take any notice of the half-clothed crazy folks aimlessly walking down the middle of the road before the bus scattered a half-a-dozen all over the place like bowling pins.

Schwartz had been one of those bowling pins, but the former whiz had been a lucky bowling pin. Tossed in the air, he landed hard facedown in a drainage ditch with a heavy thud.

Thud!

Half of the intellectual's body from the waist down was lying in something resembling a pudding-like pudding that smelled like...like schiessen. The other half of him wound up landing on some dry, rank ground. The 'professor's body' remained unmoving; nevertheless, miraculousness was taking place...a metamorphosis...a 'moonbat butterfly' was about to emerge! The academician would not realize it for a day, or more, but the bump on the noggin had awakened him from his deep, vegetative napping. After years of inactivity, the professor's mind was beginning to show signs of life...his higher order intelligence was beginning to reemerge...the dignitary might soon be his old self once more!

Now the other patients struck by the passing motor coach, whose driver wisely decided not to stop, began picking themselves up. Unbelievably none appeared injured and like automatons, they continued their stroll along the highway unwittingly looking for the next opportunity to test the Quantum Mechanical Principle that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. But, enough about those dolts. What was the academic up to?

The 'professor's body' mechanically pushed itself up onto its knees and into a kneeling position, mumbled something unintelligible and wiped away a bit of the brown muck that happened to splatter on its face. The professor was dazed, not easily making out anything clearly; judgment was a foggy mess; vision was blurred. The academician's higher consciousness was still too far gone to notice what would have been an overwhelming stench emanating from his surroundings.

The academic spat out something distasteful then took a deep breath of the near-toxic air without any sign of noticing. The ground was slippery; nevertheless, the academic's protoplasm took no notice. As the professor's body tried to stand, it slipped and fell face first back into the mud-like cac for a facial. Mechanically, the intellectual went through a similar series of steps, first removing as best it could the gunge from its face, this time making sure the feet were planted on solid footing.

The professor's body was quite a spectacle what with the brown slime covering him from noggin to toe; his gown untied in the back; wearing no underwear; and his white, shriveled-up, hairy ass sticking out the back for anyone to see. From the front the scholar looked like someone who might be taking a mud bath at a high-end resort, only the funky redolence put a quick end to that comparison.

It was kind of a warm summer day, and the air was ripe with the bouquet of the gully and by now the flies had discovered the professor's body. The nice thing about strong sedatives was the way they could put you in an imaginary place thousands of miles away. The academician's higher consciousness felt like it was floating above the landscape, unaware his physical body was standing ankle deep in something resembling a shallow cesspool. For the first time, however, in thirty years the genius was feeling the pleasant dullness that accompanied a massive dose of horse tranquilizers. Before the professor would have never noticed. Schwartz was, for all practical purposes, awake! The goofnad still needed a day or so to come down from his imaginary, drugged-out state, but he was truly on the road to becoming legitimately conscious. In the interim, it would be Schwartz's primitive mind, the cerebellum, that would be in charge of things and running the show. The professor's muddled understanding of his surroundings was like that of a papoose; an upswing over a carrot, or cabbage, nevertheless still needing some time to grow up.

In the academic's whacked out state he thought the flies were hummingbirds, their buzzing like sweet music to his ears. If I did not already mention it, the professor often breathed through his mouth and was, therefore, a 'mouth breather.' For anyone who has ever had a bug accidentally fly into their mouths they know a little of what the academic was experiencing by this time, only we are talking serious numbers. Sad to say, after years of conditioning the genius' primitive brain, the cerebellum, mindlessly responded the way it had for three decades. When something was put into the professor's mouth, the primitive brain automatically had the intellectual's protoplasm chew it up...and swallow!

God, I believe I'm going to throw up!

Momentary gagging noise...BLEEGH! BLEEGH!

All right, I'm back. The academic's "little brain" thought the Old Hand was again talking, no whispering to it. A distant memory traveling through the dulled synapses of the higher to lower consciousness, or is it the reverse? Ah, who cares.

The memory of the Old Hand's voice whispered, "Open wide Mo'on."

The academic responded as it always had...you know we in point of fact should not be calling the reviving professor a normal person at this moment, not while his "low intelligence" was still running things. The real academic, his higher brain functions were still in the background playing with drugs not anywhere close to realizing what his "little brain" was doing with his body.

Like a human version of a Venus Flytrap, the body of the professor mechanically opened its mouth and waited, waited for something resembling that spoonful of...of porridge.

More gagging noises...BLEEGH! BLEEGH!

The cerebellum is truly like the brain of our distant, distant ancestors...when it came to eating things just about anything went. Scientists long ago discovered through archeological digs that there were only a handful of things primitive man would not eat: rocks, hair, wood, but flies...flies and animal droppings had not been some of them.

What's worse, after years of poor dental hygiene, the former patient's breath attracted flies and before long...you know I don't believe there is any 'goout' reason to describe what happened for the next several hours...I don't think I can take it.

"Are you adding a further new word into the mix, 'goout' instead of 'good?'"

Well, yes, is there a problem?

"Well, no, not if I can get in on the fun."

Sure, why not.

"Okay, from now on I want you to use 'Ebongo-Edongo,' instead of that idiotic sounding 'Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish' term."

You want 'Ebongo-Edongo' to replace 'Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish?'

"Uh huh."

Yes, I think I can accommodate your request, or is this a demand?

"Consider it a stipulation."

Fine, if that floats your boat. You do realize this means you're going to have to hang around for the complete tale, don't you?

"I'm what?"

Sure, how else will you know I'm sticking to our agreement; oh, and one more thing, you will probably become famous.

"Famous! That would be absolutely fantastic! Wait a minute, how would that be possible?"

I really haven't got a clue, but it sounded goout [good].

"You're an ass."

Hey, you could become noteworthy, what if this book succeeds in becoming a "Hit?"

"That is probably like hitting the lottery, isn't it?"

I'm just saying, the possibility exists...are you in?

"I don't know, maybe."

Come on, I agree with you in principle on 'Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish,' 'Ebongo-Edongo' sounds a lot better.

"Yes, and it's a lot less of a tongue twister than Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, which also takes half an hour to say."

How would you pronounce it?

"My guess would be: ē-boNG-gō, ē-doNG-gō."

The only problem is I'm not sure what the writer would say to changing a key term in his novel.

"Schiessen, if the author can make up expressions then you and I should have the same right starting with 'Ebongo-Edongo.' What do you say to that?"

In theory, I'd say you're right. Everyone in the country will be making up expressions, so why can't the two of us?

"Sure, just use the 'presumptive close' on the author and start using 'Ebongo-Edongo' from this time going forward."

Presumptive close?

"Yes, assume that the novelist has already agreed to using 'Ebongo-Edongo,' or any other new fangled term we might dream up, and just carry on as if nothing has changed."

Okay, I buy that. The writer isn't the sharpest knife in the kitchen. That guy probably won't even notice. Look, if you and I are going to do this thing there are some guidelines for making up words.

"Okay, shoot."

The most important thing to understand when coming up with new Ebangish...I mean Ebongo-Edongo expressions are they must be easy on the tongue, whatever that means, fun, creative and save time when spoken.

"So, the expressions need to be shorter and slippyer?"

I guess so, but look, before we go off "half cocked" I know there are definitely some ground rules. We really need to adhere to those unspoken canons, otherwise, you and I could be wasting our time...nobody from the future will use them. Regrettably, I don't know any of the tenants, which means I'm going to have to get the novelist involved. I'm simply a figment of the writer's imagination. He is the one making all this stuff up.

"Is the author around?"

I don't know. Let me go find out.

"Hey, wait a moment! Don't forget 'Ebongo-Edongo' and the presumptive close."

No, I won't. I've got it.

The noise of the narrator's footsteps moving off into the background...

Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump...tap...

The voice of the raconteur can be heard in the background.

Frank...

Oh, Frankie...

Still no answer!

Pssst...[Narrator]

"What do you want?"

The author has locked the door. He doesn't know I've made a copy of the key before this whole narrative thing got started.

The noise of the deadlock makes a click as the narrator turns the key.

Click

The creaking sound of the door opening accompanied by what sounds like a human buzz-saw suddenly comes to ear.

Zzz...Snort!...

Zzz...Snort!...Snort!

Is that someone snoring?

Zzz...Snort!...

Damn, that novelist sounds like a chain saw...running out of gas.

Zzz...Snort!..Snort!

Nothing can be heard of the narrator, just that loud obnoxious, buzz-saw racket. Soon, however, you hear the barely audible sound of approaching, angry footsteps.

Thumpity...tapity, thumpity, tappity, thump, tap!

The narrator has to shout to be heard.

Damn it, this has got to stop! Do you hear that? That's the writer making a fool of himself once more! Unbelievable, I've had just about enough of this bull schiessen!

The commotion continues unabated in the background.

Zzz...Snort!...Snort!

The narrator shouts to be heard, again.

Watch this, I'm going to go have some fun at the novelist's expense. The author just loves unions.

"Okay, but speak up. I can barely hear anything with that infernal hullabaloo."

Zzz...Snort!...

The yarn spinner shouts back: Now you see what I have to deal with every night. It is impossible to get any winks with this guy around.

Now, you barely hear the stomping of the narrator's angry footsteps moving off...

Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump...tap...

Soon, those footsteps were utterly drowned out by the sound of the wheeze-bag.

Zzz...Snort!...Snort!

That's it! I'm quitting! [Narrator]

It is to no avail...

Zzz...Snort!...Snort!

The yarn spinner can be heard nearly screaming, "I'm quitting, damn it!"

Snort!...snort..."Huh?"

Suddenly, silence descends upon the scene. Your ears are still ringing, but just then you hear the chronicler cut the air with, "That's it, I'm quitting damn you!"

The groggy voice of the author can now be heard responding, "What...what the infernos is going on?"

I said I'm quitting...

A groggy voice replies, "You...you can't quit! You're under contract!"

Oh, indeed...aren't you forgetting one thing?

"Am I, what?"

Aren't you forgetting I belong to the Narrators Union of Socialist Democracies of the Free Socialists' World.

"Well, no I haven't forgotten that," responds Mr. Frank with drowsiness still in his words.

Then you'll remember the part of that contract called the "Discrimination Clause."

"That contract is over three thousand pages long!"

Well, let me remind you of what that clause states and I quote, "If the said union member..." that's me, "of this said contract finds he, she, or it believes they are being intentionally, or unintentionally discriminated against..." I'll skip some of the legal mumbo-jumbo, "...has the right to enter out of said contract."

"I don't believe this? How are you being discriminated against?"

If you honestly don't know then I'm absolutely certain I've got to get the union attorneys involved.

"What the f@#&!?" responds the novelist with some fear in his voice.

Goout, that guy deserves a little scare.

I'm sure this is going to have to go to arbitration.

"Arbitration! Look, we should be able to work this out. What's your grievance anyway?"

My problem is, lately, you're not only napping at the oddest times of the day, but also snoring like Godzilla, and it always seems to happen whenever the person reading your novel, or I have a question.

"This is getting a little ridiculous; the 'whole shebang' is written down, and as for my being in the Land of Nod, I have tried and not found anything to stop my minor, sleep disorder!"

"Look, I don't mean to interrupt you and the author, but is this going to take long? I need to go do something."

Sure...go ahead. [Narrator]

"Sure...go ahead," the novelist, also responds.

"All right, be right back."

There is a moment of silence before the author picks up the conversation again with a possible solution.

"Okay...okay...what if I promise to stay awake, would that work?"

Ummmm...Seems to me you already broke that promise.

"Look here, I'm a freelance 'want to be' writer, not some union drone who can get away with working six-hour days and retire at fifty...so give me a break."

Are you done insulting me?

The noise of a flushing toilet...

Blooshchchch...ROOOOOOOOOOOOOR...growl...

A few moments pass, while both the narrator and novelist try to figure out what that sudden noise might have been.

"Okay, I'm back. Have I missed anything?"

What was that noise? Are you reading this in the library (man-code for bathroom)?

"I know what you mean and it's none of your business."

Jeez, okay, sorry for being curious.

"Where are we?"

The author is just about to apologize for making a derogatory comment about me and my union.

"Now wait a minute!"

Ar...bi...tra...tion...

"Okay...okay, I get it. I'm sorry for calling you and your union mean things."

And...you pledge to quit the daytime naps and that god-awful snoring, at least up to the time I'm finished narrating this series, serial whatever?

"All right," responds the writer with despondency in his voice.

...and lose twenty...or is it twenty-five pounds?

"It's twenty-five....Oh, and studies by a consensus of scientists have concluded that being overweight contributes to sleep disorders, like snoring!"

What do you say to that?

"Okay, I'll go on a diet, too," responds the novelist with dejection in his voice.

Pinky Promise?

"Ficken, okay....I pinky promise," the author reluctantly responds.

Laughter erupts...at least from the yarn spinner...

Ha...ha...ho...ho...

...Hey Frankie, I was just kidding.

Huh? "Why, you ficken asshole!" responds the author, anger in his voice.

Sure, it was all just a gag!

More laughter...once more only from the teller of tales...

Ho...ho...ha...ha...

Seriously, napping on the job does not help the thrust of this book any. What's a person to conclude?

"That I'm a middle-age fart who needs his naps! Look, you're getting compensated to do this bit..."

I'm what?...That certainly is news to me!

"Okay, maybe not compensated in the normal sense of the word; nevertheless, let's face it, what else would you be doing?"

Ha!

There is a pause for reflection on the part of the yarn spinner.

Oh, I see your point. You do raise a goout issue.

"Damn right I raise a goout issue! Now unless you want to go to 'sleep with the fishes,' I suggest you keep to entertaining 'the reader' when I'm out in dreamland. By the way, that's when most of my grandiose ideas come to me."

How will we know when you're sleeping?

"You'll hear me breathing loudly, of course!"

Wow, I never thought of that!

"That's because you don't think; I'm the one that's doing the thinking. You're just a talking-head like a news anchor...or the "Forever President." Just stay to the script with your moron 'cue cards,' teleprompter, or whatever it is that you're using and...and if you hear some heavy breathing then it's not a acceptable time to ask, I mean axe questions."

I'm curious, is your wife still forcing you to sleep in the guest room?

"That is none of your business...and yes, it is either that, or she wants a divorce. Okay, enough of this. What's the question?"

It is from the reader.

"Well, let's go see the person. Wait a second, how did you get into this room? The door was locked."

If I told you...I'd have to kill you.

"Ha, so you made a duplicate key! Darn if I haven't made you a little too smart for your britches. Now, give me that copy!"

Which one?

"What are you talking about?"

I made a hundred copies and they're scattered all over the place.

"Schiessen, what in tarnation is wrong with you?"

You tell me.

The novelist ponders the narrator's comments without, at first, speaking his mind. OCD...Yes, it's got to be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That's the only thing that could explain the narrator's compulsive behavior. That mental condition runs in the family. Apparently, the storyteller has got the gene. If I take back all those door-lock keys, that fruit will just end up making a further hundred copies, or worse, a thousand duplicates. This is a lost cause.

"All right, keep the keys damn it. Just do me one favor, knock first!"

We'll see, now let's get going. The reader is waiting.

Noise of approaching, shuffling footsteps, Thumpity...tapity, thummpity, tappity, thump, tap.

The footsteps come to a halt accompanied by the author's voice axing, "What's your question mister, misses, or miss 'reader?'"

"Well, I thought it would be fun to make up some new expressions."

"Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish expressions?" axe'd the novelist with sudden enthusiasm resonating in his voice.

I forgot to mention 'the reader' has informed me specifically Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish must be changed to Ebongo-Edongo going forthwith.

The chicken-schiessen! He's too scared to use the 'presumptive close.'

The reasons are perfectly rational; this pronunciation not only sounds better, the term is a lot less of a tongue twister and does not take half an hour to say.

Hmmm...

"'Ebongo-Edongo.' Say, it does have a nice ring to it," replies the novelist. "How would you pronounce it?"

"I'm guessing ē-boNG-gō, ē-doNG-gō."

"I can see the reader's point," concedes the novelist. "Okay...I can work with that."

Excellent, now can we move on?

"Sure," responds the author followed by, "wow you, the reader, must be getting into this book, I mean 'serial novel.' That's great to hear, words it is then. As the narrator probably already mentioned, there are a few ground rules for creating terms in Ebangish...I mean Ebongo-Edongo. For one, expressions and sentence structure are constantly in a state of flux, constantly evolving, often multiple times within just one generation of Americans."

"The guidelines transform?"

"Sure they do, just take a look at the evolution of one of the more popular dialects used by the African American community. This dialect has gone through several evolutionary, dialectal steps including the 'Black Power' variation of the late 60's, early 70's; the disco variation of the late 70's, early 80's; so on and so forth...up to the present variation: Hip-Hop, Gangsta, Rap'in, Hoodee'ville. We will be focusing on the present dialects for the guidelines."

What are your thoughts reader?

"Sounds logical to me. Let's roll with the Hip-Hop, Gangsta, Rap'in, Hoodee'ville."

"Goout, first, it is important to note that expressions have meaning, often subtle, but highly revealing. One of the great things about the way the future dialects are spoken are the way each new word just kind of slides off the tongue. Most are, and correctly so, abbreviated from their distant cousins in the interest of saving time. Most completely drop any association to 'linking verbs' in conversation."

"Linking verbs? What are linking verbs?"

"Terms like 'is' and 'are,' 'was,' or 'were.'"

"Can you give me an example?"

"Okay, let's look at the simple sentence, 'The dog is running after the cat.'

Now, let's look at that same expression in Ebongo-Edongo...you know, I think I'm going to really like using that term instead of Ebanglish-Edangish-Egangish. Seems to slide more easily off the tongue. Say, that nomenclature isn't copyrighted by you is it?"

"No, it is all yours. Think of it as my contribution to this...this serial novel."

"Thank you, very much. Narrator, I want you to take really blue-chip care of this person. Who knows, he or she may become part of the script before it is all over. All right, back to the linking verbs and some of the other, subtle differences in language between here and 2050."

"'Is' is a linking verb, so it is dumped leaving us with the sentence: 'The dog running after the cat.'"

"Schiessen, I forgot that words ending in 'er' have the 'er' dropped off, too! They're replaced by 'ah.' So, instead of, 'The dog is running after the cat,' the equivalent is, 'the dog running aft-ah the cat.'"

The novelist was not yet finished making omissions.

"Cac, I seem to have also overlooked the fact that the 'th' is also replaced by the letter 't,' that is unless the 't' is the first letter of the word. If that is the case then the 't' becomes 'de.'"

"All right, let me give this one last shot. The expression, 'The dog is running after the cat' becomes the expression, 'De dog running aft-ah de cat.'

"Have I missed anything?"

The narrator spots a flaw and now mentions it.

I thought 'ing' had to be replaced by 'in?'

"Holly Jehoshaphat! How could I have missed that! The narrator is absolutely right, 'ing' is always replaced with 'in.' Goddamnit, now I think I've finally got this damn sentence figured out...'De dog run'in aft-ah de cat!' Damn it, I finally got the goddamn sentence right!"

"I don't want to bust anyone's bubble, but aren't disparaging remarks supposed to be liberally used, as well?"

The writer, frustrated with the whole affair, looks as if he's about to blow his top, spittles the final product. "Oh, so you want some curse words thrown in for some impact, do you? Try this on for size..."

"De muhfuka mutt run'in aft-ah de muhfuka cat!"

The narrator, concerned over the author's high blood pressure decides to try to calm him down a bit with...

Look here, I'm on your side Franklin; nevertheless, I was under the notion this newfangled language was supposed to be easy, even mindless. This appears to be anything but the case. I mean if you, the author, is having trouble cracking the code, think of what a layperson like the reader must be thinking.

"It is frustrating, but I blame my mistakes on a lack of practice. It's not like I use these dialects on a day-to-day basis. I suppose, if forced to, I could interact with more Democrat voters...some of them are not too far off the mark of speaking in the future, wonderful dialect, today. I suppose even regular discourse would improve my writing capabilities."

I'm not sure about that last point. Anyhow, aren't we twenty or thirty years away from being forced to understand this piffle?

"You're right and make a very goout [good] point. I, which consequently means you, probably won't even live that long...well, thirty-plus years out. In that time, as the transition gets underway, there will be plenty of time to pluck and mentally pocket all the subtleties that agree with these new, wondrous, wonderful dialects. Until then, I would recommend you and I not sweat it."

What about 'the reader?' What's going to happen to him, her, or it?

"I'm not quite sure at the moment. Let me give that some thought."

"Hey, you guys know I'm sitting right here listening to you two talk about me, right?"

Yes, of course we do.

"Well, then shut up and move on!"

I think that's your cue mister novelist.

The author, who might be losing a bit of his memory with age, has to pause a moment. "I have almost forgotten what we were discussing. Let me see. Oh, yes! Now I remember. Speed of delivery, easiness on the tongue...whatever that means, are genuinely important ideas, especially when you consider the early days of the gobbledygook, when hightailing it from Five-O (the police) meant you only had seconds to convey your verbal warnings. You, the reader, should keep this in mind as we go through just a few of the guidelines for your word creation activity."

"Second, as we learned above in the dog-cat example, terms beginning in 'th' need to end with either a 't,' or 'd' with one caveat. If 'th' is spoken then it should resonate like 'de' versus the sound you get when you say the word 'the.'"

"Now if you're not verbalizing an expression, but aiming to write something down like the word 'think,' the transformation is straightforward whereby you simply replace the 'th' with 't' which would become 'tink.' Notice that 'tink' is not only shorter, it also slides more easily off the tongue and is more fun to say."

"Note the straightforwardness of this alternating pronunciation. The distinction within Ebongo-Edongo dialects resides in how English orthography becomes hidden. For example, 'th' in English could be either written, or spoken; nevertheless, only using the 't' when written, and 'd' when spoken. In Ebongo-Edongo, any idiomatic jargon, we see the 'th' replaced by just one letter, the 't.'"

What the ficken is this guy talking about? This is absolutely absurd spittle!

The novelist continues with his diatribe. "So, you won't have the confusion surrounding the original English expressions when 'th' is either spoken, or written...exciting, right?"

The sound of the cricketing of crickets can be heard in the background...

"One other thing about these dialects to consider: the written 'th,' or 'oth' can become an 'f' when it is spoken, or a 'uv,' or 'u' accompanied by a couple of '"v's" in the final, or medial position of a word like 'brother' becoming 'bruvvah,' once more depending on the spoken, or written nature of the English implantation of 'th.'"

The novelist pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. The novelist is too busy shooting his mouth off to hear...

The noise of a shake blender in the background...

Burrrr....burrr....burrrrrrr....

"In most future dialects you also need to delete postvocalic letters in expressions that are either spoken or written. For example, 'before' has the 're' removed becoming 'befo.' 'Carol' has the 'r' removed to become 'Ca'ol.'"

"When creating your new vocabulary you genuinely need to recognize that the letter combination 'er' is absolutely frowned upon. The combination 'er' does not easily slide off the tongue and is, consequently, not fun. All this to say 'er' should be replaced by the letters 'ah' whenever 'er' is spotted. For example, 'over' becomes 'ovah.'"

The noise of someone vacuuming can be heard in the background...

Vrrooommm...vrrooommm...vrrooommm

"Also, your expressions should be shortened if possible like 'hood' instead of 'neighborhood.' Words that end in 'oor' should be adjusted to 'oh'; terms ending with 'ing' should be transformed to 'in' and expressions that are next to each other in a sentence...well, they can be combined into one word. Do you want to discuss 'sentence structure' at this time?"

Vrrooommm...vrrooommm...vrrooommm

"What about sentence structure?"

Vrrooommm...vrrooommm...Silence...

"Hello! Is anyone there?"

What sounds like the phone being bobbled...

Clump...ti...ti...clump...

Yes, we're here. [Narrator]

"Does 'the reader' want to discuss 'sentence structure' at this moment?"

No, please no sentence structure...please! [Narrator]

Silence...

I believe that's your cue mister, miss, or misses 'reader.'

The noise of another toilet flushing...

Blooshchchch...ROOOOOOOOOOOOOR...growl...

Gee whiz, has this dude, or gal got bowel problems? That's the second time in less than five minutes.

What sounds like another phone being bobbled...

Clump...ti...ti...clump...

"Sorry, I missed that last part."

"Do we need to investigate sentence structure and things like non-conjugating verbs?" aks the author.

Please say no!

"Can you give me another example?"

"Sure, non-conjugating verbs are word combinations that are grammatically incorrect like: 'I be' instead of 'I am,' 'she be' instead of 'she is,' or 'she was' and 'thems be' instead of 'they are.'"

"I have absolutely 'No' interest."

Thank God!

You heard 'the reader'...absolutely no interest, Franklin.

"Well, okay then...that should give you enough to get you started, is there anything else narrator?"

No, nothing else. Thank you, you've been very helpful.

"Oh, glad I could help. Call me if you need me, unless you hear someone snoring."

A nervous cough...

Oh...I will, you can count on it.

"Okay, goodbye then."

Silence...

More silence...

"Is the novelist guy gone?"

I believe so.

"God, I didn't think he'd ever shut his 'pie hole.' Look do me a favor, if you want me to keep reading this...this...what is this?"

Humorous satire?

"Fine, if you want me to keep reading this 'humorous satire,' don't...I repeat don't ask the author for any more help. If you don't have the answers just say so...okay?"

You don't have to tell me twice. Should we get back to the story?

"I'm not sure..."

We're getting to the fab part...wait, do you want to make up any new terms?

"Shit, I mean schiessen, no! Blast, just get on with the story!"

Fine, then call to mind that the faculty member's higher consciousness was still in 'La La Land' and the low-level grey matter was still running things. Through years of stimuli and reward, the primitive brain responded to certain prodding including the voice of the 'Old Hand' back at Grey Hall. The cerebrum believes the Old Hand was continuing to whisper to it, a memory that manages to slip through the drug-frozen synapses.

The Old Hand whispers, "Okay, now chew it down real fine."

The jaw muscles dutifully responded with the correct action munching up the small 'Musca Domestica' then swallowing after a time.

Oh my God, the Old Hand's voice has whispered something again!

"Ready fo' t'other spoonful, Bic?"

How long the body of the professor stood there eating flies was anyone's guess. All I know is following this kind of absurd behavior can't help except detract from your opinion of the main character, so let us fast forward a bit.

"Wait, what...what did the academician think for the taste of flies?"

Right now, the academic could not tell us if he wanted to, the normal person, the higher consciousness did not even know he was eating flies, never mind what they tasted like. We will have to wait for that answer once Schwartz admittedly wakes up.
Rude Awakening

Professor Schwartz awoke with a bolt! His eyelids would not open. It was like his orbs were glued shut with sleep. The guru rubbed his eyes and there, now he could see. The scholar pushed himself up onto his knees then taking a deep breath, was welcomed with that overpowering, horrendous funk of the community garbage can.

His noodle spinning and feeling high as a kite, the academic's first thought in thirty years?

What the f@#&!? What...what just happeneth'ed to me?

Everything was twirling around; the day was unquestionably bright out and somewhat balmy. The English professor squinted to take a look around at his surroundings, but from his low level, all he could see were the blurry images of...

Are those motor vehicles?

He could not see the vehicles in their entirety as they passed by; from his angle he could just make out the roofs as they rolled by at a snail's pace.

Wow, my cranium is unmistakably aching with an unremitting, hangover-like throbbing.

The academic thought about making an attempt to stand, but then thought better of it what with the landscape spinning around. The lyrics of a country music song now drifted to his notice. The horrible tunes grew louder as the motorist drew nearer.

"Ah's a redneck woomin...

ah ain't no glo'y...

in this hyar country kitchen...

t'try their bran' of...

barbecue th' sign...

said fingerlickin' fine..."

"I was Jesus...

I'd come back fum...

the mini-malls...

when they're downwind...

fum his hogs when..."

Damn, now I understand why I have a passionate distaste for country music.

Now one more different kind of noisemaking racket started to make itself known on the wind.

What is this? Some Mariachi music, too?

"De la Sieeerrra moooreeena...

cieeeliito linndo, vieeenen baaajanndo...

un par de'oooji...

Moooreeena, cieeeliito linndo...

vieeenen baaajanndo...

un par de'oooji..."

The roofs of more passing automobiles told the big cheese the motorists were slowing and coming to a complete stop.

Infernos, now all that's missing is some repugnant, ebony euphony.

The genius got his wish as the heavy base racket of Hip Hop Gang'sta Rap now came on the scene.

"Who heart jello...

'cause we duzn't trust ay...

You's owe some...

Dog already gots dree strikes...

I'll blow yo' brains...

whut de fuk'ah it...

Gots me all de prank calls...

wuz dead dreats...

Cause ah' made it...

duzn't dig fuk'in...

ah' made it...

duzn't dig fuk'in..."

When the motorists all began to stop, the drivers playing Mariachi and Country music decided they could not hear their sweet tunes over the crushing base of the ebony symphony, so they turned up the volume which started a musical war, of sorts. What was supposed to pass as music became a collage of noise as ever-increasing sound waves collided into each other merging into a cacophony of utter nonsense as each idiot tried to drown out the other.

"His tracko' backs up traffic...

Moooreeena, cieeeliito linndo...

Gots me all de prank calls wuz dead dreats...

th' restlessness th' heart...

vieeenen baaajanndo...

Cause ah' made it, duzn't dig fuk'in...

Of stone ah sometimes...

git th' message writ on...

un par de'oooji...

ah' made it...

duzn't dig fuk'in..."

This has got to be an abominable hallucination? Am I failing to keep my faculties intact? the English professor asked himself. This has got to be a bad dream; a truly, truly bad dream.

Suddenly, a dreamlike memory flashed before the academic's eyes, a dream where he was strolling with an attractive female student; an underage, irresistible, effeminate undergrad; one of those gullible, journalism-major, inviting students who were always looking for that quick way to an "A," even if it meant sleeping with the professor.

The dignitary got down to recounting the events of his dream.

The hindmost thing I recall was a trampy, but pretty, little, bottle blonde ambling by my side like a puppy...

She was a seventeen-year-old, I think, and the teen was blathering about something, while I was promenading while peering...peering down her blouse pondering, "How can I get this adorable, little bimbo in the sack."

In my dream I remember being very distracted trying to look down that blouse of hers, too busy forthoughting on how I was going to get into that little girl's underwear.

I remember being too busy looking at those bodacious ta-tas of hers...too busy contemplating some of my typically dirty thoughts, something usually along the line of, "Boy, what I would do to those little puppies." Suddenly, I recollect the bleached blonde, that insubstantial, cerebral lightweight then, without warning, suddenly stopped...cut short all that promenading! For some damnable ratiocinate [reason]...I kept sauntering along straining to see those ebullient, little bosoms of hers, while meditating on whether an 'A' would work on getting me coitus[laid].

Damnablity! Why, did I keep rubbernecking to view those bosoms, distracting myself as I walked along pondering my typically squalid contemplations...nevertheless, I was just dreaming? It was just a fantasy, wasn't it?

Oh, schiessen!...I can hear something appalling coming!...The resonance of the sound is like the long, harsh, deep noise of some undomesticated animal, a beast that is very fast moving...something mammoth...something unprepossessing!

Out of the corner of my baby blues...Oh no! I see it!

I am near panic stricken...petrified schiessenless! I can't get out of the thing's way! I am frozen with trepidation like some kind of statute...I am too terrorized to gape at and catch sight of what it is that is coming forthwith!

Schiessen, I see the horrible thing now! It is an inhumanely, wicked-appearing thing! It is whitish-grey in color and shiny, kind of like the color of a chemical element I vaguely recollect, but which element? The color has got to be silver...the element with the atomic number 47. No wait, the beastly thing could also be covered in chromium! Does chromium have an atomic number? No, wait, it has got to be silver...chromium does not have an atomic number. Infernos, the monstrous thing could be made of either silver, or chromium. The monstrous thing is metallic, whatever metal it is, and shiny...that's for certain.

What...what is that? I now dreamt I was seeing a caricature, a takeoff of a canine coming straight at me...a bulldog! My parents had a bulldog! Why, am I seeing a bulldog! I hated that damnable flat, wrinkle-faced, bitch...wait, was it a bitch, or a male? I seem to recall that mutt was a bitch! Anyway, that objectionable animal companion of theirs always barked at me...that I do remember.

Schiessen, that fickening mutt is headed right straight for me! My parents' mutt is going to attack me in the dream!

Suddenly, my mental pictures of the fantasy disappeared. Nothing but darkness! The dream had all of a sudden stopped...that was when I awoke.

Gaia, what a horrific series of thoughts. Blessed earth, it was only a bizarre nightmare.

I probably should have mentioned this long ago, you in all likelihood have already picked up on it, but for assclowns in general, most paid homage to the 'Earth Mother,' "Gaia." Gaia was much the same thing as "God" for Christians, Jews, Muslims and other world religions.

A cold shiver went down the academic's spine at the thought of that silver, or chromium, metal bulldog.

Why...for what purpose did I dream about a bulldog and for what purpose was it covered in silver, or was it chromium? Why...for what purpose was the caricature of a canine metal and shiny? Why, had my progenitors gotten that damnable bulldog? Did my biological parents execrate me? I know 'Da-Da' did not find me intolerable. It was 'Ma-Ma' who always anathematized [hated] me. Yes, that is it, 'Ma-Ma' hated that 'Da-Da' liked me more than her; or, could it have been that she always liked women, more than men. 'Ma-Ma' often shunned me on account of I was going to be a man someday. 'Ma-Ma' always said she wanted a little girl...that's why she always dressed me up as a little girl. 'Da-Da' liked me, dressed up as a little girl, too. Where was I? Oh, yes, that damnable 'canine distemper virus!' It had to be 'Ma-Ma' who got that damn mutt, not 'Da-Da.' That is why she had to be the one...

The mastermind scholar continued to retrace his vacuous memories of the dream with those silly sounding questions and 'mentally masturbating' all over the place, while unconsciously shooing away a cloud of flies that had been buzzing around since the day before. Unexpectedly, something else now popped into the academic-genius' thoughts!

What is that malodor? Holy terra firma, why are my olfactories being overwhelmed by the miasmata of something that reminds me of...of beer farts?

"How did the college guru know what beer farts smelled like?"

Schwartz was a university faculty member for heaven's sake and pretty darn typical of the over-intellectualization of goofnads in academia. The professor's Doctorate in English meant he had been in college for at least eight, or nine years. And what do college students do? Drink beer, fart, puke, study a little, go to some of the classes, eat at fast food joints, drink some more, fart some more, puke some more...you get the idea. That was quite a few years and opportunities for the virtuoso to discover just about everything there was that comes out of a college-town beer hall, including the occasional setback that accompanied unprotected sex.

Something miasmas...it miasmas like someone's buttock is right beneath my proboscis!

It turns out the English professor was, for all practical purposes, correct. The orderlies back at Grey Hall could never quite find the time with their busy schedules to keep things like the patients' beards, or hair trimmed. As a result, the academic's beard had grown quite a bunch since his last shave and it was now acting like some human hair swab sopping up the gunk of the gully.

There was no controlling his reflex action at this point and the virtuoso academic bent over and threw up, adding his part to the community septic tank.

Schwartz gasped for air! Fresh air, anything apart from those foul-smelling, beer-fart-laced fumes. He tried taking short, little breaths trying to calm himself and give him...

Are those diptera [flies]?

He threw up again at the spectacle; there was no escaping the stench and now the sight of...of half digested flies!

This partially answers your earlier question about the taste of flies; nevertheless, like anything else we put into our mouths, presentation is ninety percent of getting past whatever it is we're eating. Consider the idea, for a moment, of a cow's tongue sandwich. A cow's tongue sandwich would be too much to contemplate eating for most, non-Jewish people, especially if the 'muscular hydrostat' were not disguised by being thinly sliced up, hidden under some brown mustard and kept from view by some pumpernickel, or rye bread. I'm right, right? I mean, who in their right mind would ever eat something that had been used to lick ass most of its existence, if not its own then of some other cow's, or calf's. Just consider what your reaction would be if instead of that 'broiled to perfection' filet mignon you were expecting, a broiled, sautéed in butter cow's tongue showed up...what would be your comeback, then?

Presentation, that's the secret behind getting past the reality of what we're putting in our mouths, and sad to say for the academic there was nothing to gloss over what could easily have been a normal ingredient for a Mexican taco-stand vendor.

Gaia, I have to get out of this cac!

The professor was no longer feeling the drug-induced, euphoric state he had been experiencing as of late. The aristocrat was beginning to feel and see the reality of his situation for the first time in three decades.

What in the world am I doing in this...this narrow trench in the ground?

At least the wizard was starting to view his world more clearly, well as intelligibly as someone could given the amount of drugs the professor had been unconsciously doing for thirty years.

Schwartz tried to spit out the bits of flies still in his mouth, but they only got caught in...

I have a Vandyke [beard], too? What in perdition transpired? I've got to get out of...

Moments later the academician managed to slip and claw his way up the bank of the ditch and onto level ground; that's when the English professor felt the draft coming from his flank.

Schwartz looked down at himself, trying to recall what party he had been to to wind up looking like he did: covered in schiessen, wearing nothing more than what looked like a pair of hospital slippers, a hospital gown that felt like burlap, untied in the back, wearing no underwear with his backside completely bare and hanging out for anyone to see.

The wizard now felt as if he had something around his neck. The thing felt like the contours of...

A canine choker?

I know you're thinking, "How does Schwartz know he's wearing a 'doggie collar,' right?"

"Huh, you're right! His recollection doesn't stem from his quality times with the fellows at NAMBLA, does it?"

You must have been reading the novelist's mind. Yes, from the bang-up, OLE days of NAMBLA.

What the f@#&!?, was all the dignitary could think to think as he struggled in his efforts to unhitch the neckband.

The wind was helping keep the stench at bay; nevertheless, not enough to arrest the blanket of flies that continued to make their presence known.

As luck would have it, those damnable machines blasting their damn collage of music everywhere had moved on, but only to be replaced by the noise of car horns blowing and commoners yelling.

The genius looked up to see he was standing at the tail end of a minor traffic jam. Unusual appearing automobiles inching forward then disappearing over the crest of a hill a little over a hundred yards to his right. The moronicist was in full view of the regrettably poor souls sitting in the final four, or five autos in the traffic jam and could see most were upset and all peering in his direction.

A gruff appearing, middle-age lass screamed out her window, "Hey buddy,'d yo' mind gittin' off th' road, cuss it all t' tarnation!" [Hey buddy, would you mind getting off the road!]

"I've got chillan in th' car!" [I've got youth in the car!]

What did that muliebrous woman, I think that's a woman, say? the academic asked himself as he looked on at the upset mother with auto packed full of children...all staring at him.

Sounds like an incredibly unintelligent woman. What in Gaia's name could that fool be blathering about?

It had become a bit windy and at that moment a brisk breeze came blowing up from behind lifting his hospital gown like a sail to the shock and horror of the youth, mother, and the on-looking passengers of the other automobiles.

Schwartz could tell by how the looks on the faces of the youthful innocents instantly turned from idle curiosity to alarm. The ugly mother blanching in horror as she did said that something was wrong only the academic was still too groggy to put two and two together, not once thinking what he might have looked like for those few seconds to those now, psychologically damaged bystanders. He only knew he probably needed to eventually tie up that scant gown of his.

He ignored the catcalls and jeers and spent the next five minutes, ten minutes, possibly half-hour fumbling about trying to grasp the tie-strings with his muck-encrusted hands never once peering at, or contemplating the strange appearance of some of those automobiles slowly moving along before him.

For the professor time at this moment had no meaning; minutes passed like seconds; hours could have passed like minutes. The traffic jam moved on all the while he wobbled and fumbled with his gown on the side of the road, not growing frustrated, not realizing his attempts were getting him nowhere...that was when the Trailways bus pulled over and in front of him to possibly lend a hand.

The bus driver cranked open the main passenger entryway and looked down at the patient. He hesitated when he saw the human aberration up close, axing himself, Did I make the right decision by stopping?

The reasons for second thoughts were obvious. The academic was not a great spectacle standing on the side of the highway looking like a person who had just crawled out of the ditch and was wearing something that looked like a pooch collar and hospital gown that shouted out, "I belong in the insane asylum just down the road." However, only locals would have known this. The genius looked something like "Father Time" wearing a demeanor that suggested the dignitary was oblivious to his plight much like a drunken, homeless person.

I suppose this fellow would consider himself a classy Samaritan, thought the academic. Obviously an uncultured, working-class grunt who in all likelihood never attended college. Oh well, you've got to take aid from the 'hoi polloi' when other options do not exist.

"Yo! Was yo' all ficken'in right mi'sto [Hey, are you all right mister]?" axed [asked] the bus driver.

Schwartz had no idea what the driver just said.

"Pardon me, but what did you...?"

The professor stopped short! His voice startled him; it sounded like a girl's voice!

What in heaven's sake is wrong with my vocalization of speech!

His normal, deep baritone delivery sounded something like a squeaky, little, girl's voice...perchance a thirteen-year-olds.

Ahem...

Schwartz attempted to clear his throat, but sadly after years of disuse, his voice had decidedly changed for the worse.

The driver began laughing.

The academic tried to deepen his voice to no avail. "What on earth appears so facetious my dear chap!"

I can't believe it, I still sound like a flagrant little, teenage girl!

"I say! Was yo' all muhfuk'n right mi'sto?" [I said, are you fickening all right mister?]

This public bus chauffeur sounds just like your typical know-nothing. I can't for the life of me comprehend a word this moron is whining. What in the six continents is this goat herder trying to say? Do I honestly care what this lowbrow fellow is saying?

The professor takes a snap look around at his desolate surroundings; he is out in the middle of who knows where, so yes, he needs a ride.

"Can you, my kind sir, give me a lift to the next city?" asked the academician in as deep a soprano-like voice as he could muster. "I appear to be stranded here with no other means of conveyance."

Laughing, the driver was just about to suggest something when a gust of wind came from behind the English professor, again! His hospital gown also opened up like a sail, again! The bus driver blanched at the unwelcome sight, as did the passengers peering from behind their wire-covered windows.

Gelding male patients who lived their lives out in places like Grey Hall had been common practice for at least a decade. The procedure created a more docile inmate population who were not always walking around with stiffs, the foregone side effect of testosterone. It was, however, a procedure that occurred at a hospital and before a patient was placed in "the system." The academic's three decades in "the system" had saved his testes which meant the bus driver and passengers were now staring at...you can guess what.

"What about the saltpeter? Isn't that supposed to solve the problem?"

Well, it turns out because the professor had been spoon fed by the orderlies he often did not get enough of the potassium nitrate to make a difference, at least not enough for his current situation. The academician had never genuinely needed the mineral in his catatonic state; nevertheless, now that the professor was returning to normal, thirty years of sexual sobriety was now rearing its ugly head, so to speak.

Back to the bus driver who now got a whiff of the stench that accompanied the virtuoso's appearance. It was too much. The driver slammed the door and hit the batteries and slowly pulled away.

By this time in America the establishment had replaced most gas-powered vehicles with battery-operated ones. These planet-saving three, or four-wheel contrivances often achieved top speeds of forty-five miles per hour only in spurts, usually downhill. The first bus that played the part of the "bowling ball" turned out to be running out of juice, was in all likelihood doing ten, or fifteen miles per hour. That slow speed combined with the cow-plow on the front for furrowing through rioters were probably what saved the English professor and the other inmates from serious injury, just a few cuts and minor bruises they would not have noticed.

Anyway the second bus, the Trailways bus, speeded away from the scene, but was going uphill. There was no way to tell how fast it was moving out when the strange appearing vehicle finally crested the hill. Someone walking briskly could have, in all likelihood, stayed up with the thing. The genius looked on as the odd-looking vehicle disappeared over the hill crest.

That domestic transport [bus] appears to be a little odd in general, thought the academician scholar to himself. Not just the precautionary, poultry filament [chicken wire] covering on all the windows, not just those strange windmill-looking contraption contrivances [wind turbines] that commenced to whirl in a circular motion [spin] as the vehicle pulled away. What was it? Ah, yes. It was those automotive batteries! Dozens of automotive batteries and insulated, wire cabling that were running all over the upper covering of the vehicle (roof). Some of those automotive batteries were even hanging off the sides of that motor vehicle. Those batteries literally looked out of place and completely unsafe. I now feel kind of fortunate that I did not get on the public conveyance [bus].

Those batteries may have looked strange, but they represented the price of today's tremendously efficient "green modes" of transportation. Of course there were some unforeseen drawbacks to battery power. Range was a bit of a problem, as was the time it took to recharge the cursed things. That was the reason long distance haulers like the Trailways bus were festooned with automobile batteries. Come to think of it just about any older model, electric auto carried additional batteries, too.

Battery technology had not improved in the United States for over thirty years. The genius of the hombre in charge of the country, the "Forever President," had simply believed things like research and development were not worth the price particularly if the secrets could be pilfered abroad, something the Central Intelligence Agency succeeded in doing back in 2027. The problem for Americans was it took more than just having some blueprints to make the darn things; it took modern, automated facilities and a high-skilled workforce with things like engineering degrees, both of which were sadly missing by this time. So, the American automotive manufacturers continued using outdated battery technology.

"What was the problem with American batteries?"

The integrated automobile battery worked on average three to four years, and after that owners would have to drive their vehicle back to "New Motown," in Las Vegas and have the complete lower half of the chassis replaced. The cost was a little offsetting...55,000 dollars a pop. Or you could simply festoon your vehicle, like the bus, with automobile batteries.

Just so you know, the rest of the civilized world had come up with a better battery which worked three times as long, but cost a quarter-million dollars a pop! Turns out printing worthless paper dollars for all those decades did have its drawbacks when buying things abroad.

"But, didn't electric power save the planet? Didn't batteries save 'Gaia' from Global Warming? Didn't DC-power stop Climate Change?"

You know you are absolutely right; those were some of the "intended consequences" that accompanied the EPA's 2020 mandate. Electricity was, after all, the best form of "Green Energy" we could all use. It was clean, nonpolluting...and renewable? Renewable? Well, that was what the Environmental Protection Agency said...it had to be true, right? Oh, I forgot the agency was referring to the so-called battery charger options you could get added to your new car: the solar panel kit, or the wind sail option, or the wind-turbine charger the academic had seen welded to the top of the bus.

"But, didn't those things detract from the overall, aerodynamic appearance of a car?"

That was the price one paid for better battery mileage and as for aerodynamics, that property truly didn't matter except when driving into headwinds. This was, however, a two-way street; wind sails added five to twenty miles per hour to a vehicle's speed depending on what was blowing from behind and those wind turbines, while unsightly, those things worked wonders to recharge batteries as one motored down the road.

Now, the much shorter driving range of electric vehicles did have some "unintended benefits" for humankind. They helped to reduce traffic and I mean everywhere...the rush hour had become a thing of the past. Further, the tens-of-millions of fewer autos on the road meant less road rage, and as for lanes for traffic, just two of the four...six...eight...twelve on highways were all that Americans needed. As for speeding, with the average speeds hovering around twenty miles per hour, traffic accidents were usually nothing more than fender benders and it should also be mentioned that tires lasted a lot, lot longer, too and were guaranteed for the life of the battery.

To be unprejudiced, there were some "unintended consequences" that also accompanied the move to electricity. For one, when the spare batteries went dead, motorists were simply tossing them by the millions on the side of America's roadways. Those damn things were not only an eyesore, but also a road hazard, largely at night. It was rare to see an unscarred vehicle on the road; most paint jobs were pitted by battery acid that exploded all over the place when an unobservant driver drove over, or through one. Further, those used up batteries were more than a nuisance; they took away from the time the Department of Transportation and the Service Employees International Union had to pick up the real garbage along America's roadways, which will be in evidence as the Ivy League faculty member begins his stroll to find some sort of civilization.

Did I already mention cold weather?

"No."

"Well, in cold weather the range of the electric vehicle dropped to single digits. Normally motorists would get up to seventy miles on a full charge. This could be extended by adding additional batteries, say to the roof...to the roof and trunk...to the roof, trunk and hood...to the roof, trunk, hood and in the back seat...or to the roof, trunk, hood, in the back and front-passenger seats. If you maxed out the amperage you could easily drive from Chicago to say Columbus, Ohio 356 miles away. But, when it was cold out, you would be lucky to get from downtown Chicago to the suburb, Highland Park three miles away.

In the early days of the EPA mandate, winter months could bring entire regions of the nation to a standstill. That was why Washington took the highly successful California program of "rolling power blackouts" and extended the idea to the nation, "work blackouts" and "school day blackouts." When the weather dropped to near freezing any and everyone could stay home, unless they lived within walking distance, or could take a working public transportation service. It was a fabulous thing and polling showed it greatly improved employee morale for those adults without chillan. For obvious reasons, the pollsters did not include adults with youth. Yes, productivity did take a little bit of a hit, so did kids' education...oh, that's right, I meant near-prison confinement during the day; nevertheless, so what! Nearly everyone, except business owners and adults with school-age chillan were happy!

Sadly, "Work Blackouts" came to a sudden end when business-lobbyist payoffs got Washington to pass a new law requiring battery heaters for any auto used by plebeians who worked. It was a bit ironic; electric heaters, of course, would not work so gas burning models had to be installed.

"What about the school kids? Did they suffer the same remedy?"

No, thanks largely to the teachers union, the National Education Association and Department of Edu-Prisons and Corrections, those "school day blackouts" became a sort of paid holiday and permanent perk and were appropriately called School Day Blackout holidays. The unions were also really stupendous at improving things even more, getting the temperature raised from thirty-five, to forty and eventually forty-five degrees as the cutoff juncture for the weather-related holiday.

All right, I think I digressed a little too far from our subject. The college scholar was on the side of the road, covered in cac and coming out of a drug-induced stupor.

I've got to get this intolerable pooch collar off my neck. I cannot stroll about and take the likelihoodedness that one of my students will see and report me looking like this...this NAMBLA personage.

The time slowly passed...

"Gosh darn this contraption! Yes...yes..finally. At long last I have stripped myself of that pooch collar!" exclaimed the elated dignitary in his feminine voice as the neckband finally fell to the ground.

Now to get this toga trussed up in the rear.

Tying up that gown of the scholar's was not going to be as easy. The scholarly genius was going to have to use a less orthodox approach if he was going to get that 'gown from hell' of his tied. The academic educationist faced away from the road even though now there were no cars to be seen, wrenched the gown around so he could get at the rear flaps, exposed his bare ass, but kept his genitalia under wraps, struggled for a few seconds before finally securing his rear end.

Schwartz now looked down at himself with approval. The mud-caked front of his gown was heavy enough to keep his raised flagpole somewhat obscure. With everything somewhat under control, the academic took a better look at his surroundings. The breeze died down, and the overwhelming stench returned.

Oh Gaia, I believe I am going to purge, again!
Taste of Metamorphosis

The situation started to improve for the moronicist, except for the flies and foul-stinking clothes, hair, skin and breath. The virtuoso, doyen in literature, aristocratic, big wig needed to keep walking to stay ahead of all of it. The dignitary had no idea how long he had been walking; it now felt like hours...the last vestiges of the drugs were wearing off. The academician, genius had no recollection of the original bus that plowed into him and very little of his encounter with the second bus driver.

The professor had passed by the reason for the minor traffic jam without giving it much notice. The burned-out shell of an automobile sat smoldering by the side of the highway. The auto had apparently burst into flames for some unfathomable reason. The academic was too fuzzy in the noodle to give the wreck a second glimpse.

Professor Schwartz was walking along the ditch he had been thrown into; the steep-sided thing ran parallel to a four-lane highway that had remained surprisingly deserted in the intervening time period between when the Trailways bus disappeared. The professor was walking north as far as he could tell; the sun was starting to descend to his left on the western horizon. Several times during his stroll he thought he heard the noise of air raid sirens on the wind, but quickly dismissed the notion the republic was under attack.

The countryside was dry, arid with grass-covered hills and what looked like oak trees providing wind breaks here and there across the landscape. The hills prevented the dignitary from seeing any further than a mile or so in all four directions. He was walking in the same direction the bus and traffic had taken.

The roadway was in horrible condition and in need of major repair; the passenger lane closest to him had so many potholes it would have been impossible to drive at any reasonable speed without completely trashing the suspension. The passing lane was little better; nevertheless, at least the holes had been filled in with loose gravel.

This looks like a principal parkway, so where have all the automobiles departed to? The virtuoso, big wig would now and again ask himself. The same conclusion always popped into his noggin: the parkway is in all likelihood part of some sort of civil engineering construction project; that has got to be the explanation for why I have seen such diminutiveness of automotive traffic.

The scholar was thinking more clearly; he had been perspiring all along helping to remove the toxins from his system with every passing moment. It would be dark in the next several hours. The temperature was a balmy eighty degrees and much of the brown muck that covered his front side had hardened, and much of it had flaked off as he strolled along.

"This damnable parkway has the appearances of going on and on and on," the dignitary squeaked despondently under his breath, now growing more frustrated with his situation. "Where in Gaia's name are all the commoners?"

Schwartz now only vaguely remembered the automobiles of the traffic jam; any memory of the jeering, the catcalls, the horrified looks of the children had all but disappeared. The professor had not seen any exits off that darn highway yet. The academic was now approaching one more crest of another hill as he slogged his way northward.

Schwartz's gait was brisk, as brisk as he dared, doing his best to create a gap between himself and the cloud of flies that now followed him regardless of where he stepped. The other challenge was to stay ahead of the blanket of fart gas that overcame him anytime he stopped to pull a sandspur from his foot.

"Wait a second, what about his beard? The professor, genius could not run away from his beard could he?"

Somehow, some way, walking fast kept the stench at bay. Only when he slowed down did the nauseating air catch up with him and cause him to gag. I'm not a physicist, I'm not sure how the academician managed to pull it off, but do you truly want me to aks [ask] the author how Schwartz pulled it off?

"Uh, no, I'm good."

I thought so.

The professor had seen no further automobiles pass by. It was highly unlikely he would come across any electric autos, as most drivers would not dare venture out this far from civilization and battery rechargers.

The professor winced, Gaia! That loathable, despicable and effluvium of flatulence is horrendous. So damnable in view of the fact that it appears there is no escaping the fetid stench.

Any time the dignitary slowed his pace, the nauseating, invisible gas caught up with him causing him to gag uncontrollably. Therefore, the academic was much too distracted with his plight to notice some of the subtle differences that surrounded him.

One of the professor's chores involved watching out for broken glass, used rubbers, beer bottles, empty soda cans, chicken bones, tampons, empty chili cans, automobile batteries, everything imaginable. The side of the highway looked like a public dumping ground. Whatever someone might carry in, or on top of a car, in a bus, or in a towed trailer was tossed out on the side of the road: sofas, a baby's crib, there were even a couple of rusted out hulks of old automobiles that appeared to have caught fire.

Luckily large swaths of his path were free of the knee-high scrub grass that was growing everywhere along the highway. It looked to the academician as if the Department of Transportation must have been employing a technique often used by those backward rednecks to clear underbrush in the South: so-called "controlled burns." That was up to when the anointed one saw the automobile crest the hill headed in the opposite direction, sparks flying everywhere.

Across the median, the vehicle came barreling along at forty miles per hour, five miles per hour above the posted speed limit. The academic noticed it was an older appearing car, but one with styling that looked to be foreign to him. The auto was too low for the bad road conditions and was showering sparks whenever the automobile-chassis passed over an irregularity of which there were quite a few.

Growing up, the virtuoso had often laughed at the so-called "lowriders" the Mexicans had created as their dream cars. Lowriders were badass automobiles like those seen in the Richard "Cheech" Marin and Tommy Chong stoner motion picture, Up In Smoke, with those amazing paint graphics and hydraulics that could make an automobile jump, or adjust height in any of ten different combinations. Invented by the Mexicans to impress the babes, it was rapidly adopted by Latino-Americans and were now a part of the new American culture. Today, almost anyone not using battery-powered autos was driving one of those fine, classy machines!

Schwartz now stared in amazement as one of the things, packed so tight it looked like a "Mexican orgy," festooned with luggage tied to roof and trunk barreled, no not barreled, scraped along the highway like some gigantic sparkler, the undercarriage making a terrific, banging noise every time it bottomed out in one of the many potholes.

Bang!...Crash!

Bang!...Crash!

Who are these personages? Do they have some kind of death aspirations?

Crash!...Bang!

Schwartz watched closely as the vehicle passed on the other side of the median, half expecting to see a fiery explosion at any moment. That's indeed strange. The driver is literally taking no notice of the fireworks, nor does he seem to be concerned with the potential disaster he is sitting on. The automotive driver has to see the pyrotechnics?

Bang!...Crash!

The racket eventually disappeared soon after the rolling firebomb crested another one of the darn hills.

Is this the dirtbag state of Texas, is that where I am?

Now that the four-wheel disaster was gone, he noticed the "spark machine" had started some of those "controlled burns" along the way, only these, of course, were not "controlled burns."

"Gaia," the dignitary whispered, not wanting to talk too loud, not wanting to be reminded he sounded like a girl. "Those halfwit dunces!"

Thank Gaia the breeze was blowing away from his side of the highway pushing the smoke and growing flames in the direction of...

Are those zea-mays (corn) fields?

That thought was all of a sudden replaced, as the flames had caught his eye...the professor was being uncontrollably drawn to staring at those growing flames, particularly as they became more intense. Not realizing it, the former sanitarium inmate unconsciously started to slow his gait. For causes unknown to the academic, he became mesmerized by the flames, by the smoke...old habits are hard to break, and the mindless primitive's cerebellum was at work, reminiscing about the good old times back at Grey Hall.

"Owww! Not another cenchrus [sandspur]!"

The cerebrum's hold over the professor's attention had been suddenly broken.

"I've got a question? For what purpose is the academician using all kinds of unheard of words instead of speaking like an ordinary person? 'Cenchrus?' Come on, honestly?"

The answer is related to the part about how moonbats use flowery, five-syllable expressions to bewilder and confuse others, something akin to mentally masturbating all over the place to befuddle and confound. There is one other thing; using confusing diction gives asshat elitists like college professors and politicians an unfound sense of superiority over others. Most of those assclowns have spent most of their lives learning how to appear smart. Talking gives the goofnads a chance to show off their supposed smartedness; it is as simple as that.

"Good answer."

So, the 'now sane,' former, sanitarium inmate stopped to pull the sandspur from his big toe then one more matter surfaced: the academic had remained stationary too long, that darn vile cloud had caught up and his olfactory senses quickly alerted him to the sudden variation in atmospheric conditions.

Blahhh! Gagggg!

Just for what purpose is humanity attracted to certain kinds of odors? Likewise, for what purpose do they abhor others? Has the answer got something to do with one's prehistoric past? Were cave dwellers too simpleminded to know what to avoid and what not to avoid that they needed an unseen, higher power to make the call? Did everyone back then lack the common sense to gauge whether or not something was Kosher just by...

Uhumm! "Are you finished? I mean talking about getting off topic."

Hey, I'm just reading the script.

"Are you sure you're not just ad-libbing?"

No, I'm serious...though it could, however, have something to do with the time the novelist wrote those final few paragraphs: 2:30AM!

"I'd say that could have some bearing. Should we skip the rest of this chapter? I mean there's no reason to follow along with the author's obvious, muddled thoughts, right?"

There is much wisdom to what you say. I'll skip the portion involving the novelist's irrational tirade and move on to the time where I see the writer was working during normal business hours.

Hmmm...hmmm...hmmm...

A minute passes.

Hmmm...hmmm...hmmm...

Three, or four minutes have now passed.

Hmmm...hmmm...hmmm...

Six minutes later...

Here we go.

"Gee wiz, just how many pages did you have to skip?"

Do you truly want to know?

"Sure, quench my curiosity."

Let's see, looks like ten...no, eleven...make that twelve pages of nothing but delusional, mental nonsense. Let us pick up where the novelist becomes more coherent with his thoughts.

"Wait a second! Those pages could represent one of those 'lucid dreams' I heard about in an old psych course. Those twelve pages could offer some hidden meaning, something the author mistakenly let slip."

You mean like a "Freudian slip?"

"Exactly, so just what were some of the key issues the novelist was venturing to make?"

So, you want to psychoanalyze the author?

"Sure, why not?"

Okay, I'm game.

Hmmm... Let me see, how to word this? I know...I would summarize the novelist's categorically disorganized thoughts as an attempt rationalize 'asshat voter' behavior. His endeavor fell short of the mark. The author attempted to make, or show a direct correlation between the intellect and thoughts of most assclowns and that of the unthinking, sensory-driven, primitive, innocent, near brain-dead cavemen.

"...and cavewomen."

Of course...and cave women. It appeared to me the novelist was trying to derive the reasons for asshat voters' overall gullibility and naivety when it came to believing in and voting for obvious charlatans and snake oil salesmen.

"...and women."

Yes, and snake oil saleswomen. The one conclusion the author drew from anecdotal evidence was that moonbats, the voters in particular, suffered from arrested psychological development...that the morons were psychological equivalents of five-year-olds in the bodies of adults, eighteen and older.

"That's a leap, nevertheless I must admit there might be some truth to what the novelist wrote. What else could make intelligible an assclown voter's consistent, irrational, near non-thinking conduct?"

I can't think of a thing.

"Neither can I. You know this 'novelist fellow' is a lot more sinister than I gave him credit for."

You ever heard the maxim, "Dumb was smart...and smart was dumb?"

"Don't you mean, 'dumb is smart....and smart is dumb?'"

No, 'dumb was smart...and smart was dumb'...that phrase.

"No, I can't say that I have."

Well, I think the novelist was the dude to have come up with that locution of smartness.

"No way, you're telling me that changing 'is' to 'was' took genius? I don't think so."

I'm just saying.

"I've heard enough. Let's get on with the story before I send you, and it into digital oblivion."

Okay...okay, don't get so pissy. Uh, where was I...Oh yes, the English professor who had more than once considered discarding that schiessen'ified gown of his, but always thought better of it.

Got to perpetuate my forward impetus, must continue moving onwards. Must go perpetually onwards. Gaia, I must sustain my forward momentum.

As the hours passed, the moronicist continued talking to himself; jumbled, mind-spittling words, terms and phrases the professor would dump on any unsuspecting victims he met with...all to impress, all to exhibit his obvious superiority over both mind and verbiage. Little did the academic realize his Ivy League slathering might not be rewarded. In fact it may have been all for naught.

Time passed and things soon fell into a kind of rhythmic cadence; the English professor even had a chance to take an occasional glance at his surroundings. All the dignitary could see were cornfields as far as the eye could see.

Is this forsaken venue Nebraska? Where are all the plebs? Where is the automotive traffic?

Off in the distance the faculty member noticed hundreds of massive white windmills, the kind used for power generation. There was a breeze blowing; it had not stopped in the intervening period since leaving the ditch, but only a half-dozen of the leviathans looked as though they were spinning around. The remainder appeared to be in some state of disrepair like the highway. Some were missing blades and those that had one or two in place looked like gigantic pendulums with the blades rocking back and forth. The rest must have had their bearings seize up and were simply frozen in place.

As the academician came to the crest of one more hill, it gave him an unobstructed view of what lay ahead.

Something indubitably peculiar here.

Everywhere Schwartz looked there were more and more of those darn cornfields; that was what he guessed anyway in as much as there was no distinction to be made between crops for as far as the eye could see. Corn and hundreds more of those white broken windmills.

Ethyl alcohol? Could that elucidate why there are so many fields of zea-mays, as far as the eye can see? Is all that zea-mays being grown for ethyl alcohol?

Yes, ethyl alcohol, better known as ethanol...the corn derived fuel known by many names: pure alcohol, grain alcohol, drinking alcohol. Ethanol was a godsend for both the "Green Energy" lovers and alcoholics alike. Ethanol was clean, the result of fermenting (decomposition, distilling, boiling) corn mash. While true ethanol would have been ten times the price to produce as a barrel of oil, American automobiles were no longer running on gasoline...they were running on batteries, and ethanol!

America was no longer the world's leader in manufacturing or technology. Instead wealth was now based on corn production, that and ethanol...the energy source that drove today's economic prosperity and the engines of what remained of industry.

"What about all the oil? Where did it go?"

Most of it still remains...in the ground protected and preserved by at least sixty of the four-hundred plus Federal Government departments and agencies, or is leased out to foreign countries in the interest of balanced trade.

As I was saying, corn had become the most important driving force behind the American economy. Corn provided the work for most Americans, you know the low-skilled, benighted masses who had little real reason for communicating with one another what with all the various lingual dialects running around.

Maze production now accounted for over nine-tenths of all national exports. It was corn that elevated America to the title of..."Maze Basket of the World." What was most staggering about corn was every part of the plant could be either eaten, distilled, smoked, worn, or used in place of toilet paper and facial tissues; besides wood products were no longer available as an option.

America, through the brilliance and grandeur of the "Forever President," no longer cut down trees needlessly. Trees could no longer be felled except for a select few national necessities: smokers' pipes for the millions of potheads, hockey sticks for the hybrid version of professional football, baseball bats (aluminum was scarce and had been outlawed) for beating off your wife, husband, gigolos, rioters, chillan, et cetera, et cetera, and the furniture in the White House and "Forever President's" twelve or thirteen villas. Even Congress had to make due without wood furniture.

"For furniture, too?"

For furniture, too.

"What the schiessen replaced wood?"

One of the most durable and easily molded materials to be created by humanity, 'concrete.'

"That is a bit unbelievable."

What, the part about corn? No, corn was goout.

"No, you dip-schiessen, the part about wood!"

Well, that was the price for a greener, cleaner, better America. Let's spend a moment and talk about some of the uses for corn. For example, Marijuana smokers needed something for their pot and found corn husks to be the next best thing to rolling papers; a little harsh for most at first; nevertheless, with time, the potheads got used to the stuff and it helped account for nearly twenty-five percent of the byproduct.

Clothes too could be made from corn, cornstalks to be exact; however, there were some things that took a little getting used to. For one, the new garments usually felt like burlap for the first year, or so, but once past that misery, once the "corn clothes" were broken in, someone could wear them somewhat comfortably for decades! Just think of it: a half-dozen pairs of underwear, a couple pairs of green jeans, or overalls, several shirts, a half-dozen pairs of socks and you would be set for two, three...ten years!

"You're kidding?"

The academic's gown was a great example of how well "corn clothes" held up. The English professor had been wearing his gown for well over a decade and it still looked as good as the day the dignitary first had it put on...except for all the stains, of course.

There were, however, a couple of glitches with cornstalk fiber. For one, the fabric was highly absorbent and tended to change shape when it got wet, so if you got caught in the rain, what started out as something resembling a Polo Shirt could easily become something that looked like a Muumuu an hour later.

"Wait a second, I've got a question. What happens to the corn cobs? They're not used in place of toilet paper are they?"

Yes, in some parts of the nation, most definitely.

"Ha! What parts?"

The South for certain, the western parts of the Mid-Atlantic states around the Appalachian Mountains, the states along the southern border and San Francisco.

"San Francisco, too?"

Sure, why not San Francisco?

"It's just that I think of San Francisco as being kind of a sophisticated place, so I'm having a hard time picturing the Bay Area citizens using corncobs in place of toilet paper."

Remember when I said most well-healed asshats had fled to France?

"They all moved to France?"

Yes, the wealthy ones. Almost everyone else moved to the Freeport of Seattle and the void was filled by cultures who had been using corncobs in lieu of toilet paper for centuries. I should not have to say more, right?

"No, you're right."

Back to the corn garments for one last point; one of the drawbacks of corn-fiber clothes were they tended to catch fire when close to a flame, burning embers, or sparks. That's why a warning label on the inside of each garment carried the universal symbol for "fire dangerous," a stickman, or a stickgirl for women's clothes, surrounded by the imprint of a flame.

Symbols had become a very important part of the Ebongo-Edongo society and were an example of how far the country had come. Simply put, there was just not enough room inside clothing with maybe the exception of jeans, or overalls to write down twenty-five variations of a written warning label. Besides, there were no guarantees anyone would be able to decipher what it was, given the nature of constantly evolving terms and phonetic spelling.

Symbolism itself presented a problem in the early years of the country's switch to Ebongo-Edongo and it was not until the time the Department of Defense came up with standardized symbolism that consistency prevailed near and far across the land.

"Why the Department of Defense?"

Too many soldiers were blowing their heads off owing to faulty symbolism. Some raw recruits, mostly potheads, were mistaking the symbol for cleaning the rifle barrel, "Mister Clean" smiling with hand pointing in the direction of the muzzle, to mean, "look down the barrel."

Some joker at the Pentagon saw one of those DVD's of 60's commercials from a White Cracker Restaurant, a "Mister Clean" ad and thought, Mister Clean - that caricature would be the perfect spokesman for our gun safety program!

The typical bureaucrat had not considered, however, the new breed of enlistments the military was now accepting...anything from drug users, to prison inmates, to potheads, to cats who had created their own terms, all of whom might not understand what on earth "Mister Clean" was all about.

"I've a quick question, what about the women, were women allowed to serve in the armed forces?"

Of course women could serve and some did; nevertheless, most opted for the life of leisure filling their days with 'Jerry's Bastard Junior Show,' or the 'Opie's Adopted Daughters' Network,' eating potato chips, having sex with just about any male specimen that darkened their doorway, to getting pregnant and collecting bigger welfare checks.

Silence.

I guess that answers your question, so back to cleaning gun barrels.

Gun barrels had to be cleaned, otherwise, they could blow up in a soldier's face, but communications had broken down between the military instructors and new enlistees. The matter was now solved and the populace could snooze more easily knowing that they were safe, secure and defended by the world's twenty-fifth greatest military. Those who lost their gourds had not sacrificed their noggins in vain.

"Mister Clean" remained the symbol of cleanliness on the barrels of combat weapons, but instead of pointing at the muzzle, the caricature held a "mop," something that no matter how dense, or stoned a soldier was, they could relate to and understand without twenty-five variations of Ebongo-Edongo.

Thanks to the Department of Defense the pot-smoker, fireman, fire-woman, fire-persons, anyone cooking, anyone around, or playing with an open fire, or stove, anyone with a fireplace, anyone who cooked out, anyone who was near the flying sparks of a skipping and sliding lowrider, anyone near a person who was smoking pot, anyone near a person who was near a person with one of the aforementioned fire hazards...they were now aware! Alert to the hazard, wary and safer because they were more aware and more wary.

"I get it, but why was corn-fiber so flammable?" I don't remember cornstalks alive, or dead ever being a fire risk."

I am not a scientist, but it seems to me when corn-fiber is processed in the same facilities as ethanol and ethanol happened to be a primary ingredient in the process for making the fiber more flexible, supple and malleable like its cousin burlap that there could be some issues that might arise. I'm sorry, but that is all I have got on this one.

"Well, what in the world happened to cotton?"

Cotton was unacceptable, even though you could wear it, conceivably even wipe your ass, or blow your nose with it; cotton fell short in two of the "Forever President's" mandatory requirements: you had to be able to eat your clothes in times of emergency without any serious side effects; and the nation's 150 million potheads needed something that burned to replace rolling papers. Cotton fell short on both counts.

"Where in the world is this conversation going, anyway?"

Glad you asked. Now that trees were missing from the American diet; except for pot pipes, hockey sticks for football, baseball bats (aluminum was still scarce and still outlawed) for wife beating, or staving off rioters, and the furniture in the White House and "Forever President's" twelve, or thirteen mansions, the EPA found overall air quality improved for most Americans and the threats of 'Global Warming' and 'Climate Change' had been abated...a truly fantastic, stupendous thing.

"What about fireplaces?"

There was always the dung-impregnated cornstalk logs to fall back on, or you could install one of the new fangled ethanol-burning fireplaces. Don't look so dubious, both were excellent choices and contributed little to nothing toward the demise of the planet due to 'Global Warming' and 'Climate Change.'

"What about the aesthetics of a burning fireplace? The noise of flames licking at the logs, the scent of burning wood and what about the smoke?"

That's what the Fidel Industries 'Heat, Glow, Incense, Fogger' fireplace kit was for; just make sure you have an electrical outlet handy, or a spare 350-amp automobile battery and presto! You're set to rock and roll.

We have spent too much time on these absurd topics; nevertheless, it is important to recall what has been discussed: everything good was due to the resplendent, magnanimous, imperial leader's leadership skills and genius. The EPA found highly elusive evidence that overall air quality around the land had improved. Americans were now breathing marginally cleaner air except when anomalies arose: the Chinese pollution clouds that occasionally made it across the Pacific; any volcanic eruption anywhere in the world; one of the frequent forest fires that broke out in just about every part of America save the Mohave Desert. Except for those instances, Americans could now doze off more soundly knowing that the air they were breathing was sometimes cleaner, conceivably even healthier at times.

The point was cleaner air had to be a marvelous thing, had to be helping Americans live longer...possibly by days, perhaps by weeks, conceivably even by a year or more, and they all owed it to the constant meddling of one man, the "Forever President." Sure the facts did not support "el Presidente's" contention: over three decades of data had proven inconclusive, but Americans had to be living longer...the leader of the world's fiftieth greatest economy had pronounced it was so.

Now that the "Forever President" had decided Americans were living longer, they needed to be reminded that they owed it all to him. It was only through his benevolence, foresight and mental prowess that they were living longer. It only made sense that more statues of Castro needed to be erected, more bridges renamed after him, and the twelve cities that carried his name...they were simply not enough.

\-----

Professor Schwartz heard the rumbling noise of an un-tuned automobile engine approaching from behind him. He looked back to see a further low-slung automobile showering the roadway with sparks in disbelief.

Do these vulgus (common people) realize petrol explodes?

Schwartz did not yet know gasoline had been replaced with ethanol, but he was beginning to suspect as much; nevertheless, that did not of course matter...ethanol would also blow that auto to kingdom come.

The professor began making quick strides away from the highway as the four-wheel sparkler approached. The last thing he needed to do was become a part of the fireball the academic expected to see at any moment. Had Schwartz seen the symbolized warning label?

The Ivy League scholar kept a steady eye on the approaching disaster as he made his way to a safe distance.

This should be far enough.

The professor stooped into a crouched position, gagged, and got ready to hit the dirt.

The styling of the four-door sedan seemed modern at least compared to anything the academician remembered, more angular yet streamlined. As the automobile drew nearer, the scholarly genius heard the banging racket of chassis against road become increasingly audible.

The noise of the wreck as it approached made a racket of...

Bang!...Clang!

The English professor could not believe his peepers.

Gaia what a piece of feculence (schiessen)!

Clang!...Bang!

As the jalopy drew closer, he could see that the chrome bumper had worked partially loose and was also clanging noisily with each passing jolt...and there was a painted mural on the side of the piece of schiessen that looked like a...

A Witchdoctor? I cannot believe this, it is a Witchdoctor!

That was not the only absurdity our dignitary noticed.

...and the automotive windscreen is missing, too?

Clangity!...Bangidy!...Clangity!

Schwartz watched on in disbelief as the vehicle passed within a stone's throw of where he was crouched. The academic wizard saw that the passenger and driver making up for the missing windshield were wearing a pair of...

Aviator goggles? Yes, aviator goggles!

The passenger looked like a Latino with his brown skin color and dark black hair looking like some crazy ponytail, or more like the crown of a pineapple tied on the top of his noggin. The academic scholar was too busy marveling at the appearance of the passenger to notice the driver, nor the third fellow in the backseat.

Bangity!...Clangity!

Well, at least those working-class stiffs are not...wait!

The fellow in the front seat all of a sudden looked to be shouting while pointing in the professor's direction...and that car...that car was coming to a sudden stop!

Bang!...Clang!

Holy, Gaia!

Bang!

"They have stopped!" he squeaked.

Two fellows jumped out of the wreck when it came to a halt. A short Latino wearing his airman's goggles leapt out of the front seat first, soon followed by a tallish black fellow wearing sunglasses who had jumped out of the back seat. Both fellows were wearing blue-colored hospital scrubs.

The professor was scared schiessenless. The auto and the two men were not more than twenty-five yards away. The Latino stood stationary for a moment then blew what sounded like a police officer's whistle.

Tweet!

What in Gaia's name is that lowlife trying to accomplish by blowing that silly whistle?

The Mexican-appearing fellow blew his whistle again as if expecting something to magically happen...

Tweet!

The academic did not stir from his crouched position, trying his best to hold his breath, so as not to be overcome by his stench.

Adding hand gestures, the short fellow with the deranged pony tail began signaling for him to walk over to them.

Absolutely no way. Why in Gaia's name would I just get up and walk over to those two pedestrian looking fellows.

The English professor remained stationary and motionless trying to decide what to do.

Are those orderlies here to help me?

Schwartz was starting to put one and two together. Both fellows were sporting hospital uniforms. He, of course, was wearing something that resembled a hospital gown.

All this while the black fellow was slowly creeping up on the scholastic scholar's position as the Latino blew the whistle one more time.

The academic was still undecided on his next step and did not move.

The Mexican was now screaming in the doyen in literature's direction. "Get yo' ass back upside here numb-a one, one, twoff!"

The professor could make nothing of the gobbledygook; nevertheless, decided to respond. Clearing his throat, the Ivy League faculty member tried again to make an utterance like a man, not a little girl.

"I say gentlemen..."

Darn it, I still sound like a ficken little girl.

Ahem..."I say gentlemen, are you here to assist me in some way?"

The professor looked around for a way to escape as he spoke...there was no place to run. Behind him was a standing fence to keep animals off the highway; it was one of the few things the dignitary had seen that was still doing its intended job. There was no way he would be able to jump over that thing in his hospital gown and as for running away, those darn slippers sucked just walking in them.

His options were limited to one.

I suppose I have no choice in the matter? I just have to trust the gods are watching out for me.

Schwartz picked himself up and started walking toward the two orderlies. As the academic approached he could now make out some of the noise the Latino was yelling. Whatever that weird little man was saying was amazingly incoherent and meaningless sounding.

"Hey mo'on, git back on over hyar." [Hey you, get back over here.]

Hmmm... The prattle that immigrant is spittling reminds me of something. I have an ill-defined recollection of...of...a chauffeur! Yes, there was a chauffeur...of a bus. That pleb was making as much sense as this little Mexican.

Too busy with his own thoughts, the professor forgot about the tall, black fellow who was now slowly creeping up on him.

"I say, what are you wailing in my direction?...ummph."

Appearing much like a Zulu warrior stalking a gazelle on the savannas of Africa, the taller orderly galloped the final ten yards like a cheetah leaping then tackling the academician to the turf. The momentum of the leaping man, however, carried both men into that open, drainage ditch that ran alongside the parkway. Now, even the professor's relatively clean backside was soiled...just great!

Schwartz gasped after almost having the wind knocked out of him.

"What are you doing?"

Pausing to catch his breath, he continued with his protests, "Get your mitts off me you brutish lowlife!"

The English professor's protests were in vain and to no avail. Neither the Mexican, nor the black character understood what the academic was shouting. Both orderlies thought only that Patient No. 112 sounded like a girl squealing nothing but hogwash noise.

Professor Schwartz was unceremoniously rolled on to his front side, thankfully not in the sludgy bottom and pinned by the taller fellow who held his arms behind him. The guru wizard was too weak to resist and lay there helplessly making meaningless protestations.

"Damnable tarnation, get off me you peasant!"

"Woo, woo, woo [blah, blah, blah]," responded the black person imitating what he understood the patient to be shouting.

The Mexican, who had been watching the Grey Hall patient squirm and was holding his sides with laughter, now spoke up, "Goout, now dig him down, Josh." [Good, now get him up, Josh.]

Laughing again, the small character continued with his drivel, "How many times habe I told you t' stay in the fess!" [How many times have I told you to stay in the fence!]

"Doihh, COOL and you is goigg t' get shock treatmin f' dis you idiota!" [You're going to get a real scolding for this for sure!]

The professor answered the unintelligible slurs of the Latino with, "I'm going to have both of you rogues thrown in prison for this affront."

The taller character (Josh) with the shorter man's help picked him up by the arms.

Holding the academic's arms behind him once they both were standing, the taller orderly then spoke up, "Uh, Rej'ee, dis one's talkigg now." [Uh, Reggie, this one's talking now.]

"De knock in de gord must habe helped hib." [The knock in the noggin must have helped him.]

The shorter orderly (Reggie) replied, "Duzn't mattah Josh, numb'a one, one, twoff ain't makin' any cent, can ya' dig it whut he's say?" [Doesn't matter Josh, No. 112 is still not making any sense?]

"Ah' sho' man kin't...Dog!" [I cannot understand a thing he's saying...Man!]

"He's de last one, come on, let's go. 'S coo,' Bro...wha de be muhfuka Kiss do'int?" [He's the last one, so come on let's go...what is Chris (the driver) doing]?

Schwartz tried to resist the taller man's grip and direction he was being forced to go, towards that ticking time-bomb lowrider.

"Wait a 'dikadoobeldo' second!" shouted the professor.

"'Dick...what?' Is that even a real word?"

No, but does that genuinely matter?

"Well, yes, I think so. What would it say about the state of the teaching profession if every asshat English professor just started making up expressions whenever and wherever they felt like it?"

You don't think they already do that? Who do you think has come up with a word like "valetudinarian" to describe someone who is concerned with their health; or "ulotrichous" for wooly hair; or "pauciloquent" for a brief speech. I can guarantee you it wasn't the proletariate who were coming up with those scanty vestiges.

"What, you think that just cuz those goofnads never leave academia that they should be the ones entitled to making up senseless expressions?"

Why not, just look at how butchered English has become with the simpletons running America in the future. At least the expressions the assclowns come up with can be pronounced and besides it is only the assclowns who use them. Given all you and I have seen, all the misspellings, grammatical mistakes, made up expressions and overall dorky speech of the characters in this yarn, does it matter if this English professor and former sanitarium inmate has some fun, too?

"I must say you're beginning to make some sense. Let the professor have his fun. To hell with all the old conventions. Let us move on...into oblivion."

I'm glad you agree, so back to Schwartz. That rolling firebomb was the last place the academic wanted to be, but his protests were getting him nowhere.

"Who are you ruffians and for what purpose are you coercing me toward that bucket-of-bolts misadventure inimical to my wishes?"

"He sho' man duz rap funny, Dog" [He sure does talk strange, boss], said Josh who was having little problem muscling the professor wherever he wanted him to go.

"Yep, he's rappin,' but he's still some mo'on. 'S coo,' Bro" [Yes, he's talking, but he still sounds like a nut], responded the Mexican orderly.

The two Grey Hall orderlies were quite talkative with both continuing their exchange in that nonsensical discourse of theirs while all three men walked back in the direction of the rattletrap.

"Hey, Chis!" shouted Josh. "Could hep bring this mo'on boer at th' caro ovah to the wheels?" [Could you help us get the patient over to your car?]

"Whew, he smells like sheet! We kin not put him in th' car like thet" [Whew, the patient smells like schiessen! We cannot put him in the vehicle smelling like that], remarked Reggie after getting a whiff of something that overpowered his own foul-smelling odor.

"Let's die hibe t'th' frunk [Let's tie him to the trunk]," replied Josh with a big, schiessen-eating grin.

"Shet mah mouth! Yea, thet will wawk. Tie him t'th' trunk," [Great idea! Yea, that will work. Tie him to the trunk], responded Reggie with gleeful radiance emanating from his also gleeful smile.

"Let me go you imprecate simpleton!" yelled the professor to no avail. Both characters had inwardly decided that while the academician was now talking, he was still the same old patient No. 112...an insane dunce that needed to be put back on the horse tranquilizers, soon.

"Naw, we kin not tie him t'th' trunk" [No, we cannot just tie him to the trunk], Reggie added after giving Josh's idea some careful thought.

"Naw, shet mah mouth." [On second thought it is not such a great idea.]

"De in'mitah wi'll mez up th' dude's job." [The inmate will mess up the paint job.]

"Well, bust mah tanks an' call me a DJ...jed'd git unbelee'bly pissy as a cop Dog if his job were t'git schiessen'd." [Chris would get unbelievably mad if his paint job were to get sullied.]

One side of the car, as already mentioned, was a painted mural of a Witchdoctor with dreadlocks, war paint and a bone through the nose. Painted on the trunk, for some unfathomable reason, the car's owner had decided upon another kind of colorful mural of...

Is that Mother Mary? the professor axe'd himself.

Josh noticed something that could solve their paradox. "Wit de seqund, dere be a pot uh a cardbo'd ox upside dere." [Wait a second, there is a part of a cardboard box over there.]

"Let's put dat unda' him and den tie him t'de trunk!" [Let's put that under him and then secure him to the trunk!]

"Yaba, yaba, dat wuld wo'k, Ya' know [Yea, that would work you know]," replied the Mexican who continued.

"Let me dig it, Dog." [I'll go and get it my dear man.]

"You's plum snatch...Ah be baaad muhfuka...Dog." [You are one observant dude.]

"Mmmmhmmm..." [Whatever muhfuka], Josh responded and then yelled out, "Hey Dog, gimme some hand." [Hey Chris, give me a hand.]

The driver now stepped from his car, his aviator goggles also pushed back on his noggin and sporting a five o'clock shadow that looked to be several days old. This was one serious looking redneck dude what with his dirty blond, stringy hair tied in a ponytail only more stylishly to the right, no, make that the left side of his gourd, nevertheless, a failed attempt at a comb-over for his receding hairline.

The redneck was dressed in green overalls, was wearing cowboy boots and a belt with a huge brass-plated buckle. There were no belt loops on account of these were overalls, so the driver looked utterly ridiculous. With utter disinterest and a hung-over look written all over his face, Chris glanced at the condition of No. 112 and without hesitating for a moment responded, "No, muhfuka'in way Dog!" [No, way man!]

"'S coo,' Bro. I'm not touchin' dat nut. Dog! Look at all de schiessen dat be all upside him. Word! Muhfuka." [What in the ficken do I look like...an idiot. I'm not touching that patient. Look at all that schiessen the inmate has all over him! How would it appear if I involved myself in such a ridiculous activity?]

"Yeah Dog, yo' muhfuka dumbass, ah' know, so cut me some slack, Jack. Ah' wearin' some baaaad part uh it now as well o' gotsn't ya' noticed." [Yes, dumbass I know. I'm wearing a good part of it now as well, or haven't you noticed.]

"Yo, yo, I've notis'ed. Hey Dog, ya're not digtin' back in mah' wheels covered in de schiessen. Dog! You's goin' t'have t'ride on de hood Dog. 'S coo,' Bro." [Hey man, I hate to tell you this, but there is no way you're getting back into my car covered in that schiessen. You're going to have to ride on the hood man.]

"De mahfuka'inh hood!" [The fickening hood!]

"Whut do ah' look likes, some muhfuka'in hood o'dojiggernt?" [What do I look like, a hood ornament?]

"Awwww...so'ry Dog, dat's de only way ya're digtin' some ride back, Ya' know." [I positively don't care man, but you needed a response. Sorry man, that's the only way you're getting a ride back, you know.]

"Goddamnit ya' moder muhfuka'er, coo,' but ya' betta' roll supa fine and slow, so cut me some slack, Jack...you's hear me?" [Darn it, you better drive nice and slow...you hear me?]

"Yea Dog, coo,' supa fine and slow, so cut me some slack, Jack." [Yea man, nice and slow.]

The Latino came walking back with a fairly clean section of a cardboard box.

"Kiss, we're goin' t'tie Bix t'yo' trunk, Ya' know." [Chris, we're going to tie Bix to your trunk.]

Professor Schwartz's name had gone through a further subtle evolutionary step: "Bic" to "Bix." That is what made Ebongo-Edongo so sublime and entertaining.

All this while Schwartz, arms held tightly behind his back by the black orderly and no chance of getting free, just gaped at and listened to the trio in utter bafflement.

Where in Gaia's name am I? The academic asked himself with a frown. The Ivy League scholar was positively unhappy being handled so cavalierly by such obviously deficient underlings.

I've got to come upon where I am. It is crystal that I am not in America, but where? Mexico? El Salvador? Chile? Just where am I?

The blathering between the fellow holding the professor and the redneck driver continued ad nauseam, a conversation the dignitary could not understand, a verbal diatribe of non-conjugating verbs, misused pronouns, combining of terms and dozens of references to "Dog." Translated, the two morons' exchange spun around the plan of how the black character could become a hood ornament without falling off, without being run over, without becoming road kill.

The driver finally gave up discussing the matter with the other fool when Reggie came strolling back with some 'bungie cords' he'd pulled from the glovebox. That is when the driver climbed back into the ride and within seconds appeared to have passed out. It was a near exceptional time for the professor to uncover some intelligence on his whereabouts.

While the nitwits aren't perorating in that Pig Latin of theirs, thought the academic, now is my fortuitous opportunity to find out where I am. I know they are going to be too simple to grasp my use of English, but I've got to give this a shot. I am going to have to stoop to their low levels.

"Hey homies, listen up."

Both orderlies paused for a moment to look at No. 112.

They understand me...so far!

"Where I be?"

Josh was the first to laugh and blurt, "Muhfuka!" [This patient could actually be talking some sense!]

"Wha' chu tink, Dog?" [What do you think, Reggie?]

"Where be I?" repeated the professor, this time switching the position of "be" in the hopes it would make more sense to the buffoons.

Reggie laughed as well adding, "This be Caiforn'a stupid'o." [This is California.]

"California?"

Reggie answered, "Stupid'o mo'on, yep'y Caiforn'a, Dog." [Yes, California.]

"How can this be? I was in New York!"

This was when the professor made the big mistake of dropping back into his normal English...and for the orderlies akin to "talking in tongues."

"I demand to talk with your superiors immediately!"

The genius had made an error in judgment for both orderlies returned to their incoherent bantering, ignoring the professor as they would any inmate back at the sanitarium.

"Do you know who I am?"

Fortune had come and gone.

"I said, do you know who I am? I am Professor Felix Schwartz, an Ivy League university..."

"Slap him upside the gourd," demanded the short Mexican when he had had enough of the inmate's incomprehensible jabbering.

Whack!

Professor Schwartz was whacked upside the noggin by Josh's big hand. The slap to the academic's noodle was hard and startling enough to daze him into immediate silence.

"That goout, Nah may bee idiot shut down nah," [That's good, now maybe the nut will shut up for a moment], remarked the Mexican with a laugh.

"Yup."

Professor Schwartz had never been physically struck before, not punitively anyway. Yes, he had been spanked on the ass numerous times during some of those BDSM rituals he had once regularly attended, but never before struck as part of a disciplinary action...at least nothing the dignitary remembered. One of the academic's nannies had once tried to spank him for peering in on her through a keyhole as she went to the bathroom; nevertheless, she had been quickly fired once he told on her to his parents.

Schwartz's checkbook had always come to his aide as he got older. For instance, there was the time when the professor was caught by another faculty member with an underage boy on an overnight field trip. That little incident had cost the professor a couple hundred grand. Then there was the time the guru educationist was photographed running naked around the Delta-Delta-Delta sorority house during "Pledge Week." That teeny-weeny episode set him back a further hundred grand. Then, there was the time...you know this list of his goes on for...hold on and let me take a look.

Noise of papers being shuffled.

Three pages!

Three pages of sordid acts and deviant behavior ranging from having sex with his youngest sister to numerous instances of public nudity; there is even an incident where he was caught without pants, high on something, in a farmer's pen with a bunch of sheep!

"Jeez, this dude has some real perversions."

I do not believe there is any reason to go into the details just right now. There is a further point to be made.

"I don't know, the thing about the sheep sounds weird and, therefore, intriguing. Wouldn't some of those sordid acts of the professor's give readers like myself a better understanding of what the fellow is, actually. I mean, the academic scholar is representative of most all moonbats, right?"

True, but I'm not sure we should venture too far off the beaten track at least for the moment. We are, after all, in the middle of a less than extraordinary situation that is bound to get more captivating. The point is the professor's money has always managed to get him out of tight fixes.

"Come on, let's hear more about the sheep."

Look, I'm going to leave that one up to your own imagination. Now, jumping back into the moment...so, where was the scholar's money now? That checkbook that had always gotten him out of tight situations, what now?

Stunned by the abuse he had never before experienced, he stood in stony silence fearful of being slapped again if he said anything. As the academician stood there half listening to the orderlies' constant babbling he did not realize what the characters were up to...that they were going through the motions to tie him to the hunk of junk.

Reggie now asked Josh, the man holding the scholar, "Domas' birfday, what we on?" [What are the plans for Thomas' birthday?]

The security guard back at Grey Hall was going to be celebrating his twenty-sixth that night. "Caught a lick for Domas' birfday." [I came up on a deal too good to pass up for Thomas' birthday.]

"Chu meannnnnnmm?" [Explain please.]

"We's watch'in sex movies wit girls at my crib." [We are going to rent some porn movies over at my place to get us in the mood, then I'm going to call up a few neighborhood hoes and get them to come over after which we will have sex all night.]

"Ima hit u up doe." [I may, or may not contact you later on as the day progresses...but keep your phone near in case I do.]

"A hoegregation is I ain't invited?" [You're having a gathering of girls to achieve a common goal and I am not invited?], responded the short Mexican with obvious disdain in his heavily accented voice.

"Yo babe-bitch been on de bullschiessen!" [What, so you believe I've not got any money for hoes!]

Reggie, the Mexican, perplexed by the new news continued, "Whatchu schiessen'in?" [Can you repeat that last statement, again?]

"Naaaaah it ain't ebeen ike dat bruh" [No money, no chicks], replied the tall, black orderly.

"Naaaaah it ain't even ike that bruh, I gots my side-bitch handed," responded the short orderly. [Sorry my brethren, but the conclusion you have drawn is far removed from the truth, the girl I treat with the utmost respect and attention between the hours of 11pm and 3am is taken care of, my payments are up to date.]

"I int whor'ed bout nu'fin!" [I am not worried about anything!]

"Youse gots ganja?" Josh now asks looking for a reason to let Reggie party with him and his fellow hoodees. [Do you have any marijuana?]

"If youse gots de weed you be in." [If you can supply the marijuana, you are in].

"Yah bruh, I gots de ganja." [Yes, my friend I have some marijuana.]

Reggie had the right credentials, he was now as good as gold.

"OK, you in, just'n keep it on da low." [Congratulations, you are in for the party, nevertheless you must keep this a secret.]

"Hey, is thet ram rod, Detongie gon'da be th'ah?" [Do you know if the girl who goes by the name Deltonia will be there?] asked Reggie, thinking ahead about ramming someone new.

Reggie had heard through the grapevine about that woman's extraordinary talent.

"Listen up bruvvah, dat bitch got dat mouf!" [My friend, that girl's fellatio techniques are unmatched by her peers!]

Reggie did not realize the birthday boy was already banging the aforementioned woman of unknown attractiveness, but with an apparent reputation for 'slutchomping.'

"Sheeeze, you know Domas be gangbang'in dat hoe." [Come on, how about a little dignity. You know Thomas is dating that girl.]

"Dog, we'd tink bout dis lat'ah." [You and I will talk about this matter later.]

\-----

"Gaia, almighty! Someone, please help me!" the doyen yelled in his squeaky feline voice.

It was a half hour after that slap to the side of the gourd when the professor found himself now part of the rolling disaster. Precariously perched on the trunk lid, his situation was both terrifying and humiliating. Secured by some rather uncomfortable bungie cords, the academician was lying face up and getting a spectacular view of the heavens while his backside slid around on top of that sheet of cardboard and in turn on the mural of 'Mother Mary.' Sparks, of course, were flying everywhere and naturally his...his...tallywacker was flying at full mast thanks to the boost the scholar was getting from the strong headwinds.

Schwartz looked like he could have been part of a demented TV commercial whose plot-line could have gone one of two ways.

"Too old? Having a hard time keeping it up with all those bad girls in that hood of yours, especially as you come into your golden years? What about all those 'welfare cougars,' are those bitches and their 'spending money' going elsewhere to get some? It doesn't have to be like that...no, you too could be like this sixty year-old stud...a twenty-four hour breeding stallion. 'Come-Thru 500' is the answer to your prayers! 'Come-Thru 500' carries the Castro, Presidential 'Seal of Approval,' so you know it has to be good. Just one pill a day and you're back in action, just like this guy. Only, don't waste it on some trunk lid flying around at full mast like this poor sap.

"Come-Thru 500,' you can find it at your local convenience store."

Or...

"Old...tired of being ashamed when you're always waiting for that next government, welfare check? Chicks cost money, so do prostitutes. So, what's someone like this bloke supposed to do when he ain't got no 'spending money?' Fidel Industries has the answer to your prayers! The 'all new' inflatable doll, 'I'm a Virgin.' 'I'm a Virgin' has everything a dog would ever want, or need. Just think, no longer will you have to go around appearing like this miserable soul. 'I'm a Virgin' is from Fidel Industries so you know she's got to be good."

Of course, in this day and time the first commercial would have gone more like this...

"Too old? Havin' some hard time keepin' it down wid all dose goat homeys as ya' dig into yo' golden years? Whut about all yo' wifey's, is dey goin' elsewhere t'get some satisfacshun? It duzn't gots'ta be likes dat. Dog!..ya' too coot be likahs dis sixtee-yea-ole stud...a twenty-foe, wha-ja-ma-call-it muhfuk'n machine. Introducin' Come'a to 500! Right on! Come'a to 500 cari de Super-dudeial Seal uh approval and it's fum 'el Presidente' so's ya' know it gots'ta be baaaad."

...and the one about the 'I'm a Virgin Slutchops' doll's head would have sounded more like this...

"Ti'ed uh bein' m-bar'raced wich yo' goat homeys is mad at ya'...when yo' yo' wifey's aren't puttin' out? Tired uh goin' arown likes dis dude when dere's not some hook'e around? Well, Castro gots de answa' to yo' prayahs. Introducin' de all-new, pocket-size, inflatable 'I'm a Vegan' three som'tin...she gots everydin' some Dog would eva' wants' o' need in some great hedd. Co' got d' beat! 'I'm a Vegan' carries de super-dudeial seal uh approval. Available at yo' local convenience sto'es in de toy secshun...bat'rees not included. No hammy, it's fum 'el Presidente' so's ya' know it gots'ta be baaaad."

It probably would not have mattered if the male audience even listened to the commercials, the symbolism was all there, it was all they needed.

To say that Professor Schwartz was upset would be an understatement...he was mortified by his circumstances. Not only the newfound discovery that he was not in some foreign land where the inhabitants talked in some kind of hybrid-ghetto dialect...he was still in America!

The academic was constantly asking himself, What could possibly have happenedth? Those underlings in their orderly gowns can't be representative of commoners everywhere? First things first. I've got to get off this anathematized (damn) ficken firebomb with wheels.

Schwartz took a closer look at the bindings. The knots looked menacing enough with each hand and each foot bound by what looked like a round-turn knot with two and one-half hitches, only these imbeciles had used 'two,' instead of 'two and one-half' hitches!

The guru, moronicist had been a Boy Scout, a Tenderfoot, so he knew knots. Scouting had been a delightful, character-building experience and rope tying had been one of those incredible, moral-building exercises in that great, personality-building year; the same year the dignitary discovered NAMBLA, the 'North American Man, Boy Love Association,' a topic we will reserve for later.

It looked to Schwartz as if all he needed to do was to take some pressure off the knot and it would loosen and he could simply wriggle his hand free; then his foot; then his other foot and lastly his other hand which the academic would hold fast to while riding the bucking bronco up to the time he was prepared to leap off the rolling disaster.

First, the professor took a look up over his shoulder to make sure no one was taking an interest in him as he slipped his left hand free from its binding. The Latino and white redneck dude in the front seat were too busy laughing at their companion, the human hood ornament, to notice him and, of course, there was no rearview mirror.

Next, Schwartz slipped his left foot out of the noose. The automobile was not moving along all that quickly, but he lost some of his stability and was now sliding about with each passing jolt on top of what had become a cardboard sled.

The plan was to jump into the highway median and hide there long enough to see his fellow amigos off then hightail it into one of the cornfields...simple!

Whoosh...there went the cardboard and the academician was now sliding back and forth in a kind of arc that was just enough to unwittingly desecrate Mother Mary with his exposed soiled ass, which now added something resembling a 'cac eating' grin to her otherwise dour countenance.

With a little more...Yes!

Both of Schwartz's feet were now free!

Professor Schwartz now looked like one of those groundbreakers of the 1980s, the guys and some chicks who were fearlessly riding mechanical bulls. Think Urban Cowboy. That was no nonsensical fad, but the dawn of the revolution, a time where the clothes, mustaches, country music and Marlboro Man cigarettes made the man and some women. The mechanical bull represented a time when men were men and some dames were trying to be men. It took balls, bravado, and machoism to climb on one of those ugly mechanical animals. It was...

"What are you ficken'in talking about? How could this guy, this English professor tied to a trunk of a car turn into this...this whatever it is you're saying?"

I was just trying to add some colorful memories to the professor's current plight; nevertheless, you're right! I must move on.

The only difference between those pinheads and the virtuoso academic were those fools were consciously paying to climb and ride one of those stupid mechanical bulls, while Einstein wanted no part in riding a mechanical bull even though that was exactly what he looked like he was doing at the moment.

I have a question for you. Could mechanical bull riding have been an early sign of the moral decay of the country?

"Nah, it might have been a sign of how naive and vacuous some Americans were, but nothing at all related to social decline. Possibly a decline in intelligence, but nothing else."

Nevertheless, you have to agree rot has happened, right?

"Well, of course, just look around."

Which time?

"Today."

Any ideas why things are tanking?

"I have no ficken idea. I was hoping this book would clear up some of the reasons."

Oh, cac! The author just heard you! Schiessen, the novelist was not asleep for once and wants to add something.

"Just great, here we go."

"I could not help but overhear your conversation and I'd like to add a couple of things that might clear up the ethical decay question. For forty-five years I have investigated...by the way, my research began when I was twelve years old...in all likelihood owing to the fact that I had no social life up to the time I was thirty-three," the author stated for some ungodly reason.

Oh Lord, please end my misery. [Narrator]

"On the topic of depravity, I found moral corruption does seem to exist in today's American culture, but not for the reasons most would think. Hollywood, the Democrat Party, the news media, none of them are to blame for the decline in virtuousness we are seeing among our fellow citizens. No, I have found the reason is something completely different. The cause for the moral decadence we now see is...is the Pope!...and possibly some of the...the...whatever they're called, oh yea, clergy. Is clergy the right term?"

Silence...

"Did you, or 'the reader' ever see The Da Vinci Code?"

"What, you mean the book?"

"There was a book?"

"Of course there was a book. Don't you go to the bookstores?"

"No."

"Don't you read other novelists' fiction?"

"No."

"Jeez, what kind of writer are you?"

"I appreciate your interest in what my reading habits are, nevertheless movies...books, they are all the same to me. I've got a dentist's appointment I've got to run to, so can I finish up my point?"

"Oh well, sure."

"Back to my theory...the answer to your question is 'no,' those who saw and mimicked the nincompoops who played the parts in Urban Cowboy have nothing to do with today's social decline. Furthermore, Hollywood had no involvement in the nation's declining, decadent culture; the Democrat Party had no part, nor the news media. Our problems started in the Vatican, in Rome...that motion picture Tom Hanks starred in proves it!"

He's losing his mind. I knew it. No, he's lost his mind. [Narrator]

"...the sinful state we live in today will become the utopia liberals have been promising for so, so many years. By the year 2050, and hopefully sooner, everyone will experience the rejoicing and happiness that accompanies..."

"Please shut the ficken up!"

"But, I was just about to mention the plan by the Pope to..."

"Move on, or I'm throwing this book in the trash!"

"I can take a hint, there's no need to get so worked up."

Nothing but a rebuking sort of silence descends on the scene.

Here we go, again! Frankie, thanks for the wonderful insight, I'll be happy to take things from here.

"All right, mister narrator. Be sure to let me know if either of you have any more questions."

Oh, I will.

What sounds like a phone being hung up, then silence...

Kaplunk...

More silence...

"Is the author gone?"

I hope you can fathom that I have no control over that guy?

"I understand and sympathize with you. Is that the novelist's picture on the front cover?"

No, but you would think it was. The author is the unintelligent appearing person on the back cover.

"When does Alzheimer's kick in?"

I don't know, but I hope to be long gone before that happens.

"This novelist chap isn't playing us for fools is he? I've got a boss who acts like this, playing dumb to lower your guard then, Whack!"

I don't know...? Do you think he's listening right now?

"Could be, so what?"

I've got to live with the cat...you don't, that's what!

"What? Is the author a bully?"

I'd rather not go into that just now. Maybe, later I'll shed a little more light on the matter. For now, let's get back to this farce.

"Go ahead, before the novelist decides to come back for some unexplained reason."

Call to mind that the academician was now holding on with one hand, his other limbs flailing about like he was riding a...a...bucking bronco.

The assclown grabbed the bungie cord with his free hand and pulled himself up to slacken the binding just enough to slip...yes, both hands were now free!

The Professor now went from someone looking like a bronco-riding cowboy to someone being pulled behind a ski boat, only he looked like someone who had fallen off his skis and was being dragged along in the wake, wincing in pain. Bouncing up in the air with each passing pothole, busting his balls while his legs dangled in the air off the rear of the car, somehow the academician managed to keep his slippers from flying off. Thank gooutiness the bumper on this thing was big and deep enough for him to catch his footing.

Schwartz now looked like a skier who was up on his skis, hunched over as he bounded over imaginary waves. More bounding, more rough waters. What was the professor waiting for? He just keeps skiing! Was the guru having fun, or something? What, what is that coming up? Could it be? Yes...yes it is...

The professor leapt as if from a diving board. Distance was good, his form near perfect; nevertheless, his timing was a little late. The academic missed the discarded mattress he was aiming for and instead did a pile-driver into some lawn-size, plastic bags filled with...with...dirty adult diapers...in all likelihood from the sanitarium.

Schwartz felt like he had been hit over the noggin with one of those heavy pillows his father used at the NAMBLA sleepovers. The scholar knew he did not have time to reminisce about those good times at the moment; the dignitary had to make good his escape.

"You're ficken kidding!"

I'm reading straight from the teleprompter.

"Does this author have some kind of axe [axe] to grind with English professors? It sure seems like it."

Wait for 'Part Two,' or 'Part Three' and I'll answer that.

"Move on then."

Okay.

The academician listened to the rough running engine, the gnashing racket of metal against the hard road surface become fainter and fainter. In all the excitement, the professor's adrenaline had temporarily overridden his olfactory senses and the pounding his 'gametes makers' had taken. He raised his diaper, camouflaged noggin, and peered through the scrub grass as the junk pile continued its trek into the distance climbing and finally disappearing over the hill.

"Adios muchachos!" the academician squeaked, a broad smile on his face.

It was time for the English professor to disappear into the fields of maize and with some luck he might find a place to clean up. The corn had to taste better than flies.

Those cursed olfactory glands now began to reassume their importance as the excitement of the situation died down. It took their higher power no time to discover and alert their boss of the newfound, 'more overpowering' stench.

"Gaia! Where the cac is that ficken reek coming from?"

Gagggg...

"Owww...my Maximus Gonadius..."
The Corn Field

The field was not so easy to walk because there were no rows; every thing had been randomly planted as if the seeds had been scattered by non-mechanical means, which of course they had; that in combination with the way the dignitary was having to walk bowlegged, no thanks to his little jumping escapade from that sparkler on wheels, that left his body bruised and battered.

The maze field looked as though it would go on and on endlessly in all directions, no matter which way the academic looked. The one saving grace was the English professor was at least able to assuage his hunger by eating half a dozen un-ripened ears of the stuff as he stumbled along. He honestly needed a footpath, or better yet, a road of some sort to make walking easier.

North was where the virtuoso educationist believed he would find commonality with more Caucasian types who also spoke his native tongue. The academic needed a break, however, and in desperation made a wish to 'Mother Earth,' Gaia.

Gaia, I, your steadfast, unwavering disciple, opine for you to remove me from this obvious quagmire of glaucous green, unsavory tasting, sustenance for the pauperized, morally unacceptable masses in this prepossessing realm of yours. Amuse me with your magnificence by heeding my differential adjuration.

Somehow, Gaia must have heard the academician's plea, for five minutes later, his prayer was answered as he came across a path that went roughly in the direction he had been striving to walk.

Thank you, Gaia! You are truthfully all that is knowledge, all that is green, blue and brown.

Time passed by slowly as the doyen in literature marched on along that dirt path. Under clear blue skies and the beating sun, the scholar was reaching the limits of endurance. Dehydration might soon drive the man mad with thirst. Lips parched, thinking even less clearly, the same idea popped into the faculty member's gourd.

Bling!

I know...I'll make a further wish!

Gaia, the most merciful. I have a new entreaty. Amuse yourself in your greatness and bestow upon your humble servant an imbibing fountain, or a powder room, or a cantina, someplace where I might partake of a drink, preferably Scotch, but water would do. Yes, water would be acceptable, but only if it is some clear, cold, refreshing, pure water. It is to be hoped that you will see it in your greatness to provide your humble servant with at least some H20, nevertheless without any additives. Please heed my words and help slake my parched lips and unquenched thirst master.

Exasperated, but as luck would have it, the English professor's second wish 'almost' came true! Gaia, or the novelist, having heard his humble servants call for assistance, presented the goofnad with something resembling a swimming hole. Most would have thought the body of water a blessing; nevertheless, the academic was of course a moonbat and liable to suffer from haughtiness and other high-mindedness qualities. The dignitary hesitated at the spectacle of what he considered anything but a gift. To the academic's way of thinking, the stagnant, brackish, 'algae-bloom covered,' waters were anything but a largesse. Thankfully, the man's lower-order intelligence, the cerebellum, took control over the snob's ludicrous initial response...seems self-preservation overrode the haughtiest of emotions, even in an assclown.

Jumping in ass first, the academic all too quickly discovered the depth too shallow for such a caper, as his buttock came slamming hard down onto the California-clay bottom.

Owww!

Regrettably, the stupidity of the maneuver also pancaked his testicles...a second time!

"Gaia, damn it!"

The faculty member might never walk straight-legged, again.

Hey, I have an idea for you mister, missus, or misses 'reader.'

"I'm listening."

We should add "goofnadius" to our repertoire, what with all the ball-busting this genius has been senselessly putting those jewels of his through. I mean, this guy may be walking bowlegged for the rest of his days with what he has put those gonads of his through. What do you think?

"I don't know...I kind of like the idea, but where will all the new clichés end?"

Never! By the time this 'serial novel' has concluded there could be a hundred or more new idioms you and I come up with for 'liberals.' This could also be a genuine chance to add our part to embellishing that online depository of the absurd, the Urban Dictionary!

"Say, you're right, by adding our own private load of nonsense to that juvenile, phrase 'dumping ground,' we might even become famous!"

Now wait a second, how's anyone to know who you or I are?

"Schiessen, you're right! So, you and I would clearly be helping the novelist get all the notoriety. For me, at least, that thought reins in the whole idea."

I may have the answer.

"I'm listening."

What if we used our real names?

"You mean use my real name instead of mister, misses, or missus 'reader?'"

Yea...what do you think?

"I could see that working, nevertheless only if I'm the first one to read this...this humorous satire...from end to end."

Why not, what do you have to lose?

"Nothing, other than completely wasting my time, besides the more pertinent problems are those moonbat nuts and the so-called journalists on 'the Left.' The last thing I need are some leftist weirdoes sending me tweets, or email with their limited, four-letter vocabularies."

I know! We'll use 'pen names!' Sure, the author uses an alias for his more dramatic works. We can do the same thing!

"Hey, now that's an idea. So, what is the novelist's pen name?"

François Bivens Thomson.

"How on earth did the novelist come up with that Frenchy sounding moniker?"

You are right, 'François' is French for 'Frank,' but 'Bivens' is Welch for 'Bivens.'

"And, I suppose 'Thomson' is Dutch for 'Thompson.'"

That might be true, but in the writer's case it is Scottish for his English originating surname. Well-disguised, isn't it?

"Except that you have not only just let the 'cat out of the bag,' the author has dimwittedly used his 'real name' for this novel! It won't take a genius asshat any time to crack the code and put a bull's eye on his forehead."

Yes, the novelist can be a dunce much of the time, but did I mention he lives in a 'gated community?'

"What an in-luck smuck. So, he can get away with all the name calling! Okay, I'm starting to see your point. I do, after all, want notoriety and more 'likes' on my 'FaceBag' page."

As, do I.

"So, we need to come up with some aliases to cover our trails."

Exactly, and asses.

"I'm going to need some time to consider what I want to call myself...incognito. My alias, 'pen name' could be something that goes down in history, just like it did for 'Samuel Langhorne Clemens!'"

Mark Twain? That might be taking things a little too far.

"Well, I will certainly become more famous than I am right now."

Without a doubt. Why don't you give your 'pen name' some thought? I will do the same. Let's come together on this issue again, say in 'Part Two,' or 'Part Three.'

"I agree, but how far off is 'Part Two?' Am I going to have a lot of time?"

'Part Two' is less than thirty pages away...in a printed book. I have no idea how many hundreds of screens that number translates into in an ebook. Think of all those flashbulbs, the red-carpet runways, the throngs of cheering fans...a dream come true.

"Yes...yes...fame, fortune: less than thirty pages away!"

Let's not get ahead of ourselves. First, let's move back to that swimming hole where the English-teaching 'goofnadius' is addressing his bodily needs.

Since we left the mental debutante, he has moved on from the matter of his bruised and throbbing balls to looking much like a goldfish underwater, gulping down the brackish, tannin-laced mess. Bobbing up and down, coming up for air before dunking his noodle back into the brine, chugalugging. At long last, the professor's thirst became slaked. The mental giant was now ready to move on to the next issue...cleanliness.

"Oh, Gaia this feels so good," remarked the academician adding some girlish laughter.

The academic had not felt this good since waking up from that long nap of his. He now has eaten food of sorts, even though the green corn will probably be giving him 'irritable bowel syndrome' in the coming days. The water, murky and of questionable healthiness, is also likely to contribute to those symptoms. Now, those waters are acting as his bathing tub.

It did not take long for the English professor's clothes to start morphing into something apart from the original shape. The professor really needed some real clothes; that toga-like gown of his had been a pain in the ass, no matter how much he tried to keep his flank tied up, those damnable tie-strings continued to work free.

The noise of splashing water from some sort of spasmodic hand motions unexpectedly burst on the scene.

Splash...whack...slap...splash...

Two minutes later, still more splashing.

Whack...slap...splash...splash...

"What the hell is this guy doing?"

Splash...whack...slap...splash...whack...slap...

The hell if I know! Whatever it is he is unquestionably working up a lather.

Whack...slap...splash...splash...whack...slap...

"Oh, yea!!!"

Whacky...slappy...splashy...

"God all mighty, can we just skip this scene altogether?"

Splashy...whacky...slappy...

"Hey Dog, what's going on? There could be children around,"

The near horrifying thrashing about began to subside. The frothy bubbles of the washing machine-like exertion began to melt away. The professor's shrieks of ecstasy changed to heavy breathing. The nightmarish sight was finally over!

\-----

Nighttime was now falling. The professor was feeling more at ease and relaxed. When he stood up from the swimming hole, he found his gown had acted like a gigantic sponge...and had turned into an enormous tent-like, prom-dress looking thing. What luck!

After climbing out of the pond, the academician busied himself by wringing out as much water from the garment as he could, then spent several minutes bending over enough cornstalks to form some semblance of bedding. When that was accomplished, the professor lay down in his expansive gown ready for a good night's sleep. The scholar's tent-gown was still damp, but the nature of his arid surroundings would soon dry the thing out. The dignitary would sleep well this night.

The English faculty member was content and happy with his state of being. The guru still had concerns about what lay ahead. The professor knew he really needed some new clothes, but unlike his earlier acts, was too tired to remember to wish for Gaia to send some. The academic would walk, probably bowlegged, north tomorrow. The direction where he hoped to run into civilization, a metropolis with normally speaking people, roadways with sidewalks, taxi cabs with those Indian drivers, breakfast cafes with the wafting aroma of coffee, major banks with 'automatic teller machines,' men's departments of retail chains, four-star hotels with room service, an airport with jetliners that would whisk him back to New York...that sort of city, a place like those the professor remembered. What the dignitary had seen and experienced, so far, had to be an aberration, not typifying the America he remembered.

For once, the academic's rationale for trekking north seemed logical...his emotions had played only a minor role in his decision. What was the reason? Why, not use 'feelings' to arrive at some conclusion. The reason was that the academic knew to the south lay Mexico, a country with future Democrat voters whom the professor and his fellow 'assclown buddies' were counting on to permanently carry the day. The professor, of course, had now gotten a taste of what those voters looked like. The American aristocrat never once believed, in his safe-house, cloistered away in the Ivory Towers, that he might someday suffer fallout for their 'assclownic' actions. The professor assessed himself far removed from the savage hordes that would descend upon the country and in any state below the 38th parallel. He was above the 38th parallel, but unbeknownst to the do-gooder his and the wishes of his fellow buddies had come true. The border with Mexico was now nothing but an imaginary line in the sand, porous, no longer regulated by the federal government, boundary fences having long ago been torn down by the foot traffic of the 'once illegals,' legals. Relics of the arcane past stood as dilapidated buildings of former checkpoints.

Today, someone standing on that imaginary line would no longer be able to tell when they had crossed the demarcation line into the United States; not until they happened to catch a glimpse of the outline of skyscrapers would someone know with any certainty. Otherwise, there was nothing else to give any indication that a person might be north of the border and in the greatest place to live on earth.

The professor saw those blithering idiots dressed in their hospital gowns as evidence that the southern border was no longer safe. The people down there no longer spoke English. The academic logically decided north was the way he must go. The professor hoped he might run into someone who spoke fluently, maybe even in a grammatically correct fashion. Now, wouldn't that be great. The reoccurring notion went running through his increasingly muddled deliberations, kind of like counting sheep.

English...

Grammar...

English...

Grammar...

The same muddled thoughts...

English...

Grammar...

English...

Kept running through his grey matter. The professor's eyelids felt heavy. Soon, they felt like lead. The academician could not keep them...

Zzz....Snort!

Goout night professor, sweet dreams...

Zzz...Snort!...Snort!

\-----

Dawn had broken as Schwartz woke with a start; the mosquitoes had found him! They were buzzing everywhere with their stinging little bites.

"Schiessen!" the academician shouted as he stood and then tripped over his clumsy garment. The academic looked down to see his hospital slippers had also become a couple of sizes larger. He kicked them off in his haste for respite from his physical suffering.

Back at the sanitarium the same kind of thing would happen to the patients when they were meandering about outside in the rain. There was no real remedy; everything the patients at Grey Hall wore was made of cornstalk fiber, and therefore, highly absorbent. About the only thing that could be done was let the patients' body heat run its course once they came indoors. Eventually the gowns and footwear would dry and approximately return to their original shape. Rain, by the way, was a goout [good] thing, nature's way of washing some of the stench, some of the stains, some of the schiessen and other unsightly things away...nature's laundromat.

Professor Schwartz stumbled his way to the swimming hole lifting his gown-tent like some kind of ballroom dress. The academic did not have time to consider his gown would remain a morphed-up blob of fabric with the reintroduction of moisture...he was beyond thinking about that triviality for the moment. Right now, the professor had to escape his tormentors.

He jumped in, nevertheless more carefully, keeping his body totally submerged and out of reach except for his head. The hospital gown floated to the surface and looked like some kind of huge lily pad. The scholar slapped about with his arms trying to wave the little vermin off, but to no avail. With his gown in the condition it was and barefooted, he could not just get up and run away. The dignitary was stuck for the moment in this miserable situation, a situation that would solve itself if he just had some normal fitting clothes he could scamper away in. The academician suddenly put two and two together!

Yesterday I made two wishes...and they both came true! It would not hurt to try another time.

"Gaia, I wish I had some clothes," the academician squeaked out loud.

Nothing happened.

Reword the "wish" you fool! The wish master already sees you have a gown, albeit a rather lousy appearing one. Ask for "new clothes" and see what happens.

The professor must have heard the teller of tales' suggestion.

"No ifs ands or buts, I wish I had some 'new' clothes."

The sound of crickets...

Nothing...no wait! What is that noise? Sounds like a jet plane, a big jet plane...and it is flying real, real low.

The huge shadow of a jetliner darkened Schwartz's surroundings for the briefest of moments followed immediately by the screaming racket of turbine engines.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhccccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll !

A split second later a suitcase came tumbling from the sky.

Thud!

"Holy Gaia, my wish came true!"

"Just how on earth did that magically happen?"

I think I need to take a moment to mention the state of the airline industry: for all practical purposes it no longer existed. Let me make the point clear and tie the explanation in with what we just saw.

"Go ahead."

The passenger jet that flew overhead was in all likelihood close to sixty years old and one of the fleet operated by the Department of Bankruptcy.

Near silence save for the sound of crickets...

Now, obviously, the Department of Bankruptcy has no business running an airline and...

"Am I truly supposed to believe the Department of Bankruptcy is running an airline?"

Well, it is true.

"You need to do some explaining."

I expected I would and by the way, the explanation I'm about to dump on you sums up some of why America is in the state it is in, so keep this in mind if I appear a little longwinded.

"Sure, but try to make it somewhat interesting, okay?"

I'll try. It begins with Schwartz who will soon find himself out in a new, future America where he will be charged with making some difficult choices. One of those decisions will involve something completely foreign to him, something the moronicist never believed he would be forced to do to survive. The most important work for most men was gigolo'in, which we will talk more about in 'Part Two.' Nevertheless, that was for younger chumps, not street urchins with missing teeth and dressed up as...well, you know. Schwartz's only option might be that four letter word "Work!" Work, however, meant that there were jobs available, but most occupations these days were low skill, rudimentary things and often involved using a shovel or a broom.

Let's hope the professor has some money hidden somewhere, or possibly a relative or two overseas who has not squandered everything on some lavish lifestyle. The options were going to be limited if the dignitary could not find some financing. There was always that option of going back into one of those low-security nut houses surrounded by chain link fences. All he had to do was feign insanity, but would he remember how to act crazy, or would he remember anything about places like Grey Hall, at all? Would it come to that? Would Professor Schwartz with his PhD in English be forced to such low depths?

Schwartz's fortune and the fortunes of millions of other Americans went missing when the super-duper geniuses who had arranged everything perfectly, fled overseas. Gone, confiscated and carried away by the academic's fellow brothers and sisters largely to France where those fortunes had been getting blown so fast, those buddies of his would soon need to find their next victim country.

So, who were these sponges that operated under the guise of asshatism and who took off at the first signs of trouble?

Twenty-five years ago, most of the wealthy French had carried American passports, had been referred to as "the moonbat establishment" and had been the ones running Washington, and in turn, America...for nearly three decades. The establishment's policies and programs were based upon theoretical 'mumbo jumbo' and had quickly worked to constrict the economy. Revenues, and therefore the tax base began a downward slide because increasing numbers of Americans had less and less to spend. More and more were simply living on the government, paycheck to paycheck. The establishment's incentives made it perfectly sensible for most Americans to opt for a life of relative ease over a life of toil...one would select the life of leisure, right? Of course, I'm right.

"I have a question, just what do you mean by 'the establishment?'"

I'll spend some time on that later.

"Seems like an easy question; I'd like an answer now."

Fine...don't get your panties in a wad.

"How do you know I wear panties?"

The odds are fifty-fifty that you do; nevertheless, my apologies if I've gotten it wrong.

"Apology accepted, now get on with it."

The establishment was white, for one, generally grew up in states that were goofnad strongholds, so the Northeast or along the West Coast. Gender, sexual preference and ethnicity...well gender and sexual preference played no part in being part of the club; you could be a man, woman, or something in between.

There were two extremes: the "haves" who were those with trust funds and the "have nots," those that wanted trust funds. The "have nots" did the bidding of the "haves," so they could get trust funds and become "haves," too.

The Ivy League universities and 'want-to-be' Ivy League colleges were where the "have nots" began their road to becoming "haves," or "almost haves." "Almost haves" were former "have nots" who were usually closer to being "haves" than the "have nots" they had once been. By the way, many students were already "haves," or were waiting for their parents to croak, or the trust fund to kick in; otherwise, they were simply going through the motions of appearing to be "have nots."

Most "have nots," Ivy League, or otherwise were taught by faculty like the moonbat, university professors to become tomorrow's leeches and sponges...you know, the bureaucrats, the politicians, the "slip and fall" lawyers, the lobbyists; individuals who produced nothing, but created their trust funds on the backs of the taxpayer, or the private sector. Anyway, the college faculty might have been "have nots" who may, or may not have wanted to become "almost haves," or "haves." Some might have been "almost haves" who may or may not have wanted to become "haves," or they could have been "haves," already.

It goes without saying, doesn't it, that the vast majority of these eggheads were 'moronocists.' Since I have already discussed moronocists at some length, I won't be spending any more time here describing what moronicism is; but do note, however, that these so-called institutions of higher education were the breeding grounds for such ludicrous thinking as exhibited by the majority of assclowns-asshats-goofnad-moonbats. Normal kids go into the diploma mill. They come out 'leftist morons.'

So when someone graduated from an Ivy League university, or a look alike, they would either have an existing network to other connected "have nots" and perhaps some connected "almost haves," or were in the process of building one unless they were pretenders and already "haves." "Connected" meant the "have nots" and "almost haves" had established positions already in one of the 456 Washington bureaucracies, one of the three-thousand plus state agencies, the Democrat Party, Hollywood, the media, or were 'slip-and-fall' lawyers.

For the "have nots" and "almost haves" to succeed, they needed to work themselves into positions where cronyism; shady, backdoor deals; payoffs and the like played a key part in helping out the "haves" become bigger "haves" who, in turn, promised to make the "have nots," or "almost haves," either "almost haves," or "haves" for their efforts.

Any questions?

"No, the 'haves' worked with 'have nots' so they could become bigger 'haves.' The 'have nots' worked for the 'haves' so they could become 'almost haves,' or 'haves.' The 'almost haves' represented a transitionary step between being a 'have not' and a 'have.'"

Exactly...gee, you're a bright person.

So here was the pièce de résistance, the thing...I mean "the thing" that kept all the moonbats up at nights. The piece of the puzzle that made the "have nots," "almost haves" and "haves" wet their pants, panties, or diapers anytime they brooded about it..."

"Yes..."

That one thing...well, it would be like robbing the biggest piggy bank in the world...and getting away with it Scot-free!

"Yes...yes."

If they could just get their mitts on that one thing...that one thing that had escaped them for so...so long, the thing they coveted more than life itself. The one thing they would sell their souls for...that thing was...

"Yes!"

Permanent...

"Yes, yes..."

Control...

"Yes...yes...yes..."

...over Washington!

"Well, of course! That's a no brainer."

Yes, it was a no brainer; nevertheless, it was still simply brilliant! To have the nerve to do whatever it took: lie, cheat, steal, murder to permanently take control of Washington and, in turn, the country...then taking the American multitude for a ride they would never forget. Wow!

You see - once the "haves," "almost haves," and "have nots," i.e. the goofnads, had that kind of power they could be the benevolent, magnanimous masters they should have always been...but, how the hell to get it? How to wrest control of the realm from the eighty percent of Americans who were not f*@!ing goofnads?

To get what the "haves," "almost haves," and "have nots" wanted, to get what they deserved...they needed a preponderance of stupid, I mean pea-brained...no, stupid is the right term, unlettered, destitute loudmouth voters they could get their hands on...at least up to the time that damnable U.S. Constitution could be put out to pasture. It was the only way to succeed, the only way to beat those small-brained, dimwitted Republicans in the voting booths...and do it forever!

So far, nothing had worked for the masterminds. The asshats had tried bringing moonbat voters back from the grave to take over a host, another living goofnad; often dozens of deceased assclowns would take up residence in one living assclown voter, walk them into a voting booth and pull the lever a dozen times...but still, there had not been enough votes to put themselves into perpetual control of the country.

Next "the Party" tried to prevent Republicans' votes from counting by tampering with voting machines through their buddies in the Mafia and unions, but still they could not get enough votes to guarantee elections!

The prisons were looked at next, but those small-brain, dimwitted Republicans got in the way voting down the legislation anytime the moonbats brought it to the floor of the Senate or House.

Where to find more voters? Where to find more of the same gullible, inerudite, needy, brain-dead voters they counted as their constituents, the asshats voters who would jump off a bridge when 'the establishment' said JUMP!

The intelligencia questioned themselves, "Can we stimulate procreation? Can we get them to propagate like rabbits...without taking a financial hit in the shorts, ourselves? If so, will we have the numbers we need in our lifetimes?"

The answer was "yes" and "no." "Yes," new policies and programs could be introduced that would increase the number of moonbat voters; nevertheless, it would take years before anyone saw meaningful results...in elections. Just the same, the asshats in Washington went through with their grandiose plans handing out welfare checks, child support payments, food stamps to any voting-age woman who could fog up a mirror, and therefore, qualify as a Democrat. In as much as ninety-five percent of all those who would qualify for the goofnad programs were your typical goofnad voter, there was nothing but upside save for the hit the taxpayers would take in the shorts, but that mattered little on account of most taxpayers were not asshats, too. The males, who were indirect participants, were also happy with the arrangement. Those lucky dudes could get their rocks off any day of the week, with just about any floozie around...and without any financial repercussions, or jail time! But still, the problem for the moonbats remained unresolved...for the short term.

For years, the asshats' dilemma looked as though it was insurmountable up to one fine November day when Kwanza arrived early! It was an election day unlike any other, a ray of hope that had peaked through what had been otherwise cloudy political skies. Their deliverance came as a national election won on the thinnest of margins; it still dropped the power of all Washington into their laps! For two years, the goofnads would be in charge, running things, doing whatever they wanted...but would there be enough time?

The establishment wasted no time and for the next two years the southern boundary with Mexico was not only left wide open, the assclowns made sure everyone south of the border got an open invitation to join the "American Dream." Citizenship was streamlined; it now took only fifteen minutes for an illegal to become a moonbat voter. Tens of millions flocked to the asshats' banner with promises of an easy life paid for by the American taxpayer. The plan was doomed from the start, a non-sustainable business model with promises that would not be kept...nevertheless, who cared! All the establishment would be "haves!" So what if everything crashed! They, the moonbat institutions, would be long gone before that day arrived.

It would go down as the biggest 'Ponzi Scheme' the world would ever see! Simply genius, robbing Peter to pay Paul...and the assclowns in the media would make sure that someone else got stuck with the blame! It was simply brilliant! In less than a decade, less than three election cycles, the moonbats were in total control and no longer vulnerable to the whims of the Republican Party. They could be who they legitimately were with impunity and boy oh boy did everything get better.

So, what was life like for the existing and new welfare-roll arrivals, the new electorate who put 'the establishment' in control? Most found life on the whole was good, but not great on account of there was no "spending money!" Just the same, the project housing was free and a great deal nicer than the single-room mud huts most former illegals had called "home."

The soup kitchens were always there once the food stamps ran out on booze and drugs. Some even managed to take a piece-of-cac jalopy and get them to roll under their own power, a.k.a. the blastoff of the national love for lowriders. Yeah, once more things were tolerable, not great, because the goofnad politicians were no longer tossing around "spending money" as freely any more. The coffers were drying up, debt was being racked up faster than ever before, the debt rating continued to slide, so the loans to overseas nations, the thing that had been propping up the hoax, all went away. There was trouble on the horizon. Well, as expected, the 'Ponzi Scheme' fell apart and the economy went bust, which is when most of the moonbat proletariat started getting involved in the new American pastime, "Rioting" and "Looting."

What to do? Taxable revenues were shrinking as sales for products and services fell, even while record numbers of Americans opted for the life of leisure. The lazy slobs, I mean voters, could not be expected to give up the sweet life in view of the fact that those evil Republicans were still lurking in the shadows and they could easily make the same empty promises. No, the thing to do was kill two birds with one stone, eliminate the Republican Party forever, grab as much of the remaining treasure as possible, then "Get the hell out of Dodge."

The answer to the establishment's problems were best summed up by the jingle they created and delivered in national advertising to extract the last vestiges of taxpayer dollars from the private sector.

For the English-speaking channels the jingle went like this: "We must tax the wealthy so the poor can eat, Dog!"

For the comedy channels catering to the unemployed youth it went like this: "We gots'ta tax de rich so's de poo' kin eat, Dog!"

...and, the broadcasts on the Spanish-speaking networks sounded like this: "Nos gots'ta taxio de rich'os así que poor caca de 'kin. MAN'O!"

The masterminds behind the masterful marketing campaign also made sure all Español broadcasts were beamed into Mexico carrying the added message, "Come to America, the Democrat Party needs your votes."

"Wealthy" was anyone with any cash, stocks, or municipal bonds amounting to more than 100,000 dollars for individuals, 200,000 for families and one million for businesses...half of everything else went to Washington...every year! The establishment even came up with a new name for the new tax: "Flat Tax," a play on words that worked to confuse and diffuse the issue among the taxpayers, a scheme that only worked with the media's undivided support by keeping the minority in the dark up to the time it was too late.

"There had to be some kind of revolt by the taxpayers."

Well, there was, but so what! The real beauty behind the plan was not only did they have the force of numbers working for them, the moonbats also had nearly every meaningful agency and activist organization working on their behalf, too: NPR, PBS, ACORN, the IRS, the Department of Justice and hundreds upon hundreds of similar political machines the moonbats had been infiltrating, or creating over the years. Combine that power with their hold over one of the most gullible, exploitable groups of humanity through their buddies in the media and they could not lose.

The moonbat horde easily shouted down the demonstrations held by normal Americans; it took little to nothing to provoke their constituents into angry masses of rioters who could descend upon any and everyone that raised their voice in opposition to the liberal establishment. That's seventy percent of Americans beating up on thirty percent.

The real irony in all this was the taxpayers were not only the ones getting the shaft, they were the ones responsible for their own demise, what with all their tax dollars being spent for the assclowns' pet projects, most of which were political in nature. Lest we forget all those unchallenged decades when voters buried their heads in the sand rather than stand up and demand politicians rollback the coming debacle; they only had themselves to blame. Anyway, all the hollow vows of the goofnads had paid off and it was a sensational, dandiful thing!

At the time, what the establishment had done looked to be a pure stroke of genius, but alas in retrospect, empowering what were uncultured throngs of indigents for the sake of political power might have been a bit shortsighted. Sure, in the short run it worked for the establishment elites; nevertheless, six elections later, they too found themselves on the outside and soon after, on the run.

This is all a roundabout way of telling you with the writing on the wall the smart money and establishment had already picked up and split the scene. The slower acting, slower thinking Americans, well they paid the price for waiting around too long and soon found themselves in bankruptcy court defending themselves from tax evasion charges. This was how bureaucracies like the Department of Bankruptcy wound up in things like the airline business.

Appearing more like a third-world country, Washington had become a different sort of place when the illiterate masses began voting likeminded, poorly educated, strange-talking politicians into office. Washington not only resembled a banana republic, the country also resembled a South American drug cartel where turf was divided up and defended along bureaucratic lines.

"That still does not explain the problem the...the Department of Bankruptcy jet was having."

Oh, you're right, forgive me.

"Forgiven, just answer the question."

What remained of the airline industry was more efficient on account of there were ninety-percent fewer regions to land and the fleet of active aircraft was now down to double digits. I know you're thinking ninety-nine, or fewer passenger jets is a nutty figure, but only twenty-five were needed to shuttle the "Forever President" and his extended family around and what was left over was doled out to the public through a national lottery.

"National lottery?"

Yes, the national lottery. I forgot to mention the "Forever President" recently demanded some of the public and paying customers be given the opportunity to fly, too. The Department of Bankruptcy pulled some passenger jets out of mothball; the passenger jet flying low over the academic was one of those recently put back in service.

"What forced Mr. Big-shot's hand?"

The 'We'd Wan'a Fly Toof' riots that broke out several years ago. This is all a roundabout, longwinded way of conveying the circumstances surrounding your original question, which I no longer remember. It is to be hoped that I answered it, I certainly don't want to have to go back through this crap a further time.

"You are in luck, I don't remember what I asked you either. Just answer me this, are the Department of Bankruptcy passenger jets safe to fly?"

Well, the state had several hundred mothballed airliners from companies like Delta and American, those who had not left the United States soon enough. With that number of commercial aircraft to choose from, they had to be able to find at least some that would still work, right? I mean, nobody's perfect and the jet with engine trouble was obviously one of those that should not have been picked from the bunch.

"I'm curious, what happened to airlines like Delta, American, United and all the rest?"

You can still see many of the familiar names coming into the four international airports that now serve the land: Reno, Biloxi, Atlantic City and Las Vegas.

"That is indeed odd; what happened to the major hubs like New York's La Guardia, or Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta?"

They were either overrun and torched by one of the national, or regional riots, or became unsafe for lack of funding and the doors shuttered.

"I did not realize how serious those riots could be."

They were serious; nevertheless, not as much now thanks to the National Mob Alert System Agency.

Back to the jet that dropped the scholar the single piece of luggage. Obviously it was having some kind of mechanical difficulties. The pilot, choosing to remain alight rather than tumble to earth, decided to lose the luggage with our story's hero the beneficiary of the Department of Bankruptcy's mistake.

The professor listened as the noise of the airliner engines disappeared into the distance. Several hundred yards away the dignitary had witnessed a single piece of luggage fall from the sky.

"Did the pilot's plan work?"

Did you hear an explosion?

"No."

Then the pilot's plan must have worked!

Torch these fickening clothes!

Einstein was soon running naked in the direction of the bonanza. The academic's wish had come true!

Ten minutes later the moronicist stood staring at the gift from heaven. From a distance everything looked promising, but now, peering down at the contents, Schwartz was asking himself: Why did it have to be...a woman's suitcase?

It took, however, just minutes for the scholar to determine the suitcase was in fact a real find. The owner had not been "too butch" not to have packed a shaving kit and toiletries. There was even a cosmetic bag with mirror and manicure set, everything he needed to clean up. The woman must have also been an avid tennis player as evidenced by the two pairs of tennis shoes, numerous pairs of white, ankle-high socks, several stretchy white tank tops, and women's tennis skirts in assorted colors. There were, of course, other useful things like women's panties and who knows the pantyhose might be useful for something; we would just have to wait to see what the professor made of the newfound treasure.

Professor Schwartz's euphoria was soon replaced with a little melancholy when he first saw himself in the mirror. The academic was older, a lot older than he remembered, but he was determined to improve his appearance. For the better part of the morning, the dignitary pruned and preened using the swimming hole as his bubble bath. The professor found Channel No. 576 kept those pesky mosquitoes at bay. The academic broke every one of the plastic women's razors cutting through his jungle of a beard; nevertheless, not before he had most of his face shaven. The small pair of scissors was used to cut away decades of hair and while the outcome looked like schiessen, it was a vast improvement over his earlier appearance. Nails trimmed, teeth brushed and flossed, the academician was now ready to try on his new wardrobe.

It was several hours later when the professor emerged from the cornfield and out onto the small country road with suitcase in hand. Did I mention the academic was tall? Anyway, to get an idea of what the dignitary looked like, picture a little Asian woman on a tennis court, any tennis court: clay, grass, asphalt, concrete, at a country club, at the playground, et cetera, et cetera. Now picture that little woman wearing the latest in tennis fashion starting with a pink ruffled tennis skirt, a white sleeveless tank-top with low-cut neckline, tennis shoes with white ankle-high socks. Got our little tennis star pictured in your mind? Now replace that petite, five-foot, four-inch, 110-pound Asian woman with Schwartz...a character who was two feet taller, fifty pounds heavier and looked a little like Elvis with lamb chop sideburns.

The professor looked like he was going to some kind of Gay Pride parade, but remember this was 2050 and things have changed, become more liberated under the policies of the Democrat Party. By chance, the academic would be considered normal appearing for the times much like when women, and girls, began popping up on the streets, or in school, with pink, blue, purple, orange dyed hair...very possibly the doyen in literature was as ordinary looking as those Amazons to your average, everyday American in 2050.

Anyway, back to the academic's appearance. The skirt, for instance, was so short and tight-fitting his butt cheeks could be seen from any angle save down from above, and as for his genitalia, I leave that one to your imagination.

The tank top presented a further unpleasant picture being skintight for one and only long enough to cover his "man teats" so his white, hairy stomach and unflattering wrinkled epidermis were on full display. As for the tennis shoes, they must have been three sizes too small and the ecclesiastic liberal was simply wearing them as slippers.

"What about the fabric, it was made of cornstalks, right?"

I was thinking the same thing, but alas the woman was from overseas where the inherent value of cornstalk-fiber clothing was not yet understood, or was believed to be beneath them.

"Too bad, might have been able to have gotten everything to fit. Please continue."

To add to the already disturbing spectacle, envision the academic's new sideburns and a hairdo that was obviously cut by an amateur and looked like...like...well picture someone with a case of mange.

So here we are, Professor Schwartz has stepped out of the cornfield ready to take on the world, appearing like either some kind of degenerate baby sitter who you would not even trust with your pets...or some chum whose mother always wanted a daughter.

The small cosmetic mirror gave the academic no idea of what the big picture looked like; the Einstein-like knew he had to look a little different, but here's the thing, the professor we must not forget had been to NAMBLA sleepovers. Wait...I'm getting off topic. The point is the professor was a moonbat and no one knows what he was thinking on account of goofnads don't generally think, they....Feeeeel.

One other thing and this relates to how Schwartz might react to his current, strange appearance, you know the cute little tennis outfit. Well, most full-fledge asshats are groundbreakers when it comes to fashion, lifestyles and newfound religions. The academic, for all we know, could have thought himself a trendsetter when it came to dressing up like a deranged little girl. Now, we will just have to wait to see if that was how the academic looked at things and, if so, whether that kind of thinking worked in this "New, Future America."

Would the professor be able to blend into American society? If not, would the academician be able to blend in long enough to find some new clothes, possibly men's clothes that fit? Even so, what about that little girl's voice of his...how was that going to work out?

The country road led off to the northeast. A neighborhood, a commune, or a housing project could be right around the bend. A happy gait to his stride Professor Felix Schwartz strolled off to find happiness, civilization and anyone who could speak English!
Closing Remarks

Before we embark upon the second part of our hero's story, the author wanted me to clear up a few things that have been asked more than once. First, the picture of the lunatic is not the novelist; it is our hero, Professor Felix Schwartz, and the caricature portrays what the dignitary looks like when he leaves the cornfield after giving himself a haircut and shave. Years of poor dental care have led to the missing teeth. The happiness reflected in Schwartz's imbecilic smile reveals the joy the academic was feeling when he first sees something resembling civilization.

Furthermore, many of you apparently have not seen Idiocracy, or picked up the 1951 novella The Marching Morons upon which the motion picture was based. Let me rectify your oversight here by giving you a quick thumbnail sketch of the plot for both...the world becomes a place run by morons thanks to centuries of adverse breeding...the stupider humans procreating faster than the smarter ones...who are eventually assimilated to also become stupider. Morons running the show, the world becomes a place where communications, society and everything else becomes moronic...the same kind of place liberalism ends up.

The last thing that keeps coming up is doubt that there are over four hundred federal departments and agencies in Washington. There are 456 of them as of 2013, no kidding.

Oh, and one more thing. The comments were unanimous on the matter of getting rid of all those ebanglish-edangish-egangish, phonetic, gibberish-speak, references for the word "ask." Unlike China, where the government decides all issues, this novel is being written in a more or less democratic republic, so we will abide by the wishes of the people...all dozen of them.

The author wishes you the best and looks forward to continuing with you in the next segment of Professor Schwartz's odyssey into the future American utopia. Until then I, the narrator, bid you a fond farewell.

Part Two

Opening Dialog

There has been some debate among the folks who read 'Part One' of this historic piece of fiction and provided the novelist with comments that need to be addressed before getting into 'Part Two.' For one, some of you judged the inclusion of the crazy dialects confusing, especially considering the funky future language did not even exist yet. The others of you, however, thought the inclusion of vernaculars enlightening.

The first group's complaint surrounded how exchanges always began with that idiotic, moronic dialect first accompanied by the English translation, in brackets. This group wanted to discard the portions in nonsense altogether.

On the other hand, the second group liked seeing the equivalent of English in the nutty dialect. Apparently many in this group lived near a community, or communities that spoke in similar tongues. This second group concluded the exposure would be helpful, possibly serving to develop their own communication skills to a level where, they too, could understand those on the other side of the tracks.

In the interest of accommodating both sets of people, the author has pronounced a compromise. In deference to the "first group" the English part of conversations will come first, seconded by the future dialect, which will now show up in brackets. Out of respect for the 'second group,' the novelist will maintain the dialects in conversations throughout 'Part Two' giving those who care the opportunity to explore and expand their repertoire....the best of both worlds. That said, let us move on to those events that have occurred in the intervening period.

Things have changed little regarding the English Professor, Felix Schwartz, who remains the central, leading character of this odyssey into the future moonbat utopia, in the year 2050...there is, however, a need to add more characters and more character to our story on account of the academic just does not have the character to pull things off by himself. Face it, a moonbat with a PhD in English does not possess enough depth of character, enough breadth of knowledge, enough intelligence to pull things off without the support of supporting personalities.

Goofnad know-it-alls like Schwartz are, after all, mostly vapid, shallow creatures who are in a never-ending quest at self-promotion...endlessly striving to get something for nothing from either the taxpayers or private sector...forever trying to disguise themselves for who and what they honestly are behind loud, flowery, "Five-syllable-word-infested," longwinded phraseology designed to totally bewilder, confuse and disorient.

Unhappily, such hollow creatures do not have the necessary lifting power in the long run to carry out the part of "leading role" by themselves. They are quickly, usually after a chapter or two, seen for the fast-talking, con artists they are...which sadly, can carry over into their opinions of the narrator, but probably 'not' the author. This has the unseen effect of negatively motivating many people into throwing the paperback edition away, or sending the electronic version into digital oblivion. That, hopefully, will not happen...hopefully.

The novelist acknowledges and is fully aware that the professor, any university educationist for that matter, is incapable of surviving on his or her own either in the real world, or in fiction. Several new personalities will be introduced to add spice and make up for the worthlessness of the lead character.

We will begin by first introducing a fellow who is a hillbilly from western North Carolina. To protect his identity from the revenuers, who are still looking for him, the hick will be using an alias and adorning a disguise for his puss. The yokel's name is Tommie...Tommie Citizen.

So here we go.

Let Part Two begin!
NMASA Headquarters

The black-light luminescence cast a strange aura on the surroundings of the large, bunker-like chamber. The room could easily pass as one of those control and command centers the Brits used during the Battle of Britain to keep from being bombed into the next world by the Krauts. The large hall could also pass as an air-traffic control center in more current times. Both locations were windowless and claustrophobic, both dank and chilly.

The place...a secret, somewhere near the small city of Waycross in southeast Georgia. The facility, also a secret, was one level underground, two feet above the water table, the very nerve center of the National Mob Alert System Agency...PROUD, STRONG and a KEY PART of the future modern American society!

Mornings at the NMASA Headquarters were always a tense time. The outlook for that day's lawlessness could only be collected at night, the results only evaluated during the day. Only at night could the satellite pick up the heat signatures of any brewing trouble, only during the day would those hotspots become noticed by the largely hung-over government union employees.

Things were indeed good these days; the workday had been downsized from eight, to six, to four hours over the course of the last three decades. The workweek, likewise, had been shortened in the interest of keeping everyone happy, falling from five, to four, to three days a week. Holidays now accounted for one quarter of the days of the year and thanks to a Supreme Court ruling, it was now okay to get moderately buzzed, or drunk for almost every conceivable job during breaks and lunch. Yes, life was good.

America had become an admirably smashing, fanciful place, a society where anybody living in the Gobi Desert, a prison cell in Mexico, a cave in the Andes would want to move to and call "home." This kingdom had become a spot where any materfamilias of five, six, seven, or more youths would want to set up shop. America was a place where men...real, red-blooded, hot and bothered men could get away with screwing their lives away without all those repercussions associated with procreating like rabbits...up to the time they reached the magic number six...six new mouths for the authorities to feed. America was a nation where anyone who had zip would remain someone who had nada, just like everyone else who also had zilch. America was a place of fairness, equality....a veritable paradise.

Work no longer made any sense, while living off the government dole made a lot of sense and using drugs, well that made a whole lot of sense. Yes, America was an indubitable Valhalla on earth and everything the wizards of smart in France had predicted. Things could not be any better, but how much better were those things? How much had Americans' lot in life improved?

Tommie Citizen was sitting half-dozing at his personal computer, an ancient relic running WindyOz something, a sterling example of what 'intellectually dead' functionaries in one of the many bureaucracies looked like and did during any given work day. Tommie epitomized what many who worked had become; what they could accomplish on behalf of their fellow Americans and just how dedicated and conscientious of people they were when it came to doing the thing they had been forced to do.

Tommie was like so many of his fellow union buddies at the NMASA headquarters, generally getting inebriated every night after work...completely committed to the job so much so the backwoodsman had made it in on time even though, half and hour earlier Tommie had awaken in some strange woman's bed and was just now starting to notice his crotch was itching a bit.

Tommie was the same kind of dedicated soul who had somehow managed to get into that single front seat of his electric car, the same unwavering person who somehow managed to then drive to work without running over someone, or something; the same concerned member of society to have managed to find his chair and was sitting in it doing the very thing the last vestiges of taxpayer dollars were paying him to do...safeguard some of their lives, some of their property and conceivably even some of their autos.

Even though Tommie's head and crotch were now itching like crazy, the Mob Traffic Controller took his mission seriously and had 'manned-up' to his task and was now sitting motionless in his chair scratching like a flea-bitten cur, with his eyes directed at the blank computer screen, not making out anything clearly, feeling as if he was about to throw up and barely able to keep his peepers open.

Tommie was one of your typical thirty-something year-old hicks who always voted Democrat; moreover, had way too much time on his hands in those woods of western North Carolina. Tommie was one of those American characters who was working, not because the hillbilly needed, or wanted to, but on account of the yokel had been too horny, too stupid for at least six times. One too many takes as a sperm donor for out-of-wedlock pregnancies, at least eleven confirmed DNA matches; nevertheless, with numbers continuing to grow as claims by floozies rolled in...the total number was now up to sixteen...and counting.

Hell, Tommie was so backward, his defense before the court so lame, no wander the judge threw the book at him...I mean who would have ever believed Tommie's claim that he believed those court-issued rubbers were balloons for birthday parties; but then Tommie was someone who, up to the time of arriving in Waycross, had never seen indoor plumbing, someone who had never used anything except an outhouse for #2. Who knows, perhaps the rube was telling the truth. Let's just say the hick was being truthful that he thought the rubbers were balloons. That said, even if Tommie knew what the prophylactic, made-of-rubber sheaths were would this man of the woods have been able to make the leap and figure out how to put the darn things on? Tommie, after all, was still not using them in this new home of his, this place called Waycross. This country boy had only been around six months and was already suspected of knocking up a neighbor's wife and daughter. Oh well, it does not matter now cuz happily Tommie's life made a turn for the better; the cracker was working and now near untouchable. Now, the clodhopper could have as many illegitimate sons and daughters as he wanted...he was already paying the price, that is so long as he continued to vote Democrat.

Tommie quickly and unexpectedly found this prison sentence much better than he expected living in a single-wide trailer the hayseed called "home," the still operation he had running in the other spare bedroom; the running water and 'indoor outhouse;' the guy even enjoyed television! Gee wiz...how much better could things get? As far as Tommie was concerned those now running the show had succeeded in improving his fortune...through blissful ignorance the hillbilly never once suspected things might have been a bit different, possibly even a bit better before the moonbat Einsteins took over the reins. The maxim "ignorance is bliss" was truly what made Tommie and a billion others like him completely content with what fate had delivered.

Now, let's take a glimpse into why rapturous uneducatedness was so pervasive by taking a gander into the everyday life of a hillbilly. Why was Tommie so joyously ignorant and why did the guy have so many ficken kids?

The answer to the 'kid's' question...well, it revolved around the reality that, in the North Carolinian mountains, there was not anything to do, but screw around. Screwing around with the neighbors' daughters and or spouses was the chief recreational activity; otherwise, all anyone did was sit around all day making up new expressions and distilling corn mash in the backyard.

The mountain tribes had remained an isolated, solitary folk who relied upon their own wits to survive and propagate. Corn was the staple of the hillbillies' diet, marijuana the cash crop, moonshine the drink of choice and the revenuers were the bane of their existence. Little in the way of business occurred with the outside world save for the moonshine, or dope trade. Neighbors bartered and traded with one another, but in as much as almost everyone already had corn liquor and pot, the sexual services of one's daughters, sons, or spouses usually became the only things worth trading amongst themselves.

So, what led to a state now made up of largely fools, voters and therefore citizens who could be led around the noose like sheep? The public school system with its focus on the liberal arts might have had something to do with the level of ignorance most Americans enjoyed. Things like economics, the sciences, math were too demanding for the typical asshat demographee and were done away within the interest of promoting 'hope building' skills like painting, pottery, sewing, braiding, sculpture, child rearing, music and dance.

There is the possibility the television networks and even Hollywood also had some small part to play. The news media? Sure, they too might have played some small singular part in the "grand strategy" of dumbing-down Americans. One thing is for certain, no one had the answers...there was no need! The ignoramuses were totally content with their fate...and there was no way those unschooled vestiges of humankind would ever learn anything to the contrary.

Tommie continued sitting motionless, half surveying the computer display as the satellite feed slowly filled his screen with infrared images from the night before. Those pictures from space would give this frontline warrior some sense of what waited non-suspecting, non-anarchists that day. What, if anything, the yokel might discover could save some lives, perhaps some dwellings, a few businesses, but sadly very little in the way of automobiles.

Tommie was in the first shift of men, women and those in between who acted quickly and resolutely on behalf of the American people...he was a Mob Traffic Controller! From this quadrillion-dollar facility, the US dollar no longer carried any meaning, but the figure sounded good in Washington. Anyway, this place was the very nerve center from where the warnings would go out to the country...through the network studio one floor above...through the men, women and those in between responsible for throwing the switches to those damnable, but necessary early warning sirens in the field. In-betweeners, by the way, were weirdos whose sex could not be gauged from outward appearance.

Tommie sat at one of the irregularly spaced workstations lining both sides of the elongated room. The pathway that separated the two sets of workers provided both ingress and egress through double doors at the eastern end of the hall; the opposite end had a doorway leading to the cafeteria where the aroma of freshly brewed Cuban coffee wafted in, barely noticeable due to of the blanket of cigar smoke that constantly filled the chamber.

Tommie was a standout among his peers at the NMASA headquarters on account of, unlike most of them, the hayseed had mastered the art of appearing awake while having fallen completely asleep. Tommie had his coffee mug taped in place to his left hand. For now the cracker half-watched as the satellite photography continued to slowly fill his screen. In two, possibly three or four hours Tommie could very well be able to save many Americans' lives, even some of their residences, maybe a few retail stores, but sadly few cars.

Why were autos always in jeopardy you may ask? Well, for one, there were no longer any garages to house them, keeping them protected from the elements, vandalism and...well, you know, the hordes of angry Americans. Where had all the garages gone you might also ask? Garages did not factor into the "grand scheme" of things, except for the benevolent, munificent, extraordinary leaders in Washington; accordingly carports went missing in the sprawling housing projects, the sprawling trailer parks and the city garages that had been converted to tent cities for the homeless. Automobiles were also too expensive for most Americans and a luxury that most envied, a symbol of inequality and, therefore, one of the first targets to be torched during the marches of unhappy Democrats.

As expected, last night's events soon caught up with the Mob Traffic Controller. Slowly, Tommie's eyelids closed...

Zzz...zzz...zzz....

Our boy was soon fast asleep.

One of the great things about having a "Forever President" who had come from Cuba...at least for elite government troops like those found in the NMASA, was all that free coffee and those free cigars everyone got throughout the day. In actuality, management frowned on those controllers who did not light up at least one of those sensational, reeking, tightly rolled, tobacco leaves letting everyone know clearly that not doing so was an uncomplicated sign of disrespect toward the illustrious, astounding, national leader.

Tommie had a little bit of a tough time when he first got to Waycross aboard one of those newfangled, electric buses that had scarcely taken three days to arrive...because of the overnight battery-recharging delays. The hillbilly was a tobacco chewer at best; nevertheless, as so often becomes the case in socialist-run operations the individual counted for little, while the greater good of the hive counted for everything.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Tommie nearly fell over in his seat, but thanks to his American ingenuity and great reflexes the coffee mug had remained upright...and un-spilled!

The voice over the public announcement system spoke using the most popular dialect, Latino vernacular Ebangish-Edangish-Egangish.

"Workers, it is time to light up and show your solidarity with our national leader, el Presidente Fidel Castro the fourth." [Okay sucka's, it be time t'light down and show nosotros' solidar'idaddy wid our nashunal honcho, el Super-dudee Fidel Castro de...uh, uh fourd.]

The public announcement system now carried those words in the next popular dialect, African-American vernacular. Next, came the redneck dialect, third most popular, particularly in south Georgia.

Ten minutes later, Tommie's native tongue, Appalachian vernacular, made it to the loudspeaker with the message. Tommie, of course, did not need to wait around for his variation of speech to hit the airwaves; instead, the hayseed was walking to the lavatory, mug with cold coffee still taped in his left hand, right hand cradling his single stick of a Culebra from sight. Truly an ugly cigar, it was three Panetella's (long, slender cigars) interweaved with one another like some artificial vine.

"Gaia, bless el Presidente." [Moda' Eard, bless el Super-dudee].

Clang! Clang! Clang!

"That...be all."

Tommie always turned green at the thought of lighting up that cigar they handed every worker at the outset of each shift just for this ceremonious act of fealty to the nation's sovereign.

"Whoever said Cuban cigars were the best in the world needs to have their head, or heads examined." [Whoevah sad Cubing cigars were th' bess in th' wo'ld needs t'have their haid o' haids examined, cuss it all t' tarnation.]

The comment had come from a homely, appearing redhead who sat several seats down from Tommie Citizen, and spoke with an Appalachian dialect.

Duh, damn if that chick is not right, thought Tommie to himself. Hey, wait a second! I didn't know that chick talked like me! Gee whiz, maybe she and I could hook up (have sex) later?

Tommie's plight and frustration for hillbillies in general was that most of the other gibberish-speaking workers thought the dorks who spoke Appalachian vernacular were inferior and stupider than they themselves were when in fact everyone in 2050 America sounded stupider and inferior to everyone else in the world.

Everyone had to light up at least one of those nasty cigars every day...at the end of the shift and on the way out the front door everyone had to provide proof they enjoyed the thing by dropping the butt in a receptacle eagerly watched by the supervisor on duty.

In the early days, when Tommie first arrived, the hillbilly found himself being pulled aside and reprimanded a number of times when the duty officer noticed that the hayseed had bitten off and not smoked the famous, fabulous, rolled tobacco leaves. It usually took Tommie almost an hour...an hour away from drinking to explain to the dolt, who never understood his hick dialect, that he had chewed and not thrown away the image some experts believed to be nothing more than a 'phallic symbol.' Those experts thought the same thing of tasseled shoes, the dangling tassels being representative of male genitalia...balls by any other name. Let's face it, it is one thing to smoke cigarettes...at least they provide the addict with their fix of nicotine. Cigars, on the other hand are not inhaled so what's their real purpose? I mean, have you ever tried smoking one of those things...they taste the same as they smell...like an unwashed men's jockey strap!

No, the only thing that might explain why the "Forever President" was the one pushing the stinky things...conceivably the former illegal was the one with the deep-seated emotional problems. Perhaps grandpa, or daddy had been a little too familiar...yeah, that was in all likelihood it!

Tommie had to provide evidence that he had not thrown away the gift from Castro, that he had enjoyed the cigar immensely as evidenced by the contents of his trashcan that acted as his spittoon. Tommie Citizen had learned his lesson; he had found someone from Miami who loved smoking cigars. An arrangement was made, the cigar when finished was handed back and everyone went about their merry way.

What was behind "el Presidente's" mandate? Ignorance in believing oneself to be a demigod...was it only natural for a demigod to believe everyone loved the bouquet and savoriness of cigars on account of he himself loved the nose and tang of those nasty things. Did Castro associate the heady odor with his mother, but only after she had not bathed for a couple of days, that kind of disagreeable bouquet?

Jeez, I am beyond doubt getting off topic.

Where is my sidekick I encountered in 'Part One?' That person was not only cooperative, I felt like we were long lost buddies.

Hey, buddy! Where are you? I need you back here to make this miserable trade of mine halfway palatable. I know you're out there; you can't hide, forever. Come on, please come back to me.

Wait a second...now I remember, 'wishes' come true! All I need is to click my heals like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and make a wish.

Here goes...

Click...click...click

I wish my long, lost buddy from 'Part One' of this 'non hit' novel to come back...come back to me.

Nothing but silence returns to the narrator's ear.

Maybe, my wish was too long. Okay, I'll try my wish again, only shorten it.

Click...click...click

I said...I wish I had my buddy back.

Again, nothing but silence.

What the f@#&!? Now, I'm getting a little angry.

But, just as the narrator was about to click his heals a third time and make another wish...

Wait a second! What's that sound? Footsteps? Are those footsteps? Could it be? Has my wish come true?
Sidekick Is Back

"What in the hell am I doing...back here?"

Welcome back, glad to see you were able to make the party for 'Part Two' of this epic saga.

"What in the world is going on? I was just walking my Shitsu and next thing I know...I'm here!

You're welcome.

"You're welcome? You're welcome for what?"

You're welcome that I got my wish and got you out of your miserable existence and back into this utopian paradise...that's what!

"Well, 'fuk'in' me. How long am I going to be here?"

As long as you want.

"I've got a date tonight...wait a second, you did not correct me!"

What, you mean with "fuk'in?"

"Yes, of course 'fuk'in.'"

I think it's time we got a little lax with the profanity issue. There's no way the author's going to get this novel into the school curriculum, never mind any libraries. He's simply dreaming.

"I buy that, so, what has been happening to the asshat know-it-all? Last thing I remember, the English professor was dressed like a girl and walking down a country road."

Then you in all likelihood remember Schwartz had already resolved he had somehow wound up in California, was not in New York as he last remembered, through an almost unintelligible exchange with men dressed up as hospital orderlies.

"Yes, I remember."

We are having to add a few new personalities into the mix to add some depth and breadth to an otherwise shallow, predictable character...the academic, to pull this odyssey off with any chance of success. To remedy the situation one man, a yokel from the mountains of North Carolina, has been created; his name is Tommie Citizen and he is a Mob Traffic Controller. Tommie works at the National Mob Alert System Agency headquarters in an armpit of Georgia called Waycross. Tommie is part of the early response team, dedicated souls who monitor transmissions from space, alerting those in need of the vital data, all to save lives, some property, but few automobiles.

Tommie is on eastern standard time, and therefore, three hours ahead of Professor Schwartz. The country yokel appeared at work one or two hours ago, suffering from a hangover and in need of some more nap time. It is nighttime in the academic's part of the country, and unlike Tommie who slept in some unknown woman's bed overnight and in all likelihood got crabs, the dignitary was having to rough it and spent the night out under the stars.

The professor spent all of yesterday walking along secondary two-lane, country roads; some paved, others unpaved, all in awful condition, looking for answers, searching for something other than corn to munch and unconsciously craving any mood-altering drug or drink he could get his hands on. For reasons unknown to the academic, his lower consciousness, the cerebellum, had been having a go at communicating with the higher consciousness, endeavoring to inform the higher consciousness it wanted to continue playing with drugs. The primitive grey matter was communicating the only way it knew how: stomach cramps accompanied by the occasional, sudden spasm of the lower intestines and sphincter muscles.

The professor, mindless of his past association with substance abuse had misread his body's need, instead thinking his gastrointestinal pains were related to the raw corn he had been forced to eat and, or the unhealthy waters he was forced into drinking. Drug withdrawal symptoms never occurred to the professor and this miscommunication with his lower-order intelligence continued throughout most of the day. The academic, exhausted was now sleeping deeply, keeping any wildlife at bay with his bear-like snoring, wearing his last pair of girl's panties and last tennis skirt.

Schwartz was now out of any backup clothes, and like it or not, would soon be forced to find something else to wear. Too bad, it would have been amusing to see what kind of reaction the academic got dressed up as a degenerate-appearing little girl in this "New, Future America."

"I'm curious, for what purpose is that important to you?"

I think it would be fascinating to see what Americans in 2050, think of his attire. Will the English professor fit in with the populace? The academic is in California, after all. Will the professor be considered an outcast, possibly even a nut?

I can't wait to find out.

\-----

The genius awoke to find himself leaning up against that piece of woman's luggage that fell from the sky, which in turn was leaning up against the trunk of a tree, in all likelihood a Weeping Willow, just off to the side of the pitted blacktop road. Before he fell fast asleep the prior evening, Schwartz had noticed the faint glow off to his left, far off in the distance, not north, but to the northwest. It had to be a town, or perhaps even a city!

Last night the professor had also dreamed...he had dreamed of those beautiful ivory towers at the university. Schwartz had dreamed of those resplendent marble halls that led to the faculty lounge where assclowns like himself discussed their wild, grandiose plans for the country, and the world. Just how had this goofnad who had achieved such heights become part of the planners for the future 'liberal utopia?' The only way we will know for sure is by taking a closer look at the dignitary, a peek at his education, a looksey at just how someone gets into the club of brilliance...so, here we go.

Felix Schwartz attended Columbia, first as an undergrad, then a graduate student before finally entering and finishing up his doctorate nine years later. His doctoral thesis was entitled Dialects of the American Landscape, so there was a chance the academic could adjust to the new languages, but which one?

"Nine years at Columbia? How much did the academic have to finance to pull that off?"

Finance, you mean like financing from a bank?

"Yes, or did the genius use grant money or get a scholarship?"

No, nothing paltry like that. He, or I should say, his parents paid cash on the barrelhead for college.

"Cash on the barrelhead? What on earth does that mean?"

It means cash, as in bank transfer, cashier's check, or money order paid at the time of purchase, or in this case, enrollment.

"How expensive was it?"

What, for an undergrad degree?

"All of it, nine years."

Goout question, give me a moment to run the math...

Humming...

More humming...

I've got it.

"Let's hear it."

Before I give you an estimate, keep in mind this was an investment in the academic's future...a PhD in English and...and Literature.

"And..."

Also, this was for an Ivy League education and, therefore, worth every cent even though it might have been a little expensive. Do you want the numbers for tuition?

"Most students have things like room and board they have to pay for, right?"

Oh, so you want the whole enchilada?

"I'm waiting. What the hell is it?"

Just remember...

"SHUT UP AND GIVE!"

Well, at the time he went to Columbia adjusting for inflation and interest rates, it looks like tuition, room and board in all likelihood ran four to five million.

"Million like in dollars? Wait a minute, I'm a little confused, are we talking 2013, 2020, or 2050?"

Sometime between 2013 and 2020.

"The number was four to five million?"

Well, yes, but do you want to hear something truly amazing?

"I'm not sure, I'm still trying to get my head around the four-to-five million figure."

Wait till you hear this...by 2050, given today's monetary policy and projected runaway inflation, the same education overseas, where you can still find universities, would run you...are you ready for this?

"Yes, I guess so."

...Are you really ready for this?

"Yes!"

It would set you back a quarter billion dollars!

Chirping noise of crickets...

I know, can you believe it?

More chirping sound of crickets...

Are you there?

Still, more chirping sounds...

Are you still reading?

"Yes, but barely. Do me a favor and don't mention those figures anymore."

Which ones?

"The quarter-billion, whatever."

Okay...

"All right, please answer me one question. What did an English professor make a year, at say an Ivy League university? Could such an expenditure be worth the investment?"

Did you know it was indeed hard to get a teaching gig as an English professor?

Silence...

The professor was very, no, very, very lucky to have that Columbia diploma; otherwise, the dignitary could have wound up at some junior college in Alaska teaching reading classes to Eskimos. I say that simply to say the four-to-five million spent on his Ivy League education was a meager amount when you considered the alternatives.

"How much does an English professor make?"

Now, or back then?

"Then, you ficken ninny! Same period as when he got hit by the truck!"

All right, let me see. This might be a little difficult as a result of most of the academic's records went up in flames back during the...

"I know, I know, the Food Stamp Riots of 2025. Given you can't find the professor's records can you come up with any college professor's pay slips?"

Well, yes, a nephew of mine was a physics professor at Berkley about the same time.

"What did your nephew make a year?"

$71,292.00.

"What the f@#&!"

Nevertheless, there were benefits, too!

"What kind of fool would spend four to five million on a career that would take him a hundred years to recoup...and with compounded interest to boot?"

A comfortable one.

"Well, that clarifies things a lot. How comfortable was he?"

There is no way of telling because most of his records...

"I know, went up in smoke. Do you have any idea how his nearest and dearest became affluent? It's obvious the professor did not create it himself in as much as his whole life was spent being a student."

Yes, that is true.

"Well, then how?"

Schwartz's ancestors, I believe it was his great grandparents, created the family fortune. Have you ever heard of "Pixie Dust, Industries?"

"No, does it matter?"

I only mention Pixie Dust because it was the company Schwartz's ancestors built from the ground up. A half-billion dollar enterprise and world leader in prophylactics. Pixie Dust, Industries was the company responsible for inventing the 'French Stickler.'

"I'm not sure I care that much about the condom industry, but what you're getting at is Schwartz's ancestors did not just luck out?"

No, it took a lot of hard work, sacrifice and risk taking on their part.

"Work, sacrifice, taking risks, those are not traits of moonbats, are they? You did say the academic was a bonafide goofnad, right?"

Yes...

"Were the academic's great grandparents assclowns, too?"

No, far from it, strict conservatives. The academic's grandparents were also Republicans. It was not until you reach his parent's generation that you see assclownism become part of the family fabric. By then several generations of Schwartz's had attended Ivy League schools with the accompanying indoctrination working wonders in moving the family further and further 'Left.'

"Schwartz picked up his ideology from college?"

Well, yes and no. First, you need to apprehend that the professor was a asshat because he could afford to be an asshat. There was and is a direct correlation between the amount of money one has and the kind of college one attends and the kind of liberal one is...the more of the first two, the bigger the latter.

Also, keep in mind 'asshatism' grows exponentially with each successive generation as each age group is subjected to having any beliefs about capitalism and conservatism eviscerated by the so-called institutions of higher education. Most wealthy families starting out as conservatives usually peak out as socialists, or communists around the fourth, or fifth generation after attending Ivy League, or Ivy League look-a-like institutions. The academician was a fourth generation Schwartz, so the academic was not quite a communist, but just on the cusp of becoming one.

"So, was an assclown a goofnad cuz they were charitable with what they possessed?"

No, moonbats are 'Not' charitable when it comes to giving away their own things, they are assclowns and charitable when it comes to giving away other people's things.

"How can they call themselves beneficent?"

Well, because moonbats appear to be generous, but not through their own checkbooks, but through someone else's checkbook.

"Don't assclowns realize how difficult it is for most to make a living? Don't they have pity for those having to pay for their assclownism?"

Most goofnads don't know what it was like to hold a real job, most don't grasp what real work is on account of they have never seen how the other half lives. The hardcore assclowns have usually lived very much like the professor, attending private schools, always having their every need met. The academic's parents, likewise, had never had to work a day in their lives; they were like most of the assclown establishment, suckling off the trust funds left by their conservative, hardworking ancestors.

Okay, so back to today. Today the professor would continue walking that pitted blacktop road up to the time the dignitary was given the chance to turn northwest, or west, to find that distant town, or city.

Schwartz looked around at his surroundings, the inhospitable, knee-high, scrub grass was still growing everywhere all over those rolling hills that obstructed his view of everything except his immediate surroundings. At least on this secondary road there was not the litter...the broken bottles, the empty chili cans, and the used diapers and used condoms he saw at every step along the main thoroughfare. Why the genius did not think of just walking down the center of the road, or the highway for that matter, avoiding those small little entanglements is unknown. There had been, after all, no traffic, no automobiles, no buses encountered for some time. Most likely the academic was like most chicken-cac, pacifist assclowns...scared 'cac less' of any situation that might be risky, even a little unsafe? Kind of like the novelist.

It is possible the professor did remember in the deep recesses of his mind being hit by that first bus, or maybe...maybe he remembered the nightmare that reoccurred again last night. That horrible dream of that metal, silver, or chrome-plated monster...the monster that kept popping up in his thoughts? That metal, chrome, or silver bulldog!

Oh well, I best get going, the professor told himself as he picked himself up, then stretched with a yawn. Anathematize (damn) if this cute little skirt isn't tight as infernos.

Taking a moment to adjust the tight-fitting woman's garment, then his cute little tennis top; the scholarly virtuoso moments later grabbed that pretty little pink suitcase by the handle, began humming a little tune and set off to find that town, or city whose lights the dignitary had seen in the distance. His humming became silent singing...

"Do you really want to buff me?"

One of his father's (also a college academic) favorite tunes growing up...

"Do you really want to see me squeal?"

...From one of his father's favorite music artists,

"Do you really want to buff me?"

...Boyish Paul.

"Do you really want to seeee meee cry...?"

The academic sounded a lot like Shirley Temple with that newfound voice of his.

"Do you really want to screw meee?"

Five minutes later, walking in his normal, slow, bounding gate, the quiet singing continued...another favorite tune of his dad's.

"Girls just want to have funnnn...!"
Trouble Spotted

Sitting side by side at their terminals down the long room, dozens of Mob Traffic Controllers dozed off while they waited for those damnable satellite-image downloads to come through. That ancient operating system that kept "blue screening" was forcing everyone to restart the whole process over and over again.

You would have thought after three decades one of the leaders in Washington would have realized that the piece of cac from the software company, that might as well be called MoronSoft, needed to be trash canned, but, Nooooo! That pile of schiessen'y code that began life as something called WindyOz was still around, still the standard of the United States government and proinde, the entire country and the primary reason the nation's productivity was now on par with that of Luxembourg.

Symbolism, as we previously discussed, was an important part of this "New, Future America," and for most, it offered the only means of imparting critical information among one's fellow friends, neighbors and coworkers. The NMASA was no different; the Mob Traffic Control Center room was purposely cloaked in black light just so those very symbols would stand out, almost like graffiti. Stick figurines were drawn all over the walls in florescent colors ranging from red (the most serious of warnings), to bright yellow...so that one could read the signs through clouds of cigar smoke.

If written terms happened to be used, they were used sparingly due to the confusion that could arise, in view of the reality that no one was ever quite sure, with phonetic spelling and all, just what word someone might have been trying to convey. Ebongo-Edongo (Ebangish-Edangish-Egangish) was fun and all, but it did cause some confusion.

"You remembered!"

I sure did...

Pssst...(in a whisper) By the way, have you heard that heavy breathing in the background?

"No, what heavy breathing?"

It sounds like heavy breathing? Wait, listen.

The sound of crickets.

More crickets chirping.

No, it's gone now. I swear it sounded like someone was laboriously breathing...absolutely disconcerting.

"Well, it's not around, now."

Darn if that was not a little scary. Never mind, in all likelihood it was my imagination.

Anyway, if you looked at the walls, the symbol to stand out above all others, the symbol to dominate one's eye in view of the fact that they were everywhere...they were the symbol of a human stick-figure, slumped over with a red "X" drawn through the figurine...a pretty clear message, "No sleeping at work!"

Also, if one looked closely, they would recognize there was a pattern to the way the workers and their workstations were broken up into groups...some sorted into smaller sections, others into larger formations. You could tell one group from another by the missing workstations that separated each unique set of workers. What was the dividing factor in breaking an otherwise normal-looking group of Americans into sets? It might have something to do with the large phosphorus symbol painted above each grouping.

For instance, above Tommie and to his right several workstations down, you would see the stick symbol of mountains, a clear indicator that the workers of this group had come from the Appalachian Mountain region and were, therefore, in all likelihood hillbillies.

A dozen workstations further down to Tommie's right was a noticeable gap between his group of rubes and the next section of workers. The same kind of thing was true for the workers on the opposite wall. Above the large section of workers, down to Tommie's right, their symbol, or emblem was...a boat?

Along the walls, a different symbol, unique to each group, indicated the region of the country from whence those workers had come, and therefore, the sort of dialect they were expected to be likely using.

Snoring could be heard up and down the long hallway, as the diligent warriors of the NMASA fell into and out of catching some Zs.

It was times like these when the supervisors stepped in, blowing their darn whistles.

Tweet!

Once more, our Mob Traffic Controller half fell out of his chair as did a further couple of dozen, or so, who were either nodding off, or had already done so, as the shrill whistling racket echoed throughout the chamber.

"You are not getting paid to sleep you damn fools!" [You's is not digtin' paid t'sleep ya' dummy honky fools! You's here's me], shouted the plain appearing, obviously carbohydrate-addicted, black woman supervisor whose nickname among the controllers was "Beast."

"Wake up, I said, before you get me categorically mad!" [Wake up, ah said! Fry mah hide], the Beast bellowed.

Duh, damn that whistle! thought our Mob Traffic Controller, then looked at his watch.

Hmmm...Scarcely one hour left!

Through experience, muscle memory and the taping of his hand to the handle, this dude...this North Carolinian could nap sitting up while holding and not spilling his cup of coffee! From his backside, no one could tell with any certainty if the country boy was dozing; the act was pure Southern ingenuity!

Tommie took a sip of his now cold coffee...

Darn it! It is cold again, Tommie opined to himself.

This, cold coffee, was one of the sole drawbacks to an otherwise perfect plan.

Schiessen, I guess I am going to have to get some more. [Sheet, ah guess ah's a-gonna haft-a git some mo'e.]

Tommie was just about to roll his chair back to stand when he noticed the satellite image had completed downloading. Through bloodshot eyes and blurred vision something caught his attention.

Holy Josephine Jehoshaphat! What the schiessen is that? [Holy Massa' ine Dgosephine Dgehoshaphat! Koool Dog! What de hell dat, duh...uh...?]

The hangover was still there, so was the foggy intellect, nevertheless, quickly subsiding as his excitement grew. Quickly, the southern hick opened the drawer to his desk to see a mishmash of reports and photos scattered in no predictable way, so Tommie began to sift through all the miscellany.

That, duh, damn photo from yesterday, did I throw it away, already? Tommie asked himself. A minute, or so later, No, here it is!

"Well, I will be a hair on a jackass' behind, looks like I have hit the jackpot!" [Webuhll, I will be a hair on a dgackass' behind uh uh, looks like I habe hit de dgackpot! Koool Dog!]

Employees received presents from the management for finding the needles in the haystack, the needles being congregations of humanity that showed up as hotspots of angry hordes. The haystack was the territory within the current set of borders of the United States...something that was forever changing.

"Hey, Mister Supervisor...Bingo!" [Hey, Mistew Supewvisow...Bingass!]

Oh yea, Tommie remembered, "he" be a "she."

Those controllers sitting within earshot literally had no idea what Tommie said, nor what the cracker said from day to day, or why he was all of a sudden so excited...as far as they knew, the hayseed was just going through his normal ritual of "talking in tongues." Most Mob Traffic Controllers never saw the early signs of horde formations, partly as a result of the low resolution of the images, partly because most needed glasses, but mainly on account of things like eye exams and eyewear were not covered by the Universal Government Healthcare Program of the United States of America, also known as 'Castro-Care.'

The latest heat signature readings of the "Left Coast" showed a coherent buildup in humanity, the clear and early sign of a "mob formation."

"Hey, Misses Supervisor!" [Hey, Misses Supewvisow!]

There was no answer...the whistle blowing, with cigar in mouth, Chicagoan was down at the far end of the room bawling someone out...some poor soul who had not yet mastered the art of holding a coffee cup while catnapping.

"Hey! Damn it! Mister...Duh, I mean Misses Supervisor! Damn it, I have something! Damn it! Bingo!" [Hey! Fry mah hide! Mister...ah, mean Misses Superviso'! Fry mah hide! Dawgone it, ah have sumpin! Fry mah hide! Bingass! Fry mah hide!]

"Who is that yelling at me!" [Who be dat yellin' at me! Right on]! the drill sergeant demanded as she bit hard into the cigar. "Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you idiots...my name is Missus Heartbreak!" [Damn it, uh, duh, how many times do I habe t' tell you idiots...my dojigger be Missus Heartbust!]

Someone who must have understood what Tommie was hollering decided to get into the action. "Hey Misses Cum Bucket! You've got someone down here that's got something, damn it!" [Hey, bitch Cum Buckets! Right on! Yous've gots some sucka waaay down here dat's gots sump'n! Fry mah hide!]

That character believed the midwestern Amazon would have no idea who yelled the offense at her, at least that was what the fellow initially thought.

"What on earth did you just call me?" [Whut in de hell dun did ya' call me?], the drill sergeant posing as a woman yelled back after finally removing the cigar from her now gaping maw.

stomp...Stomp...STOMP!

Heartbreak's footsteps echoed off the concrete walls as the supervisor pounded her way toward the now shrinking man.

"I'm going to stick my foot up your silly ass if you said what I think you said you damn hick!" [I'm goin' t'stick mah' foot down yo' silly ass if ya' said whut ah' dink ya' said ya' damn hick!]

In an unveiled attempt to get back into the supervisor's good graces...before the bitch showed up and started fly-swattering his ass, the character now thought it a good time to compliment her on her wardrobe.

"My, don't you look down right pretty today, is that a new..." [My, don't you look down rite pretty today, dat a new...]

"Is you still cursing at me?" [Is you stiww cuwsing at me?]

Bonk!...

"Ow, darn it that hurt!" [Ow, dadburn it thet hert!]

Gonk!...bonk!

"I know what you said you hayseed hick and..." [I know whut ya' said ya' hayseed hick and...]

Hoping to save the fellow from further torment and flyswatter marks, Tommie spoke up, "Mister...I mean Missus Supervisor, I've got something...Bingo!" [Mister...I mean Missus Supuh'viso,' I've gots sump'n...Bingass! Right on!]

"Why is the clodhopper saying, 'Bingo?'"

"Bingo" means "Bingo" and is supposed to be a universally understood term for "I'm a winner!" Only in this case, cuz of Tommie's mountain dialect, "Bingo" sounded just like "Big Ass" to mister...I mean missus Beastly.

"You too! I'm going to slap your silly ass upside the head you dopey hillbilly!" [You'sse too! Right on! I'm goin' t'slap yo' silly ass downside da damn haid ya'se stupid hick-yokel! Right on!]

Now in a similar fix as the fellow with the flyswatter marks about his face, the situation Tommie now found himself in was a perfect example of the sort of minor issues that popped up occasionally thanks to the phonetic, multidialectal, wonderful, glorious mélange of the future language(s).

stomp...Stomp...STOMP!

Desperate not to suffer the same physical affront, Tommie quickly pleads with anyone within earshot, "Schiessen, can anyone tell this bitch what I'm trying to say! Damn it! I've got something....Bingo, damn it!" [She'it, kin ennyone tell this hyar bitch whut I'm tryin' t'say! Fry mah hide! I've got sumpin....Bingass! Fry mah hide!]

Tommie's prayers were answered at the last moment.

"Wait a minute, ma'am! This fool says he's got something on the screen!" [What it is, mama! Right on! Dis honkyfool says he's gots sump'n on de screen!]

Tommie looked to see it was the ugly redhead. Boy, that bitch is looking better all the time.

"Do you know what this fool is saying?" [Duz youse sucka know whut dis honkyfool be sayin'?] asked Misses Heartbreak.

"He is saying, 'Bingo'!" [He be sayin' 'Bin'o! Right on!] responded the redhead, who apparently understood both hillbilly and inner-city ghetto.

"You better not be kidding me, you Southern Baptist white trash! It is the holidays...nobody riots during the holidays," [You's betta' not be bullschiessen'in me ya' Soudern Baptist Honky Trash! Right on! It be de howodays...nobody riots durin' de howodays! Right on,] responded the drill sergeant in a loud harsh voice, then stuffed the cigar back into her mouth.

"Maybe not on the East Coast, but apparently on the West Coast, go take a gander," [Mebbe not on the east coast, but appawentwy on the west coast, hoof it in take a gandew], responded the redhead, who was guessing that Tommie Citizen had something.

"You better not be lying to me," [You's betta' not be lyin' t'me ya' honkyfool], mumbled Misses Heartbreak as she stomped up behind Tommie who looked noticeably smaller next to the two-legged behemoth.

"Let me see!" [Wet me saw!]

"She wants to see what you've got" [She wantsa see whut ya've gots], shouted the redhead.

"Mister...I mean Misses Heartbreak, I have got some early signs of a Cyclonic Tempest developing outside San Francisco...the heat signature is pretty damn big." [Mistew...I mean Misses Heawtbweak, I have got some eawwy signs of a Cycwonic Tempess evelopingday' outside San Francisco...th' heat signature is purdy dadburn trimenjus.]

"Here, take a look at yesterday's image," [Hewe, take a wook at yestewday's imageyay], said the southern gentleman as Tommie handed Misses Heartbreak the photo.

The drill sergeant stood stationary, peering over the North Carolinian's shoulder, then looked at yesterday's photo...her heavy, panting breath more than a little distracting, the puffing of that damn cigar of hers all over him more than a little nauseating.

"Where is it? Show me," [Where be it? Show e'may]," the drill sergeant demanded in her husky, indistinct, man-like voice.

Tommie understood just enough to fathom what the supervisor was saying.

"Jee wiz...right there," [Jee-a veez...reeght zeere-a], Tommie pointed at a spot, a clearly red spot, a roughly circular spot that showed the clear heat signatures of a growing mass of human debris.

"Well, I'll be darned. You're right you Southern Hick. Damn, it has gotten noticeably more consolidated and bigger than yesterday. I owe you an apology." [Well, I'll be darn. 'S coo,' Dog. You're right ya' Soudern Hick. Ya' know? Damn, it gots gotsten noticeabwy konlidated bigga' dan yesterday. Slap mah fro! ah' owe ya' an apology. Slap mah fro.]

Tommie had no idea what the supervisor had said.

"Listen up everyone [Leestee up everyoneyay]!" Misses Heartbreak shouted. "I said listen up you workers!" [I say listen down ya' idiots, right on!]

"This fellow here is an example of what every one of you should be doing!" [Dis Dog here be an 'esample uh whut every one uh ya' should be hangin'!]

"What is your name?" [Whut be yo' dojigger]? the Beast whispered to Tommie.

Huh?

"What's your goddam name you fool?" [Whut's yo' fuk'in dojigger ya' boy?]

"She wants your name!" [She a want'sa you'd amenay!] shouted the redhead.

"Tommie!" [Tommah!]

The drill sergeant continues, "Zommie here has just earned himself a tremendous prize." [Zummeee-a here-a hes joost gots plum earned himself some tremenduoos preeze.]

"She says you've won a prize!" [She says you've won a pwize!] shouts the redhead.

Tommie was thinking, Oh boy, I'm going to get a government prostitute for the night!

Made perfect sense, most of the previous winners' prizes had been floozies of one sort or another.

"A prize that comes directly from el Presidente's stash." [A preeze dat comes directly fum el Super-dudee's stash. Lop some boogie]

The redhead kept translating, "The prize is coming from the President himself!" [De pwize be coming from de head honcho he'self!]

Oh my God, his personal stash...who could it be? Tommie asked himself.

"Personally autographed..." [Sucka'ally autographed...]

The redhead left out the part about autographed; even she did not understand Misses Heartbreak on that segment of conversation.

Yes...! Yes...! Tommie said anxiously to himself.

"...and the finest in the world." [and da damn finest in de wo'ld.]

"She says it is the best prize anyone could hope to win," [It be de sweetess in zee wou'd], continued the translator.

Tommie's thoughts were racing. Holy schiessen! Who can it be? Who am I going to get to screw tonight? Damn, I hope it's not that ugly redhead even though...yea, she'd work in a pinch.

"...a Cohiba!"

Cohiba! What the f@#&!? thought the hick. Tommie knew through the President's cigar commercials what a "Cohiba" was...a ficken cigar!

"Now, I want everyone to just sit there and observe as this deserving worker lights up," [Now, ah' wants' everyone t'plum sit dere and watch as dis deservin' wo'ka' lights down,] continued "the Beast."

"You're going to have to smoke it in front of everyone," [Yo're goigg t' habe t' okesmay it in ontfray of ev'ryone], explained the redhead with a mischievous laugh.

Huh!

Misses Heartbreak continued, "...and smokes the best..." [e smokes de best...]

Ugh!

"Cuban cigar..."

I think I'm going to throw up!

"...in the world!" [in de wo'ld!]

Tommie turned green at the thought...there was no escape.
White Trash Gertrude

Gertrude, also an alias on account of I forgot her real name, was sitting upright on her couch with a two-liter Mountain Spew held stationary between her oversized legs, and a handful of corn chips the white trash honey just grabbed from a super king-size bag of Fritz-Laids on the night stand was making its way to the gaping maw that was her humungous pie hole. A long, drawn out...

Burrrrrrrrrrrp!

Preceded the shoveling action into her mouth...quickly accompanied by the ripping note of something, under pressure, escaping from the other end of her rather rotund body...

Scrreeeeeeeeech!

...And now the munching noise of that handful of corn chips being pulverized by her half-dozen remaining molars filled the surroundings.

Crunch...munch...crunch...munch

It took less than ten seconds for the petite five-foot, two-inch, two hundred, something pound, sumo-wrestler-appearing, white trash woman to complete her undertaking. Now Miss Gertrude needed something to wet her whistle.

Lifting the two-liter plastic bottle to her lips, Gertrude took no notice that she unwittingly uncorked the thing that prevented the full extent of her flatulence to escape, which now, like an invisible fog, went everywhere. She, of course, was quite familiar with the whole affair and was much too engrossed watching the 'Jerry's Bastard Junior Show' to give that minor detail notice. What might have killed a cat, or small rodent, however, did get noticed by her live-in boyfriend, a much younger, thirty-year-old white brother whose job as a janitor abruptly ended when he was found passed out one too many times in one of the closets of the nearby elementary school-kids prison.

"Goddamn it, Gertrude [Goddadburn it, bitch]! You're peeling the paint off the walls [Yo're peelin' th' sheet off th' walls]. Do you always have to let cut those nasty things indoors [Do yo' allus hafta let lop them nasty thin's indores]?"

Gertrude was perfectly within her rights when she politely responded, "Give me a break [Go fuk youse sef]. Oh, and honey, can you bring me another four, or five tacos [...and bwings me fo', or fi' more taco]!"

Yes, Gertrude was your typical white trash mom living in a trailer park and perfectly within her rights...she was, after all, the breadwinner and an example of a modern feminist homemaker.

In 2050, over three-quarters of American women were supported in some way, shape, manner, or form by the 'new man' of the house...Uncle Sam. This far out killer affair between low-income, unrefined women and the government began a little over half-a-century ago when the Democrat Party instituted policies and programs that "unintentionally" increased the size of their voting base. I mean, we all make mistakes, but paying predominately Democrat-voting moms to have more and more kids...out of wedlock may have appeared a bit boneheaded back then, but that was then, this is now. Now, it made perfect sense.

There were other "unintended benefits," as well, for the most part accruing to the real-life, sperm donors, the lucky dads who could move from woman to woman without a care in the world. Threats of jail time for past-due child support payments were rarely enforced, and were eventually eliminated altogether by the illustrious "Supreme Commander." No longer did a dude have to hang around to see those would-be wives of his morph into voracious, eating and farting, blimp-like aberrations like Gertrude...no, they were spared that unpleasant spectacle and stench thanks to everyone's uncle...Uncle Sam.

With time, there were other factors that entered into the equation leading Americans to enjoy more and more of the good things in life. Feminism, for example, had an effect over the years and may well have played a vital part in reshaping the American family, what with its constant portrayal of men as "Pigs" and "Only out after one thing." These days, there was no disputing the last point, but most young fellows would strongly disagree with being called "Pigs." That title undoubtedly only applied to older, has-been, gigolos rather than themselves.

The modern-day gigolos started out as young men who inevitably were forced to leave the nest, usually when they reached twenty-six, the cutoff age for the monthly stipend for the welfare-collecting matriarchs. In view of the reality that there were no jobs, inevitably, many of these young men had to pick up where their fathers' had left off, becoming gigolos who moved from one welfare-collecting floozie to another.

Most gigolos, if they lived long enough, ended up as street urchins, or wards of the state in one of the low, medium, or high-security, prison-like places. Many of the professor's fellow inmates back at Grey Hall were former gigolos, feigning insanity to escape the 'bung-hole-gangs' of the street, or the medium and high-security, penitentiary-like places. Most of those dipptards never realized the same kind of degenerates existed in places like sanitariums, usually in the guise of one of the long in the tooth, toothless orderlies who had a hard time "getting some" gratis outside those chain-link fences.

If one were going to get buggered, no matter where they ended up, sanitariums did offer the best of all worlds. This is why the author broached that Schwartz was living in one of the best places he could for the occasion in Part One.

For one, those depressants and the end result they had on a person one-fifth the weight and size of a horse did offer some respite, completely obliterating any man's perception of what was happening, so potent as to wipe out any thought of caring.

Anyway, unlike normal societies, where the populace worked their way up the economic ladder to better paying jobs as their skills and experience increased, something of the opposite took place for characters who became gigolos. Prostituting oneself out had become an important part of the socioeconomic system with women, specifically those on welfare, replacing the small business employer in the now, for all intents and purposes, extinct private sector. Unlike women, men had much fewer options when it came to supporting themselves, in view that most were largely uneducated, unskilled and besides, there were no jobs. Except for the "having sex all the time" part, Uncle Sam scarcely worked for men unless they became incarcerated, in which case, the authorities would put a roof over their heads, food on the table and drugs in their meals; otherwise, Democrats like Gertrude had to pick up the slack.

"What about Christian-Judea beliefs related to things like marriage and the family?"

Sure, things like love, marriage, families who stayed together existed; nevertheless, they had become increasingly unpopular thanks to the rebranding of social norms.

Most American damsels these days were concerned with one thing, keeping those welfare checks rolling in the only way they could, by maintaining the number of eligible chillans...when one rolled off the rolls, another one was needed to replace it. That was what the vast bulk of men's jobs were these days...modern-day husbandry.

In 2050, the cycle of men's lives was genuinely simple; they left the nest tutored in the ways of carnal affairs usually starting out as mom's play toy. Most young men became prostitutes of sorts, filling job openings vacated by gigolos who were past their prime. Skill in the bed, or on the floor, or on a table, counted for little...every real guy could get it up. The key differentiators, therefore, were physical appearance, which was often just related to age, and to some degree personality, which ran a distant, far-flung second.

Things were awesome when "man prostitutes" were young: they were usually most in demand during this time and they could easily move from one "welfare cougar" to another once the job was done. Young fellows did not have to hang out to deal with the outcomes of their sexual actions, but could continue their carefree, unencumbered lives as they saw fit...but, as a gigolo aged, their market began to shrink.

As a "man prostitute" grew older, the demand for their services naturally diminished in step with their looks; thus began the downhill trend that would eventually see them ending up on the streets like so many millions upon millions of homeless men...or incarcerated in some sort of government institution. It was the natural cycle of events, the youthful fool, let's call him "Cool Joe," who has been watching the paint peel off the walls whenever Gertrude lets one go, is just now beginning to understand his plight. Jobs were getting harder to find, competition for the more attractive jobs (women) was becoming more fierce, and Cool Joe is finding he is having to take up relationships with more and more brutish appearing women...like Gertrude.

So, what were some of the causes behind the moral absurdities and decay? Hollywood, of course, had some responsibility for the current state of social norms. Those "B" movie and "has been" actors, actresses, directors, those who remained behind, and didn't flee to France, were always putting out "Joan-of-Arc-like" figures for dames to model themselves after...always touting the moral virtues seen in old motion pictures like Woodstock, or Easy Rider out front and center...always putting drugs and sex with anyone and anything out front and center. This reoccurring Hollywood theme, if it did not reach women in theaters would certainly be picked up by the hundreds of millions of dames who bided their time away in front of a television set eight, ten, twelve hours a day...and then there was the music industry.

It is quite likely the music industry was most to blame for the demise of husband-wife family units. Why? In view of the reality that music gave complete kooks, I mean bottom of the barrel muttonheads, those imbeciles who could barely string together two coherent sentences, a platform. The lyrics of one of the year's top-ten hits kind of sums things up.

"When's I'sa bust another cap in'a ya..."

[When I kiss you on the cheek, hold your hand, I feel so in love with you...]

"...It's babies wee's don't want!"

[...But, my dear, I don't want you to get pregnant and have a baby, or babies on my account]!

"...It's babies!"

[...Please dear, take the fickening pill in view of the fact that I know, you will get pregnant and have babies without it]!

When performing before a live audience, the band at this point begins humping one another, imitating humans having sex, but looking more like four-legged animals doing the nasty, doggy style.

"De government gots de beef..."

[I know, the authorities will pay the bill...]

"I gots de' street..."

[I will be able to move on to the next chick...]

"...My ding dong gots the smack."

[I like the idea of getting laid all the time]

More humping, more imitating at this time.

"De government gots de sack."

[But, I am at the maximum number allowed by the authorities and I don't want to miss out on the sweet life]

"...It's babies wee's don't want!"

[...So, I don't want to get you, or the next floozie pregnant, in view of the fact that with my luck I'd have one too many babies and have to go to work!]

Those brilliant, telling lyrics would be repeated up to twenty times in the hit depending on how worked up the audience became. What had begun as programs that mistakenly created more Democrat voters back in the 1960s had become a way of life, a part of Americana and our little Gertrude was a shining example of what tens of millions of women had and would continue becoming.

"What about the newspaper industry? Didn't the newspapers play an important role, as well?"

You have to be able to read to fathom what's in a newspaper, so no, they disappeared, replaced by picture books, that and the television set, radio and the movie theatre.

Anyway, life was good. Gertrude got free food stamps, free "Forever President" phone, free welfare checks, free housing, just by being alive...well that and her litter of ten, twelve, or sixteen children also counted for something. Strange thing, according to the records those same chillan never grew older than the cutoff age, twenty-five.

Yes, life was good...a new boyfriend every six weeks, a couple more kids here and there, scarcely one trip to the welfare office each month; otherwise, Miss Gertrude could lay around all day, munching corn chips, swilling Mountain Spew, gawking at her favorite TV stations to her heart's content.

This catch, this once one-eighth passable-appearing female of the species was busy watching reruns on her favorite channel, the FDA Network, anxiously waiting for the latest episode of Execution still several hours off.

Gertrude emptied a quarter of the contents before returning the plastic bottle to its original spot, unwittingly and partially corking things up, once more.

Miss Gertrude was like a human variation of a factory...things went in, inventory created and added to the existing stock (fat reserves), unneeded byproducts were sent into the air, or into one of those indoor outhouses.

"Indoor outhouse? That's an oxymoron. What do you mean?"

Why do you think Gertrude and nearly everyone else living in the suburbs live in trailers?

"I did not know that,"

Well, they do and it is principally in view of the fact that trailers can be moved around...just like an outhouse.

"You've got to be kidding."

No, I'm not.

Ugh.

Sure, communities of trailer parks were constantly being shuffled around by the bureaucrats of the Department of Agriculture, the Environmental Protection Agency and the Department of the Sierra Club...just like you would move a herd of cattle around from one pasture to another. It was a near perfect idea, not only on account of it had the same sort of benefits in saving the planet, the Ozone Layer, the Gray Whales, the Polar Bears, the Snail Darters, et cetera, et cetera, as the 'cac ponds' in housing projects...it had the added benefit of naturally fertilizing future high-yield marijuana fields.

"Well, that sounds logical to me. I'll buy that."

Now back to Gertrude who was sitting in her usual place. The couch fabric was worn to the bare threads by excessive use, the springs of the cushions had long in as much as given up the struggle against the odds and sagged to their lowest extent, stains of anything from taco sauce to...well, let's just stick to taco sauce, splotched what fabric remained.

Gertrude hooted, "Hoot, hoot, hoot," then hollered, "that's it, sock it to the Pig!" [Dat's it, suk it t'de Pig!]

On television, the spectacle of some skinny, frail, white man...let's call him Mr. Jones, just got WHACKED! across the face by a woman the schmo met offset a couple of hours earlier and had a quick, little 'smash action' [sexual encounter] with, but the thing was, unbeknownst to Mr. Jones, things were just about to get a lot worse.

"Ho, ho, ho," bellowed the household sovereign.

Typical of all reality game shows, turns out the entire unsightly affair, the afternoon smash [sexual intercourse] with the unknown woman was caught on tape, all part of a grand prank where Mr. Jones played the central role.

Clearly a setup, the character who half an hour earlier thought himself a lucky man...getting some without having to pay for it, Mr. Jones was about to find out the slap was the least of his worries when the master of ceremonies, Jerry's Bastard Junior announced to the audience and viewers...he was in deep kimchee.

"Ho, ho, ho," Miss Gertrude spittled.

The poor skinny fellow nearly schiessened in his pants when a brute of a woman comes out from behind the curtains, beet red, having seen the whole event being aired backstage...this once-lucky guy's spouse.

Time for another handful of...

...But, just at that moment, panting, near out of breath, what looked to be two baby sitters, in all likelihood in their teens, each with a small child riding on their hips, came crashing through the front, screen door!

"Mama...!" said sitter, daughter number one.

"Mommy...!" repeated sitter, daughter number two.

"Ma...Ma..." repeated young, baby girl, or boy number one.

"Me...Ma..." repeated young baby boy, or girl number two.

...And it wasn't over.

"Mama...!" repeated teenage son who followed his sisters and either a baby boy and baby girl, or two baby girls, or two baby boys through the doorway.

"Jee wiz, how many does that bitch have?"

Wait, here comes another one...

"Mama...!" said the twenty-something-year-old that lagged just behind his teenage brother...

"What on earth do you kids want?" [Whut de ficken duz ya' kids wants'?]

The teenage boy was in the process of answering, but barely got as far as "Mama..."

"One of you at a time...please." [Goddamnit, enough uh de goddamn 'mamas' ya' ficken'n brats.]

Why are you all back so early?" [Whut chu hangin' back dis early?]

You still have a few hours yet to play with the neighborhood kids!" [It ain't dark yet!]

The twenty-something older brother took charge. "Mama..."

"I said, one at a time!" [What de fuk did I jess say!]

"We just heard from the neighbors there's going to be a 'Community Organizer Party' (free-for-all) today!" [We plum heard fum de neighbo's dere's goin' t'be some wiot'in haided dis way!] exclaimed the twenty-something year old with obvious excitement.

"A 'Community Organizer Party' [Wiot'in]," replied the matriarch, "who is having a 'Community Organizer Party' [who'd be wiot'in]? Why haven't I heard anything about this [Hows cum we's wasn't inbi'ted]?"

\-----

There's that noise, again! Sounds like some kind of air raid siren. Sounds like it's coming from just over that hill.

Unquestionably eager to see what was what, the professor scurried along as fast as his tennis-shoe flip flops would carry him.

Fifteen minutes later, gasping for breath, the academic arrived at the destination. Bent over, hands on knees, the academician eyed the panoramic vista of the collective below.

That's got to be one of the biggest trailer parks I've ever seen.

Schwartz was right, extending as far as the eye could see, thousands upon thousands of rectangular-shaped trailers lay before him. The louder sounding wail of sirens could now be distinctly heard. Off in the distance were those ever present rolling hills...and what looked like skyscrapers! On the distant horizon!

A city! Civilization!

Wait a second...what is that?

The academic was looking directly west. The blacktop road the professor was on wound its way around, up and over hills ultimately becoming one of the main thoroughfares for the eastern part of the trailer park community.

Coming from the south, the scholar could make out a train coming into view from behind a series of hills. The minutes passed and the train drew closer and closer, soon he began to make out...

Are those plebs? There are literally hundreds of the proletariat, clinging like grapes.

Sitting on top of, clinging to sides of, stacked like sardines inside the cargo holds of the boxcars, hundreds and hundreds of plebs were glued onto, or into that train. There looked as though there was no concern for safety, with a Gasp! The academic saw two, no make that three of the passengers fall off the side of one of the boxcars when a board they were apparently holding onto gave way...and still the train continued on.

The spectacle looked just like what the doyen in literature would expect to see in a third-world land like India, where the rail service was rudimentary at best, the accommodations for the passengers, like those below hanging on for dear life, anything but safe; the now constant droning of those sirens added a surreal touch to the macabre sight.

As the train approached the trailer park city, it began to slow.

It's coming to stop!

Pulling to a halt, the humanity that covered the train and locomotive descended to the ground. The blacktop road was soon covered from view by the throng of humanity...it was big and moving in a westerly direction.

The constant noise of sirens continued to fill the air and now there were palls of smoke beginning to rise out toward the west, toward the skyline of that city the dignitary could see.
Back in Waycross

Tommie Citizen had received accolades from the management for a job well done. Half an hour earlier, the country yokel had just finished throwing up all over one of the commodes thanks to the reward he had been forced to smoke for all to see. Tommie was now on his way out to the parking lot, to his electric tricycle called the "Castro-Car" with what was close to being a soiled men's jockey strap, the only thing the hillbilly could taste or smell.

Tommie walked up to his parked car, one of those economy boxes Government Motors made in the so-called "Volks-Fidel" lineup in deference to the illustrious, striking, brilliant national leader. Tommie the controller struggled for a moment with the door handle, a looped piece of bungie cord that took the place of the handle and was used to lift the door up on the two front hinges to a point where the door would then swing open toward the front.

"You're ficken kidding, right?"

No, this economical, simple, three-wheeler with two tires up front and one in the back was a fine example of how far the republic had come and was willing to go to continue the good fight opposing 'Manmade Global Warming.'

Tommie squeezed his six-foot, four-inch frame through the doorway and wedged himself into the tight confines of the driver's seat; it was, for all practical purposes, like climbing into the cockpit of a modern fighter jet, only this was a fiberglass and styrofoam tub that ran on batteries.

Tommie struggled to get comfortable in the bucket-shaped, foam-padded, fiberglass-reinforced Styrofoam driver's seat with the foam padding that had become hard as rock over time. Indeed, too tall for this modern conveyance, Tommie was forced to hunch over in view of the reality that the cracker had very limited headspace thanks to the low-profile aerodynamic design. From the outside Tommie looked like a disturbed adult trying to drive his son's pedal-powered toy car.

Tommie the controller now took a few moments to catch his breath before moving on to the next major exercise...closing that damn door!

Given that this hick scarcely lived a mile or less away, it was a wonder why the hayseed even drove to work at all. Anyway, Tommie, with anticipation of that jug of moonshine that awaited him at his trailer, now grabbed the loop of bungie cord (the inside door handle) and pulled the door to a near closed position. That accomplished, the controller next began his struggle to wrench the fiberglass-reinforced Styrofoam and plastic driver-side door upward on the hinges...and when the door moved up just enough, the NASCAR fan pulled with all his might knowing it was about this time that damn thing always got stuck.

"Mother ficken'er, the damn thing is stuck again and chafing my ass!" [Mammy ficken'er! Fry mah hide! Th' dadburn thin' is stuck, agin!]" exclaimed Tommie with frustration and the burning desperation for a drink in his voice.

A minute later, the familiar Clunk! sound let Tommie know his charge was near ready to go. Now all the hick needed to do was get the key out of his pocket, no small feat considering the tight confines. One of these days, when Tommie was not so hung-over, the hillbilly might consider taking the key out before he squished himself in.

After another couple of minutes of cussing and fumbling, Tommie produced the brass key that started the superb, amazing electric machine. Now the hillbilly had to insert the key into the keyhole, which for some damn reason (efficiency) was built into the floorboard down between his legs where he could not see it!

Putting that car key in the key slot, then turning it to the 'on' position was never some small feat. The interior of the Castro-Car was so confining, so efficiently designed, nearly every square inch of driver-seat space would be filled by someone of the hillbilly's size.

Tommie could not simply look down to see what he was doing thanks to the steering wheel he was having to hunch over. He would use one of his hands to feel around to find the key slot, the other to insert the key once he found it...it was kind of like of like trying to do the same thing blindfolded.

Clink...

"Sheet!"

Tommie had accidentally dropped the key.

A minute, or so later...

"Gots it!"

Tommie now found and had the key in his hand, once again.

"Damb it!"

The Mob Traffic Controller had found the key slot with his feeling hand and was trying to jam the key into it, only it was upside down!

A minute or two passed when the hillbilly excitedly exclaimed, "Yes!"

The key was now in the slot...he turned it. 'Zip' happened! No lights, no humming from the finely tuned electric motor...the damn thing was as dead as a doornail!

This was a third-hand car; it was old and the lead battery that made up the lower half of the chassis had grown weaker and weaker over time. That was why there were several spare automobile batteries in the single-passenger seat, the one that looked like it was designed for a midget behind him. Stacked three high in a balancing act that potentially spelled disaster if Tommie were forced to take fast, corrective emergency-evasive maneuvers; thank goodness the top speed was only around twenty-nine miles per hour. Even so, the three-wheel design, what with its inherent flaws at taking corners, was still a rolling train-wreck just waiting to happen.

Tommie made the mistake of leaving the key switched to the 'ON' position.

"Schiessen, I forgot to plug in the spare batteries, again!" [Sheet, I forgets da plug ends de bat'rees dumass!]

The battery terminals, the posts for the positive and negative charges, were connected to one another by some insulated electrical wire Tommie had found laying around the trailer. The pair of jumper cables the guy picked up at the former Wal-Mart, now called GovMart, added the final touch and were what Tommie would use to connect to the battery leads coming out of the dashboard.

This automobile was beyond doubt a marvel of engineering.

You may by now have noticed that the talent at the top of the manufacturing industry had done everything humanly possible to limit the number of parts in the things built in America. For Tommie's Castro-Car this included things like electrical wiring so there was no interior lighting, nor brake lights, nor air conditioning...you name it, it went missing. Instead, the energies of the brains went towards the quest for new, ingenious, production methods and newfound, astounding materials. A combination of Styrofoam and fiberglass were introduced as lightweight alternatives to various sorts of metal and production techniques were simplified to accommodate today's low-skill Americans who now made up the better part of the labor force.

The consensus of prodigy that made up the brains behind today's (2050) American industrial complex knew what had to be done to press on with the cause to save the planet from humanity, to continue on with the appearances of being a prosperous nation, to preserve the masquerade that liberalism was all it had been made out to be...a Garden of Eden. Complexity had to be discarded in favor of simpler means with the bungie cord door handles being an obvious example.

Most materials going into the high-tech marvels stressed weight savings over safety and low cost over quality. Depending on the day of the week, what part of the commonwealth your vehicle was assembled in and what kind of labor went into the assembly process...all of these factors would play a part in how solidly built your automobile would end up being. If your car, or anything else for that matter, were built on a Monday or Friday, it was pretty much guaranteed that you were screwed.

"I'd like to know why?"

I mentioned the work week had been paired down to three days, right?

"Yes, so what?"

Well, the only folk trained to assemble things like a car, minivan, pickup, or convertible were the members of the unions.

"You're not saying the workers who knew how to do the jobs only toiled Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, are you?"

BINGO!

"Who was building autos on Mondays and Fridays?"

Think about it. Who are representative of the preponderance of Americans in 2050?

"I haven't got a clue."

Come on...then answer me this. Who makes up the bulk of Americans in 2050?

"Assclowns?"

Yes, of course they're assclowns, but so are the union members. Here is a further clue. What law was passed in 2020 that helped modify the demographic makeup of the nation?

"The Open Borders Act?"

Exactly, the Open Borders Bill of Rights?

"Let me get this straight, so you're saying the bulk of Americans has remained unskilled illiterates...and they are the ones working to build things like automobiles on Mondays and Fridays?"

Yep! You got it.

One thing working in the buyers' favor, however, was that no one could afford to buy things like cars anymore. Demand was so...so low that most would not have to worry about something built on Mondays or Fridays.

Anyway, one of the outcomes of the move to non-complexity was the Volks-Fidel 'Castro-Car,' the hottest selling econobox on the market. Never mind that the success of the 'Castro-Car' was largely derived from a lack of competitors. Oh, and forget that the Volks-Fidel autos were the only pieces of schiessen affluent Americans could afford to buy.

Did I mention the Volks-Fidel was a "Green Energy" vehicle?

"I'm not sure you needed to mention that given what you've described so far."

Humor me for a moment.

"Sure, I don't have anything else to do up to the time of my date."

I mentioned that the Volks-Fidel was an economy model, which did not necessarily mean it got great mileage as evidenced by the batteries in the front, I mean back passenger seat, of Tommie the controller's car...nevertheless there were other models!

Like in the days of Henry Ford you had a choice of colors, so long as it was white. Besides the more pedestrian model Tommie drove, there was also a four-seat with trunk minivan, a four-seat station wagon, a pickup Volks-Fidel...there was even a souped-up, two-seat convertible available for the bigwigs in management!

Options included things like a driver-side window that could be pushed down and pulled up, a rear view mirror that was attached to the driver's door...even a sunshade flap for the driver! Sure, the back seats of most Volks-Fidels felt like planks of wood, sure the interiors were only painted a tan leather color to make up for the real thing, but so what! That was the price for saving the planet!

Jumper cables running up over his shoulder, Tommie would now connect the leads to the battery posts built into the dashboard. Taking first the black cable for the negative charge, the hillbilly connected the clamp to the post with the 'minus sign.' Now, it was time for the red cable, the positive charge...

Sparks flew everywhere!

"Gosh damn it!" Tommie yelled out after receiving a jolt of battery power.

"Oh, I fickenin forgets to turn de key to off!"

Tommie wrenched down between his legs with his free hand and fished around a moment to find the key, then turned it to the 'OFF' position.

"Now, I be ready to connect de cable."

Now, Tommie was ready to connect the cable.

The hillbilly was not completely sure he trusted his car...that was after all a pretty tremendous shock. He gingerly touched the clip to the positive lead...no sparks!

Yepper!

Tommie secured the red cable to the positive lead...now it was time to turn that 'ON' switch on, again. Going through the same motions, hunting around between his legs he found, then turned the key to the 'ON' position. Marvel of marvels...the one, red, 'led' light on the dashboard just above the battery posts came on!

"Sheet, yes!"

It had turned cloudy out...it looked as if it might rain, so Tommie flipped the switch to the single front headlight; the hillbilly then flipped the switch to the single windshield wiper to make sure it was still working. Yes, it works...!

The windows of this model did not roll up or down, so Tommie did not have to fuss with them. The controller pulled a lever, also on the dash and next to the battery leads, to an air vent flap just ahead of the windshield and it popped open. There were no adjustments for the seat, so Tommie sat hunched over the steering wheel, his head tilted to the left to accommodate and rubbing up against the low profile, aerodynamic roofline. Tommie's face was not six inches from the windscreen and his breath quickly began to fog up his view...he needed to get moving so air would start circulating before the whole darn thing began to fog up.

The one other concern the controller had was that darn roof of his machine...it very well might not be up to the chore of keeping him dry should it start raining. The roof had buckled and finally cracked in several spots, as had the windshield when the previous owners had rolled the three-wheeler, in all likelihood when taking corners too fast. Tommie had used some gooey, varnish-like glue to tack a Persian rug to the ceiling of his ride...the fringe tassels hanging down acted as a sunshade for all the plastic windows.

The Mob Traffic Controller had to use some more of his "Southern ingenuity" for the top of the automobile. Using a clear plastic tarp the retard stapled, then duct taped it securely into place. Tommie had, however, purposely used more material than was necessary, left the trailing end of the covering unsecured and lengthier than the roofline, so his roof would become something like a wind sail for tailwinds.

The wind was picking up, and Tommie could hear it whistling around his aerodynamic bubble. The clouds were growing darker by the minute; it was time to be off!

Knees up around his chest, Tommie struggled for a moment to place his right foot on the power pedal. The controller's feet were too big, so what happened was his foot ended up covering both the power and brake pedals...at the same time! That was okay; Tommie knew by now how to work around that minor inconvenience...by twisting his leg, so he could angle his foot and shoe, so the right side of his shoe, not the sole...the right side of the shoe could be used to press just one pedal at a time.

Almost ready to go!

"Now, it's time for the damn parking break," Tommie whispered to himself.

This was always the least easy part, chiefly because the inbred was hung-over and forgot to release the parking brake when he had already gone through all the contrasting gyrations. The parking-break was an up-down lever that was positioned to the far right of the driver's floorboard. This was always a little tricky.

The electric car only moved forward; there was no reverse. This might seem a bit unusual, but in 2050, most electric automobiles in the USA only went forward. There weren't that many cars around, so rarely did a driver have to concern themselves with having to move backwards under power; if the need ever arose the electrical contrivances were so lightweight they presented little problem with being manually pushed backwards, except when going uphill.

Anyway, Tommie did not have to worry about pushing his automobile backwards, the controller had parked so that he had a straight shot out of his parking slot, but his vehicle was pointed in the direction of the main entrance doorway, all glass and not ten yards away. The problem that could and did sometimes arise when reaching for that handbrake...sometimes Tommie pushed down on the accelerator when he reached for that lever. It took quick reflexes to recover from a disaster that could unexpectedly spring up at this critical juncture...the moment when the hand break was released while Tommie's right side of his foot was planted squarely on and pressing "full tilt boogie" the accelerator of the ten horsepower, Briggs and Fidel, electrodynamoe power plant.

\-----

Thirty minutes later, soaking wet from perspiration and pale from fright, Tommie sat with his jug of moonshine in hand trying to calm his nerves. One of these days, driving that damnable automobile of his had to get easier. The only reason the hick bought the darn thing was to impress the babes, but it wasn't like the guy could go parking in the damn thing.

An hour later, Tommie was feeling warmed by his home-brewed, 160 percent, corn liquor. Tommie sat smiling with a goofy grin owing to the reality that his face was now partially numb. The backwoodsman had by now forgotten the terror of having almost run over some NMASA workers during the shift change. Then there was that mistake of having not considered the sheer force of the wind when coming up with that improvised roof-windsail of his...what might happen if the wind were not coming from directly behind the vehicle, but from an angle? Half a dozen times that contraption of his was up on just two wheels like some kind of land-catamaran.

Now, Tommie sat smiling in front of the television set gazing at the only attractive woman to work at the MNASA headquarters, a news announcer who was announcing the riot forecast for the nation. Life was good...the hillbilly had tomorrow off, his automobile was working, Tommie would find out which trailer that ugly redhead lived in and make his move.

The day after next Tommie was also going to be off...and the day after that as well. The hayseed smiled to himself; he would pick up where he left off with his stalking of that one cute little honey on television, that little darling that always gave him a boner.

Yes, life was good!

\-----

Spotting that building tempest west of San Francisco would give the emergency response teams, FEMA, the time they needed to muster the compliment of tools it had at its disposal to quell that growing menace, well, might help quell some of that growing menace.

In the 50s, and possibly early 60s, scientists had theorized that dry ice, or silver iodine when dropped in the center of hurricanes would stop their formation...stop it before it became a threat to humankind...transform them into something as harmless as a billowy fluffy-white cloud.

There was a consensus of scientists who agreed and supported the claim unquestionably. There was only one fear they all feared. Fear the measure to stop hurricane formation might also cause a further "Ice Age!" Unhappily and happily, both prognostications proved to be cuckoo...an unfortunate blow to the self importance of that accord of scientists who originally bought into the theory...but who briskly distanced themselves from their mistake once they saw the err of their ways.

Yes, data had been conclusive, the earth was not growing colder, the winter of 1965 was not appreciably different from winter of 1964, nor the winter of 1963, for that matter.

"Gee wiz," the greatest minds in the realm said amongst themselves in their removed-from-reality Ivory Towers of Academia. "We need something to talk about; otherwise, all the government, i.e. taxpayer, money will go away."

"Wait a second," one scientist genius was heard to say. "I heard some chap in East Anglia has concocted a new theory. Is everyone ready for this?"

The scientist genius' colleagues waited with bated breath.

"This guy has been studying tree bark in the Himalayas and says he's discovered a 'hockey stick' with his numbers...the earth is getting warmer!"

"Krimminy crickets, he's even got data!" came one response.

Data was a rare thing to possess, I mean real data, not something that was fabricated out of thin air.

"Yep!" the scientist genius responded.

"Well, what the schiessen are we waiting for? Let's marshall the troops and get on this damn bandwagon."

"Wait a second," interjected a further scientist genius who just happened to hike one-fourth of the way up Mount Everest before schiessening out. "What kind of trees are we talking about. As far as I know, there aren't any trees growing in the Himalayas."

"Are you saying the scientist genius at some place called East Anglia could be misstating the facts? Is that what you're trying to say?" responded a red-faced older scientist who had a huge mortgage payment he still needed to cover.

"Dam-it, for what purpose are you trying to ruin this newfound gig of ours," came the scoffing response from a number of dissimilar, harmonious, scientist geniuses.

The offending doubting scientist genius knew what a consensus of fellow scientist geniuses, along with the boneheaded, vocal morons in the media, could do...create havoc for his life; nevertheless, quick thinking saved him further disgrace and ridicule. "I suppose we could always plant some trees."

"Yea, he's right! That scientist genius is right! We could always plant some sort of tree, only it would need to live long enough to give us the bark and data we need!" blurted out a fellow colleague, also with a huge mortgage payment to make, with happiness etched on his face.

"Yes, we would need a species of tree that could live a least a week!" added an additional genius. "That's how long it would take for any of us to pretend we all of a sudden discovered them."

"Yea, but wouldn't any tree freeze solid at those subzero temperatures?" replied another scientist with a question.

"Who cares," replied one more genius scientist, "we're only after the bark."

"Yea, yea, we're only after the bark!" exclaimed a further scientist genius. "In a week we could be back in 'Fat City,' again!"

"What sort of tree should we plant?" asked a further genius scientist.

"One that we can get a consensus on," responded one of the consensus.

"Great idea!" shouted someone else in the group.

"What in the world is the point of all of this?"

Oh, yea, I almost forgot. Well, turns out the idea of dropping dry ice into hurricanes, while absurd to begin with, did not go unnoticed by the clan at FEMA who were searching for a way of dealing with manmade cyclones, which leads us into the next segway...Santa (FEMA) to the rescue. But first, let us see how the Gertrude's family is doing.

\-----

By now, Gertrude and her brood of chillans had caught up with the community event. This was one of those rare occasions when the entire family got together and began to bond.

The racket of the air raid sirens, the noise of the horde...laughter, shouting, cussing and gibberish filled the air...and it was exciting!

No one Gertrude had spoken to while she waddled along with her neighbors had any idea why they were out and about; all anyone knew was this orgy of barbarity and wreaking havoc was entertaining and kind of like a grown-up version of Halloween...trick or treat, only there were no treats.

One of the most important things rioters needed to do before departing for the human rampages and mayhem was to protect their own property...namely their trailers and television sets. To this end, a system had been worked out whereby fellow wingdings used colored flags to, just like primitive Homo-sapiens, ward off evil spirits.

Modern day Americans tied off colored flags to their TV antennas, to their laundry lines, to the few flagpoles some raised, as a symbol of solidarity with whatever the impetus might have been to spark the call to riot.

Today's color was "pink."

The horde was moving west, toward the Bay Area. The targets were always the strip malls, neighborhoods not flying the right colors for the day, week, or month-long event...and anything else caught in the path of the 'Cone of Destruction.'

What does a rioting mass of humanity look like down close and personal, you might ask?

"Yes, I would like to know?"

It depended, of course, on the spot of the disturbance as to the numbers that might be involved. The biggest uproars looked a lot like the Boston Marathon where you had twenty, thirty, forty thousand, a hundred thousand runners all lined up in one huge glob of humanity waiting to descend upon the landscape. Now, picture in your mind that mass of humanity from the opposite side of the starting line. You can see the first few rows of the herd before it becomes a jumbled mass of bobbing heads in the rabble. Now, put sharpened sticks, clubs, axes in their hands, replace the fabric clothing with animal skins, put iron helmets on a few of their heads, drop them into a forest setting and you would have what could easily pass as an ancient horde of barbarians about to descend upon civilization. Oh, I almost forgot, and dye half the rabble's hair purple, orange, or blue and leave them all unshaven...including the women folk. Yes, that completes the picture you should be envisioning.

Now, for the damsels in the front rows, replace the assortment of skintight bikini bottoms and thongs with loose-fitting, tattered blobs of clothes that are supposed to pass for shorts and overalls...no dresses, or skorts (skirt-shorts). Replace the cute appearing three-hundred-dollar running shoes with bare feet, sandals, cowboy boots, combat boots, moccasins, flip flops, more bare feet, Uggs and something resembling tennis shoes. Now for those cute, skintight tank tops and half-tank tops that leave the midsection exposed to show off the six-packs...replace them with blobs of clothing supposed to pass as T-shirts and Polo shirts. Top a few of the chicks off with cowboy hats, a few hard hats, a couple of combat helmets and the rest with baseball caps with logos for teams they've never seen. Now on to the dudes.

For the men, pretty much the same thing applies...replace the assorted colors of mostly tight-fitting bikini bottoms and thongs with the same blobs of clothing, only with button-up flaps in the front. Same for the footwear, only most are barefoot. For any place but Texas, most of the men are wearing baseball hats, once more with logos for sports teams they have never seen.

Some of the entrants are wearing belts to hold up their oversized shorts and overalls, only instead of leather, or leatherette it was a rope made out of hemp, or cornstalks. Colors range from blue to brown to green and the garments look to be from the same clothing designer, which they are.

We're describing the appearances of your typical-looking rioter at this time using the analogy of runners in a Boston Marathon and we are only going to take into account those types likely to participate in either event. What will be missing from the comparison are the bureaucrats and those running the dominion who would never think of lowering themselves to the same level of the 'hoi polloi' by participating in such lowlife events. That said, let us look at the marathoners first then replace them with the rioters of a mob.

On the one side you have rock-hard, athletic-appearing, 'without an ounce of body fat,' oversized muscled legs and birdlike upper bodies of the marathon runners. Some of the riffraff on the rioting side of the equation look similar, only without the oversized muscled legs. Both men and women marathon runners have shaved legs to reduce wind resistance. In the throng the adolescents and older types were wearing something resembling shorts. You see hairy, unshaved legs for both sexes. As far as facial hair goes, the guys are largely unshaved and as far as most of the women, they are usually sporting subdued-looking mustaches.

We're peeking in at the front few rows of troublemakers, beyond all that can be seen are thousands upon thousands of bobbing heads wearing some kind of hat, as far as the eye can see.

In the front few rows we can easily pick out those still living at home; some men who are in a gigolo-like relationship, characters beyond hope of a gigolo-like relationship collecting meager welfare checks; dames out on their own and collecting meager welfare checks and who are fast considering having kids to get bigger paychecks from the authorities. Thousands of agitators who did not look like runners...but more like your everyday typical American in 2050.

The younger, still-living-at-home, rail-thin, without-an-ounce-of-body-fat types, in all likelihood a result of being eaten out of house and home by the overweight matriarchs, none of which can be discerned...make up the vast preponderance of those that can be seen. These are the fastest runners, the ones to always get to the head of the pack, always the ones to get to the best spots first, always getting to those flat screen TVs before anyone else. Intermixed with the younger set are adults who have a desperate look about their faces. All looked like shoppers waiting to rush the mall doors on 'Black Friday'...the day after Thanksgiving.

Everyone is anxious; tension was in the air...ready to cut loose...a mass of humanity that looked like it would run over any and every thing in its path like locusts, but what was keeping them in check? Why weren't they already scouring the landscape for treats, torching anything flammable, breaking whatever could be broken and throwing litter all over the place?

"They can't be waiting for a starting gun to fire, can they?"

Well, sort of like a starting gun. Everyone would be waiting for the community organizers' air-horns to signal the start of the day's festivities.

\-----

The middle agers making up the middle of the rioting horde were followed by the laggers, the doddlers like Gertrude who made up those bringing up the rear of the mob. These were mostly the less ambulatory senior citizens and..and the loving, caring, stay-at-home, overweight, welfare and child-support collecting mothers with their clutches of younger children helping to carry many along, helping many to carry off the stolen goods of their neighbors.

It was late afternoon when one of Gertrude's stirpes recognized the trailer of someone who had spurned him or her during the kid's version of Halloween...and it did not have a pink flag flying!

"That's that old bitch's trailer!" she, or he shouted, a teenager who had not developed enough to tell if they were a boy or girl. All the Gertrude family kids had shaggy long hair, dressed like boys and invariably had pullover shirts with some Heavy Metal band name stenciled on the front.

"Which one?" asked a further sibling wearing a faded pair of green jeans, dirty tennis shoes with holes and a pullover shirt, also with holes and the band "Acyd Eges" (Acid Ages) stenciled in glitter on the front.

"You know, the one who didn't give us any treats on Halloween," replied the first sibling wearing a nose ring, a clear indication this person was a girl and going steady with someone who could have either been a boy, an additional girl, a man, a women, or something else.

"Oh, yea, now I remember. It was that trailer," said sibling number two, whose swastika, arm tattoo gave no indication if they were a boy, or girl, pointing to a white single-wide with curtains drawn.

"No, you idiot," the first girl sibling responded, "it was the grey one over there," pointing to an altogether different trailer.

Now, one more, a third sibling chimed in, "No, you're both wrong and blockheads, it was that trailer over there with the red trim."

"It was the white trailer!" insisted sibling number two.

"No, it was the grey trailer," insisted girl sibling number one.

Now, more siblings joined into the fray, highly competitive amongst themselves, all but three with different sperm donors (dads). Each felt they had something to prove, something that would elevate them in the eyes of their 'Ma Ma.'

"No, it was that blue trailer," insisted sibling number four.

"Everybody's wrong," insisted sibling number five. "It was that red trimmed trailer over there." Pointing to the trailer sibling number three had pointed out.

"Yea, Moon Beam (the fifth sibling's name...a teenage boy's name) is right...I'm right! It is the damn trailer with the red trim!" exclaimed sibling number three.

The debate continued becoming increasingly heated. Never once did it occur to any of the siblings that they could easily resolve the matter by vandalizing all suspected trailers; one of them was sure to be the right indignant person's trailer.

Gertrude, owing to the reality of her size and slowness, always fell behind the pack; the white trash honey now came within shouting distance of her brood, not taking notice of what they were doing, unaware they were about to descend upon her currying favor and a resolution.

"No, it was that one!" said chillan number seven.

"You're a bonehead! It was that trailer...the pink one!" insisted number eight.

"Yea, nevertheless it's got pink colors," responded kid number eleven, or five.

"It's painted pink you dip schiessen, it doesn't have a pink ribbon. That trailer is fair game," replied kid number eight in retort.

The crazy discussions continued as the matriarch approached.

Gertrude, who to get into the spirit of things, had switched and started slugging back a plastic quart-size milk bottle filled with moonshine, was in the process of taking one more gulp of corn liquor when the barrage of magpies descended like a torrent upon her ears.

Arranged, not in order of age, but by the sequence in which they entered into the debate.

"Mama...!" shouted chillan number nine.

"Memaw...!" exclaimed number seven.

"Mom...!" screamed the daughter who had started the whole damn mess...number one.

"Mommy...!" cried number ten, a five-year old, riding on the hip of one of the sitter-daughters.

"Mommie...!" yelled the boy, or girl with the swastika tattoo and unknown sex, number two.

"Mother...!" beseeched number three.

"Mama...!" implored sibling number six.

"Mommy..." reacted sibling number...

I've lost count! Anyway, all ten, twelve, or sixteen of her brood looked like a clutch of chicks, all chirping at the same time, all yelling, or crying out with some variation of "mama," sounding like babbling imbeciles.

"So, that's where the term 'babble' came from...a spinoff from 'Babel' in Genesis...the Tower of Babel."

I'll buy that. So, are you following this bizarre line of conversation, at all?

"Well, I have to admit, I have not payed much attention after the third, or fourth 'mama.'"

"Ma...Ma...!" cried out one more young child still riding on the hip of the other sitter-daughter.

"Mom...!"

"Mama...!"

"Memaw...!"

"Mommy...!"

"Mom...Ma...!"

Not buzzed enough to drown out the medley of voices, Gertrude shouted, "What the f@#&!? Dam-it all, I knew I should have had you all aborted! What the fuk do ya'll want?"

"Me-ma, do you remember that bitch who did not give us any candy last Halloween?" asked sibling number two.

"How the crap should I know? Oh," a memory now managed to work its way through the cobwebs of time. "You mean that old, stupid-looking bitch?"

"Yea, mama...that's the one. Didn't that bitch live in that trailer?" sibling number two asked while pointing at the grey trailer he, or she, singled out earlier.

Hmmm... "No, I think it was that trailer," pointing to an altogether different trailer, a sixth, or seventh possibility in the intervening time between when the debate first ensued.

"But wait, Me-Ma...don't you remember it was the trailer with the..."

When an idiot argues an issue, the best thing to do is step aside, let them talk, don't respond, else you too will look like an idiot, but these were...

Wait, do you hear that? The heavy breathing, it's back!

Initially, nothing save for silence was heard.

"I don't hear anything."

Shsssh...wait, just listen.

Somebody is out there...listening in the background.

"Wait, I think I do hear something."

Ahh ugghhh ahh ugghhh auhh ugggh

"Yes...yes I hear it now!"

Ahh ugghhh ahh ugghhh auhh ugggh

Sounds like a "mouth breather" doesn't it?

Ahh ugghhh ahh ugghhh auhh ugggh

"It sounds like a man's breathing."

Could be a woman smoker.

"Nah, I don't imagine any woman would ever get this far along in this book."

What do you mean?

"I anticipate any normal woman would have thrown this book in the trash, by now. Is that breathing noise getting louder?"

Ahh ugghhh Ahh Ugghhh AHH UGGHHH AUHH UGGH

Yes, it is!

"That isn't the novelist, is it?"

No, I heard him snoring in the next room just a few minutes ago; this is someone in the audience.

"Could it be one of the characters, or could whoever is making that noise be reading this book in 2050?"

Why...for what purpose do you ask?

"I'm just reflecting out loud here, but given the nature of things to come, shouldn't we expect aberrant behavior to be kind of the norm?"

So, what...you reckon whoever is making that noise is playing with themselves?

"I'm just saying."

Listen, I'm not sure if this is some character the author has not thought to clue me on...or if it is someone in the audience; nevertheless, it is unsettling.

Silence descends on the scene as both 'the reader' and yarn spinner listen to the heavy breathing.

More silence.

The heavy breathing begins to disappear....

It is gone! Look, do me one favor...let me know if you plan on taking off again. I might just take a break from narrating for a while, especially if that "mouth breather" comes back around.

"What, are you scared?"

Well, yes, a little. If this "mouth breather" turns out to be a man...a character from the future, one of the old, toothless orderlies, for instance, he's in all likelihood a pervert. The last thing I want is to be caught in a room with one of those buggers.

"Yes, but you're a complete fiction?"

Yes, I know, but so is he...if it turns out to be a "him."

"What if 'he' is a 'she?'"

Same thing. I'm not going to take a chance it is a horny beast-woman like the Beast or Miss Gertrude.

"I see your point; sure I'll let you know."

So, should we get on with the story?

"Might as well."

Okay, then recollect that the Gertrudes are debating which trailer they needed to seek retribution against, but when idiots argue the best thing is to step out of the way, let them talk, let them make fools of themselves, stay out of any exchange, do not attempt to respond to their largely topsy-turvy, irrational points...or you too will appear to be an idiot. Anyway, these were dunces arguing with dunces...so, a half hour later a consensus among the Gertrude family had somehow been reached.

"Stone them all!" yelled the matriarch at the top of her lungs.
Santa Clause FEMA

Santa was FEMA and FEMA was Santa when it came to dropping presents on the riffraffs, brawling noodles. The academic's jaw dropped as he caught sight of the crop duster, flying several dozen feet above the horde of primordial bedlam, fumigating that the very same swarm of human locusts with what from his vantage point looked like billowing clouds of pesticide. Unknowingly, the academic had, for all practical purposes, got it right; the human aberrations were like pests and the smoke being emitted from the tail end of the biplane, something akin to pesticides, only it wasn't.

Riots, mobs, looting, destruction of property...those things had been around for quite some time, so the clever intellectuals running Washington had to come up with a solution, a remedy to the ever-occurring human hurricanes. What the academician was witnessing was 'Phase One' of a two-part solution those benevolent, munificent sovereigns had concocted...so far, other than military, or police action...both of which required union approval, this solution of the geniuses was the only thing that appeared to work.

Never once had the thought occurred to those brilliant, marvelous men, women and children running America that the possibility might exist that if the populace had real purpose to their lives, not some fabrication dreamed up in the break rooms of those damn so-called institutions of higher learning...conceivably, they would start behaving differently, kind of like other normal nationalities around the world. Americans might even devote their time and energies to productive endeavors. Instead of laying around all day, screwing anything that walked on two legs and was breathing, while waiting for the next riot, or episode of Execution, perhaps they would invent, build, or dream up something useful. Alas, the ideas of capitalism and entrepreneurship were lost on the silver-tongued wonder; no, the communal hive, not individualism, was what mattered and was the solution to all man's woes.

So, given that the blockheads could not get it through their heads that there might be a better way, through means other than authoritative measures, they came up with a further sort of ingenious hair-brain solution...one that did not upset the ideological apple cart.

Bongs, also known as water pipes, billy-bings, or moofs, were basically hookahs that had been downsized and made portable during the 60s. 'Moofs' sounds unusual, so we will use it in our references to marijuana bongs. Moofs came into vogue during the Hippie-60s and were a fashionable means of getting stoned without all the harshness that accompanied paper-rolled doobies, hash pipes, or just plain pot pipes.

The genius part of the two-part solution came to the attention of the "Forever President's" administration when an anthropology egghead built a self-contained, industrial-strength moof into the trunk of his electric transport. The Denver native even added what looked like an exhaust pipe coming out the back, just like anyone would see in one of those fancy graphic-ridden lowriders. I imagine by now you know where we're going with this, right?

"No, unquestionably not."

The anthropologist was conducting a social experiment. What was thought by pedestrians, other drivers and passengers to be smoke coming from a badly tuned engine was in reality a pot burning moof! The kook would throw a switch to start the bong to working, usually when the Denver professor was somewhere where he could observe stoned animal behavior on a more grand scale.

The Denver professor would drive around say, a block of downtown Denver with pot burning in his trunk in his 'moofwad,' the name the anthropologist gave the device, and the blower turned on high. While making his first spin, the college professor would make a video recording of the sampling for the experiment which was anything or anyone on the sidewalks, including pets, passing pedestrians, street urchins, taco stand vendors, to the riffraff in parked cars, pan handlers, et cetera, et cetera.

This was a social experiment of the highest order; this egghead hoped to get his work published in the Anthropologist Journal of Zoo Life in North America with the analysis of his findings. This professor had already come up with a title for his work, The Effect of Cannabis on Unsuspecting Two and Four-legged Animals of North America.

The Denver professor knew he could only take the risk of making a few spins around the block with that moofwad of his in action. Any more and the anthropologist might well find himself in a traffic jam, or being run into by one of the test subjects as they attempted to drive off in their autos.

The anthropologist's moofwad was not foolproof; it was a prototype and there were risks. For one, the Denver professor, could himself be overcome by the burning reefer, which no matter how hard the nerd tried, always seemed to seep into the automobile cabin when the damn thing was turned on. The anthropologist had to be careful, take precautions and responded much as expected, with a scientist-like and completely logical answer...he wore a gas mask.

I know what you must be thinking; surely the individual would be noticed wearing a gas mask and driving around downtown Denver and you would be right; nevertheless, keep in mind, by the time the second lap came around, most were already in another place, mindlessly stoned out of their wits and uncaring. I mean, this moofwad of his would put out some real smoke, and the result can only be described as something paralleling what someone would experience after a major forest fire went through an area. Yes, the anthropologist did get jeering and cat calls on that first lap around the block...there were always less protestations on the second lap....by the time the third lap came up, well, let's return to Schwartz, who by this time had closed the gap by walking on that rutted blacktop road. From his perch on top of one final hill, the university scholar could make out more clearly what was taking place below.

The English professor watched without realizing he was witnessing 'Phase One' of FEMA's plan: blow the protestors' grey matter into a stupor with billowing clouds of reefer smoke using the crop duster as the delivery mechanism.

The academic sat patiently for more than an hour before the fog-like cloud of smoke that blanketed the eastern edge of the trailer city began to disperse carried by a gentle breeze in an easterly direction...in the academic's direction! The academic was scared, afraid of descending his hill into that growing blanket of smoke that hung close to the ground.

One thing the academic noticed while sitting on top of that hill spectating was that the din of those obnoxious air-raid sirens had gradually gone noiseless. So too, had the near-constant distant racket which sounded like the uproar one would hear from the 100,000 attendees at a Super Bowl game.

The crop dusters, there had been more than one, were also now gone...he could now hear the chirping of crickets it was so soundless, so very quiet. It was still too hazy to make out anything clearly in the trailer city below.

Those proletariats appear to be incapacitated. No, it can not be that the political authorities have precipitated this anomalous, but 'de rigueur' phenomenon. The government is nothing but rectitude and luminosity.

The professor gazed on hoping to see something through the hazy, fog-like carpet of smoke then noticed the chirping of the crickets had also started to disappear. Twenty minutes later, everything was 'hush hush' save for the rumbling of his stomach. Damn, those cramps were back again, too...that cerebrum was back demanding more drugs, or was it irritable bowel syndrome?

Schwartz knew he was in deep kimchee if he had a further blowout like the day before. The genius was wearing his last pair of girls undees and that one last cute little tennis skirt. What if they too became schiessen'ified like the others? Before those crop dusters had shown up, the dignitary thought he saw clothes flapping in a breeze on clotheslines and looked as though they were everywhere. If true, the possibility existed that with everyone departed, he would have his pick of attire, but if he went down in that fog-like blanket of smoke...he would die too!

The cloud of haze that hung to the ground was drawing closer to the academic's hill. The academic had already concluded the cloud of mist might be cyanide, so it did not take much for him to jump to the conclusion he was in mortal danger. Just about the time the "Blue Blood" do-gooder was about to scamper back the way he had come...to supposed safety, the tranquility was broken by the noise of more approaching airplanes. These airplanes, when they came into view, did not appear to be those same crop dusters coming back to drop another payload of death on the trailer park trash below...these planes also looked like antiques, single-wing, dual propeller driven...

Are those DC-9s? the academician asked himself.

Stage two of FEMA's plan was now coming into view. Flying low above the dissipating smoke, the air turbulence created by their first pass over the trailer city further dispersed the now fading blanket of smoke. There was movement down below!

They're still alive, some of them are still alive!

Making several passes above the crowd of humanity, the academician surveyed the scene as if watching an air show with the DC-9s making passing runs above the spectators' noggins. If he weren't mistaken, those same cargo planes appeared to be dropping something, something that glinted in the sunlight, creating a kind of rainbow effect.

What the schiessen can that be? he asked himself while scratching his dust-bunny beard.

Too distant to see anything except the reflection being cast by the sun on thousands of reflective somethings, the academic was, without knowing it, witnessing 'Phase Two' of the FEMA plan...and it had created an artificial rainbow!

\-----

At ground zero, Gertrude woke as if from a dream, lying face up on someone's lawn, her first thought was...Where's the television? Next the white trash honey asked herself, Did I pass out, again? Next, the ripping screech of one of those ghastly farts of hers broke the tranquility.

Screeeech!

Nonplused by the common event, the white trash honey heard disgruntled voices reacting to the furor she had unthinkingly ripped off.

"Got all mighty! What the ficken is that stench?" came an unknown boy's response.

"Got almighty! What in infernal tarnation did someone eat?" came another person's voice, a woman's response.

"I'd say whoever it was has been eating chili, or tacos by the rankness," came the chiding of a younger fellow who must have had some experience with smelling chili farts.

So far, Gertrude had escaped any ridicule; the white trash honey looked blameless in her prone laid-out position. Then the avalanche from her stirpes descended upon her, again!

"Mama..."

"Mommie..."

"Mom...!"

"Mama...!"

You know something, I'm not sure if all those chirping brats...all the time, would be worth the price, no matter how big the welfare check.

"Memaw...!"

"Mommy...!"

"Mom...Ma...!"

"What the ficken does you kids want?" Gertrude shouted after all she could endure.

"Hey lady, would you fickening mind keeping it up (down). I'm trying to get some nap time over here," came the groggy voice of some feller lying a dozen bodies over.

Gertrude was NOT perfectly within her rights when she politely responded, "Go ficken yourself! Find someplace else to sleep you man-whore!"

"Gee whiz fatso," came the husky response, as a young-appearing, male specimen pushed himself up slowly from his face-down, dozing position.

Gertrude, who was still laying prone on her back, took a quick gander at the guy as he pushed himself into a kneeling position.

Hey, dat hunk looks pretty fine! Gertrude slowly determined. A lots better looking than that live-in bum I's gots right now.

Half a dozen of Gertrude's brood are standing around in the general vicinity, like a clutch of chicks. They have seen this look of their mom's before, "Lust at first sight." That same love-smitten look of Gertrude's also came up a lot when the pizza boy showed up at the doorstep usually carrying a half dozen of those super-kingsize, loaded with everything pizzas; only in that case, the white trash honey could be seen drooling.

The thought all of a sudden sprung into Gertrude's mind, I believe I'm in love!

"Help me sit up youse fickening brats," Gertrude demands hoping to get a better look. She's got to act quick, before the good-looking dude gets away. She's already got a sales pitch worked out.

This was not going to be an easy assignment for the chillans; for one, there were snoozing bodies lying around everywhere. That white trash needed to be moved out of the way first.

"But, mama. They's too many fickening dudes and dudettes around you," came the response from either sibling number six, or eight.

"Yea, mommy, we's can't get over to you," added sibling number two with the Nazi tattoo on his or her arm.

"Well's, don't just stand their like a bunch of idiots...mov'ems outs of the way!" exclaimed the matriarch with some trepidation in her voice as the now great-looking man-whore was standing and about to get away. "Quick, hurries up!"

Rolling the folks over like so many logs, the Gertrude kids eventually worked their way to their mother's side. Now, with the help of two, no make that three of her brood, Gertrude managed to get pushed up into a semi-reclining position.

"Goddamn mommy, youse sure do weigh a lot," said Moon Beam who was still sibling number five, a boy and a teenager.

"Remind me to beat you later," Gertrude scolded him at the unintended insult. "Which one is you?" The choice piece of tail had long ago given up on remembering her kids' names finally giving up around number ten, or eleven.

"I'm Wooky," replied the offending teenager (Moon Beam) using and blaming one of his older brothers to get even for some previous affront.

"How in the world did someone come up with these muttonheaded names?"

"Wooky," or is it "Wookie"...ah, who cares. Anyway, however "Wookee" was spelled, the name does seem to ring a bell. Isn't that what they called one of the lead characters in the motion picture Star Wars?

"Which one?"

Who cares which one? Wookey was the big, hairy two-legged, dog-like creature who could not speak, but sort of barked and howled.

"I'm drawing a blank."

The character that played Hans Solo's sidekick.

"Han's Solo?"

Never mind.

"Oh yea, now I remember! By Jove, I expect you're right. Can you imagine the kind of piles that man-dog would leave? How do you explain the name of the brat called 'Moon Beam?'"

God only knows...hold on, I faintly recall a California governor whose name was "Moon Beam."

"Yes, now that you mention it, I seem to recollect the same thing. I am under the impression his first name was Jerry, but his last name escapes me."

Does it matter. The chap was obviously a moonbat flake, what with a name like 'Moon Beam.'

Anyway, let's get back to Gertrude and her clutch of chirping chicks. The kids, as you might imagine, were having to work hard to keep Gertrude somewhat upright what with her not-so-slim, short, stout physical dimensions working against them. Gertrude looked, sounded and smelled kind of like a human variation of a fart bellows, something akin to a device constructed to furnish strong blasts of winds, breaking wind that were forced out of her when the white trash honey was being compressed into a semi-sitting state.

Screeeech!

"'Screech,' I've never heard someone describe the noise of someone's flatulence...to a 'screeching' sound."

Then you haven't lived...in a trailer park.

That 'screeching' racket had a lot to do with pressure, often referred to as PSI, or pounds per square inch, and the size of the escape valve.

"Okay...okay, you need say no more."

You're sure?

"Oh, I'm completely sure."

Well, okay.

Turns out the job of getting their mommy into a semi-reclining position took too long, and Gertrude missed her chance as the great-looking individual had managed to get up and was now wobbling through the bodies searching for a quieter, less unpleasant smelling place to go back and crash.

"Schiessen, he's gone," responded Gertrude once elevated and able to look around her whereabouts. "Wook'ki, you did this, you made me miss my chance."

Moon Beam, posing as Woockie, or Wookie, or was it Whoocky...tarnation, again, who cares how it's spelled. You know what I'm trying to convey in written form, right?

"Of course, I am long over worrying about things like spelling, or grammatical correctness. Hell, it won't matter in the future, so what's the point?"

The potential love interest now heading off into the sunset, Miss Gertrude looked about her whereabouts still feeling kind of good, but a little more horny than before. Just the same, the white trash bimbo genuinely did not have a care in the world save for the growing, burning desire to push something edible into her mouth.

About her were what looked to be hundreds, possibly thousands of her fellow trailer trashers. Some were sitting upright; others wobbling on their feet then falling, others unsuccessful in their attempts to stand erect, while others wobbled about in quasi-stationary positions. Dozens were making it to their feet and were stumbling along, walking aimlessly and in no apparent rush to get anywhere quickly.

Almost everyone had that same stupefied look on their faces, more stupefied than normal. It was readily apparent that most were still out of it, what with their vampire-like, bloodshot eyes. Some, like Gertrude, looked to be feeling the early rumblings of "the munchies" coming on; otherwise, everyone was in perfect bliss.

About an hour later, Gertrude along with her twelve, thirteen, or sixteen stirpes; her neighbors and the five, six, ten thousand, or so fellow, trailer-park trash and the hundreds of community activists with their bullhorns that had started the whole orgy of fun and mayhem, all appeared happier...more sedentary...more unsure why they were all standing around looking dumbfounded at one another as the fog-like haze began to clear.

That's when Gertrude and everyone else heard more planes approaching...approaching from where the sun was beginning to descend...

Des a cum'n from de south, thought Gertrude.

The airplanes flew low overhead once, then made a second pass...that was when the miracle of miracles occurred. Twinkies fell from the sky! Twinkies fell from heaven! Twinkies fell from the planes!

It was just like Christmas, only there was no such thing as Christmas any more. Kwanzaa had replaced Christmas...Christmas was now called Kwanzaa.

Twinkies fell from the sky like manna...manna from heaven.

"Twinkies fell from the sky?"

Yep...and that's the end of our story.

"What in tarnation happened to the rest of the story? It just stops right here?"

Nada...nothing but a hushed silence becomes of the question.

"Hello...is there anyone there?"

"HELLO!"

"Is that it? Is that supposed to be the end of the story?"

Sounds like you want this novel to continue.

"There you are, what's the deal? Well, yes...sort of."

I was just checking, now we should check in with the academic once more.

\-----

It had been hours in the intervening time between when those ancient airplane transports had made an appearance over the trailer city and dropped something that created a kind of artificial rainbow. That smoke laid out by those crop dusters had also dispersed, blown to the four corners of the lands by brisk winds that picked up as midday became mid-afternoon.

The professor had finally cac'd in his last pair of women's panties during his most recent bout with, still unknown to him, those nasty drug withdrawal pains. Discarded back up on that last hilltop, the scholar had been forced into making an uncomfortable decision and was now walking toward that trailer-park city, along that winding, potholed, blacktop road, wearing one of those cute little tennis tops, upside down, his legs jammed through where the arms would normally go, a near failed attempt to tie up the opening that the girl's noodle would go through.

There was something familiar about aroma of the still hazy air, something in point of fact, very familiar. A distant memory.

"Wait a second," the professor commented in his girlish voice, "that smells like a reefer!"

He inhaled deeply. The dignitary inhaled more deeply...once more...and again...and again.
The TV Interview

"Wait a second, there is someone who is actually walking!" exclaimed the female, TV news reporter in an excited voice. "Quick, get the camera on him!"

"Ha, just look at that guy!" shouted one of the crew.

Jolly laughter broke out among the news crew at the sight of the old guy wearing a girl's tennis outfit ten sizes too small.

The camera crew stood watching and laughing as the professor approached.

Fifty-yards...thirty...twenty...

Ho...ho...ha...ha...ho...ho

"I say there, are you filming me?" asked the academic as he came within hearing distance.

The sound of a little girl's voice coming from a tall, elderly, street urchin, dressed like some kind of demented child molester was too much to take. Now, the news reporter burst out with her heckling, cackling, chipmunk-like laughter adding to the ensemble of the news crew.

Cac...cac...cac...cac

Ho...ho...ha...ha...ho...ho

Cac...cac...cac...cac

That dingbat snowflake was a real beauty herself, dressed like some troglodyte from the 1960s, what with her paisley-patterned bell bottoms and her 'tie-dyed in every color of the rainbow' Polo shirt. This smartly dressed, bug-eyed, dweebie-looking, moonbat woman was even topped off by one of those magnificent 'Beehive' hairdos, reminiscent of those worn during the same period, moreover by the gals in the B-52s group.

"I said, are you filming me you degenerate vagabonds?" the professor asked insistently, once again.

The term "degenerate" rang a bell, at least for a few of the news crew, possibly the reporter.

"I can't believe this guy. What kind of dialect is he using?" asked the camera man peering through the viewfinder and capturing the professor on tape.

"Why in the hell are we interested in this used-up tampon?" asked another in the crew.

"Well, for one, he's the only person who is standing, and walking around," replied another in the film crew.

The fellow crew member was right, as the news reporter surveyed the surroundings. Everybody but this pathetic dork were all lying about, most too smashed to make anything but the sounds of incoherent grunts, moaning and tooting. She had a mission, and this crazy-looking dude was the only one around who might give her the story she needed, the one she had to have before she and her crew could leave this hell hole.

The disturbing-looking male specimen that was the academic scholar was now standing just several yards away.

"What are you saying?" asked another of the film crew in her native dialect, 'San Francisco-Bohemian.'

The academic picked up on the San Franciscan's question, but only by the inflection of her tone.

"My dear, I can tell by the inflection of your statement that you are asking me a question; however, since I can't decipher, nor do I want to comprehend 'Pig Latin,' I suggest one of you who speaks English ask your question, instead."

The dignitary in the girl's tennis outfit continued without concern for his appearance. Apparently, the professor had inhaled enough reefer smoke to lose some, if not all of his inhibitions.

"I have no idea what sort of buffoonery-like gibberish you're using through those vocal cords of yours, but I must assume because you sound like an uneducated ignoramus, you must be an uneducated ignoramus woman. I suggest you would do best to go back home, get back to your chores, and breast-feed any kids you might have."

Some of the academician's words were getting through, but to give you an idea how his statements were being interpreted, here is what the 'San Franciscan-Bohemian'-speaking film crew were hearing. Oh yes, we will be using the genius' first comment, but with what was considered incoherent dribble stripped out, to give you an idea of how things were going.

"My dear, I can tell by the inflection of your statement that you are asking me a question. However, since I can't decipher, nor do I want to comprehend 'Pig Latin,' I suggest one of you who speaks English to ask your question, instead."

So, here is what most in the news crew were hearing from the academic.

My something can (ass) something, something ... infected ...axing...diaper... want..."

In other words, the old cross-dresser was talking utter nonsense.

The thing is, one of the news crew was making some sense of what the genius guru was saying. She was an average-looking Asian who had been educated abroad...overseas where English was still being taught in most universities. Why? We have the Ausmericans to thank for the continued use of English on the international stage. For almost two centuries English, beginning of course with the English, was the 'de facto' universal language of the world. Not so, of course, in the United States, now.

The Asian news crew person interrupted her peers to add what she knew of the man's gobbledegook. "Excuse me Dwolleene (reporter's name), I think I know what this hobo is saying. The hobo is using the English dialect."

The academic's ears perked up upon hearing his favorite word in the world being used!

"English?" asked the reporter.

His expression became even more radiant upon hearing his favorite term in the whole wide world used a second time!

"Yes, English."

The professor had to know. Speaking to the Asian girl, he asked, "Pardon me my dear, but did I just here you use the colloquialism, 'English?'"

"Yes, I speaky English," she replied.

'Speaky?' thought the professor. This little Asian would not use 'speaky' if she really knew anything at all about English. As far as I know, none of my fellow academians have come up with that word, 'speaky,' yet. I certainly have not used 'speaky,' before. Oh, Gaia, are you testing me with your effervescent wisdom?

Not hearing a response from the 'more stoned than we thought' academic, the Asian girl asked again, "Hey mister, you speaky English, right?"

\-----

Tommie was sitting in his only rocking chair, goggling over that only cute-looking news anchor on the mob alert channel. The captioning that accompanied her dialog made little sense to the hillbilly. The only thing he was interested in seeing was her cleavage when she bent over occasionally. Picking up bits and pieces of what the anchoret was actually saying, all Tommie knew for sure was she was working from east to west the various regions of the country. A wall map of the United States filled the backdrop of the news-studio set. The cutie was using different colors of magic markers to markup the points of the country experiencing different degrees of anarchy and unrest.

Outside the occasional and probably 'purposeful dropping' of one of those magic markers, Tommie's interest began to peak as the anchor slowly made her way toward the West Coast. The dirty taste of that Cuban cigar still corrupted his taste of food; the ghastly odor of the stench still hung heavy on his breath.

The yokel had finally had enough of the driver-side door of that three-wheel, electric marvel of his. Leaning up against one of the walls of his trailer sat that very same door he managed to remove that morning. It had been a little tricky; the blow torch he used to cut through those two damn hinges the car door would swing on, had almost caught the entire apparatus on fire. The symbol for non-fire retardant materials went unnoticed, hidden from view by the dashboard, only visible from an angle at floor level.

Tommie still had two more days off from work; there was plenty of time to come up with an answer to the now half burned-out hole that was the former home for the amputated car-door. The Mob Traffic Controller was feeling no pain, a half-lit doobie lay smoldering in an ashtray to his right on the floor.

So far, the hillbilly had seen the anchoret drop one of those magic markers of hers at least a dozen times since taking a seat. Leaning over, the yokel took the twezzer-clips he had been holding and nabbed the reefer after a time. Bringing the doobie to his lips, he took a long lasting drag of the marijuana cigarette, while closing his eyes. This was some really good stuff; the numbskull had almost blacked out doing the same exact thing ten minutes earlier. Holding his breath for as long as possible to maximize the interaction of drug with air passageways, Tommie slowly opened his bloodshot eyes as he exhaled his smoke-ridden breath. The room seemed to darken around him. His vision began to narrow, almost like looking out of a tunnel...tunnel vision.

Wow! was all the hick could think to add as he came again, close to losing consciousness.

"Hey, there it is...there's my hotspot..." slurred the hick.

Through his tunnel vision Tommie could just make out that someone was being interviewed...in his "hot spot!"

Hey, they're interviewing someone in...in my...in my hot...hotspot! I'm...I'm famous!

Who...who is that crazy looking dude, and...and why...why is he wearing...wearing a dress?
Glossary

(Not arranged alphabetically)

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish

(Language) In the year 2050, Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish has become spoken throughout the land and for a combination of great reasons, including the Open Borders Bill of Rights. Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish is also referred to as Ebongo-Edongo, at one person's request and is a combination of over twenty-five variations of the original English language, including Latino-American, African-American, New Yorker, Bostonian, Eskimo-American, Chinese-American, Appalachian-Hillbilly and Southern White Trash vernacular; also referred to by the other dialect speaking communities as "Redneck" vernacular, to mention just a few.

The origins of Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish are generally thought to have been communities where there was no defined syntactical structure in written or verbal communications. Due to cultural variations, those blessed neighborhoods created an environment where a firm grasp of English was not only unimportant, it was downright ludicrous to use in view of the reality that the local, law enforcement could comprehend that jargon. What resulted were vast variations of colloquialisms, word fabrications and word shortenings designed to confuse and confound those who were not part of the same gangs. What evolved was a marvelously glorious language that completely lacked the need for verb conjugation, i.e. "I be," "she be," "thems be," a near total mixing of pronouns and provided the caveat of combining two expressions into one on the fly. Its popularity grew because neighbors wanted to look, speak and act as ridiculous as their neighbors...and keep the police in the dark.

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish thrives across the land. If there were a problem, it is that communities were making up new expressions faster than anyone could keep track, presenting problems for anyone who traveled outside their local area.

Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish transcends race and gender and opens up new opportunities for those fluent in the versatile, admirable language, while erasing the old bigoted stereotypes of citizens who were "stupid" and "lazy." Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish is a great language and while not universally understood abroad, or in different parts of the republic, turns out that was all right...nobody was traveling abroad these days; instead everyone was having fun just sitting around all day dreaming up new expressions and terms to use to talk to one another. Source: the Novelist

Ebongo-Edongo

(Language) New name for Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, created by one of the principle players in the novel referred to as 'the reader' and "YOU."

Source: 'the reader' and "YOU"

Assclown

(Noun) Anyone, who, through the fault of the parents giving birth, is a skid mark in society's collective underwear. A person who is laughable and detestable at the same time and usually pretends to be a know-it-all, often embellishing their stories, knowledge, experience and everything in between with pure horse cac. Also, a person who knows absolutely zilch about their job, or trade, but can tell everyone else how to do it better.

Source: Urban Dictionary

Assclownery

(Verb) An act, or series of acts, performed by an assclown that would appear absolutely ridiculous to any non-assclown. An assclown which commits assclownery at an above average level is known as a goofnad.

Source: Urban Dictionary

Appalachian vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish

(Language) Appalachian vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, or as some call it, "Hillbilly English," is one of the oldest variations of the Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish dating back to early colonial times. The mountain clans who use Appalachian vernacular are referred to as "Hillbillies" by tribes using one of the other twenty-four tongues. It is a localism that had seen its best days during Prohibition when moonshine accounted for half of the employment opportunities in an area that became the birthplace of the national, hayseed, car racing industry: NASCAR.

Like many variations of the Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, Appalachian vernacular is there to confuse Five-O (the police), namely the "revenuers," and until recently, was a dialect on the decline. That has since changed, however, due to recent upsurge in Federal Taxes on liquor leading some experts to conclude Appalachian vernacular will see a resurgence in popularity amongst indigenous mountain folk.

Appalachian vernacular allows Hillbillies to connect with their roots through language; it is a language that is celebrated, enjoyed and spoken intentionally by all Hillbillies, in view of the reality that it is easy on the tongue, fun, creative, saves time and is not understood by most revenuers.

Source: the Novelist

Asshat

(Noun) A general term for someone who carries out actions with such stupidity and moronicism that they might as well wear their ass as a hat. The person can be of either gender, displays behaviors such as ignorance, arrogance, moroness and obnoxiousness, so much so most normal people would like to make them wear their own ass as a hat. Best summed up as someone who has their head up their ass, thus wearing their ass as a hat.

Source: Urban Dictionary

Asshatic

(Adjective) The state of being an asshat.

Source: Urban Dictionary

Asshatious

(Adjective) An act which typifies the behavior of an asshat.

Source: Urban Dictionary

African American vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish

(Language) African American vernacular used to be the most widely used patter outside English before it was superseded by the Latin variety following the Open Borders Bill of Rights of 2020. African American vernacular represents the struggle, pain, intelligence, love, mercy, understanding, survival, resistance and enjoyment behind the African-American culture. Once known as "Ebonics," African American vernacular still represents the basis for communications among the major centers of African American culture, including Harlem, Oakland, Atlanta, Detroit, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C., Chicago and in some part of every major metropolitan area above the 38th Parallel.

African American vernacular represents that warm place in the hearts of many African Americans when they think about their ancestors who could not speak nor fathom English, nevertheless, struggled to speak a language they were not taught formally for hundreds of years. African American vernacular allows African Americans to connect with their ancestors through language. It is a language that is celebrated, enjoyed and spoken intentionally by all African Americans, owing to the reality that it is easy on the tongue, fun, creative and saves time.

Source: the Novelist

Bostonian vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish

(Language) Bostonian vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, or as some call it, "Pilgrim English," is one of the oldest variations of the Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish. Bostonian vernacular is a dialect that has seen better days, mostly during the heydays of Harvard, MIT, Boston University, before the faculty picked up their bags and moved to France.

Unlike many variations of the Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, Bostonian vernacular is not there to confuse Five-O (law enforcement officials), instead, it is there to enable clan members who speak Bostonian vernacular to sound as if they were more scholarly than everyone else.

With the disappearance of the Ivy League universities, Bostonian vernacular is a further one of those tongues from the Northeast that is now on the decline. A consensus of experts believe Bostonian vernacular will not see a resurgence in popularity and will eventually succumb to one of the more popular localisms.

Bostonian vernacular still allows those left behind to reconnect to the good old days; it is a language that is celebrated, enjoyed and spoken intentionally by all Bostonians, in view of the reality that it is NOT easy on the tongue, NOT fun, NOT creative and does NOT save time.

Source: the Novelist

Dipptard

(Noun) An insane person from the future and play on the words "dip" like in "dip-schiessen" and "tard" short for retard...dip-schiessen retard.

Source: Urban Dictionary

Ficken

(Noun) German word for ficken, fickening, ficken'er(s), ficken'ed, et cetera, et cetera.

Source: German Dictionary of Europe

Goofnad

(Noun) Liberal goofballs, "Goof" short for goofy, "nad(s)" an abbreviation for "gonad(s)." Translation: "goofy nut(s).

Source: Urban Dictionary

Latino American vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish

(Language) Latino American vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish became the most widely used English slang superseding the African American dialect following the Open Borders Bill of Rights in 2020. Latino American vernacular represents the struggle, pain, intelligence, love, mercy, understanding, survival, resistance and enjoyment behind the Latino-American culture. Once known by a number of terms including "Spanglish," "jailhouse chatter" and "amigoish," Latino American vernacular represents the basis for communications among the major centers of Latino-American culture including anything in Texas, Arizona and Florida and just about every midwestern city below the 38th Parallel.

Latino American vernacular represents that warm place in the hearts of many Latino-Americans when they think about their ancestors, those who could not come to America legally, nor had plans to learn English as anything except a most important language and struggled instead to bring their families; including, but not limited to both the husband's, or wife's grandparents, a husband's, or wife's parents, a wife, or husband, a daughter, or daughters, a son, or sons, a family pet, or pets; the first-cousin's wife's, or husband's grandparents, a first-cousin's husband's, or wife's parents, a first-cousins' wife, or husband, daughter, or daughters, a son, or sons, their family pet, or pets; the second-cousins...the third-cousins....so on and so forth.

Latino American vernacular allows Latino-Americans to connect with their roots through language; it is a language that is celebrated, enjoyed and spoken intentionally by all Latino-Americans, owing to the reality that it is easy on the tongue, fun, creative and saves time.

Source: the Novelist

Moonbat

(Noun) Derogatory term for an activist and an irrational, mentally unstable lunatic of a pronouncedly liberal political affiliation. Someone who is on the extreme edge of whatever their "ism" happens to be: illusionism, nihilism, feminism, socialism, immoralism, communism, collectivism, absurdism, liberalism. Evocative for lunatic fringe, the phrase began as a disparaging slur against the 'Far Left'; however, due increasing polarization within the nation the term has come to denote virtually anyone with a "liberal agenda."

Source: Urban Dictionary

Moonbickie

(Noun) Irish term for a lunatic.

Source: Urban Dictionary

Moon Beam (Jerry M. Beam)

(Person) A former assclownious California Governor. Moon Beam's parents, when on a bad acid trip, came up with a great name for their son: Moon Beam. Later, much later, years later, after having received much ridicule and abuse for their brainlessness, Moon Beam's parents gave him a normal name, at least his first name: Jerry...Jerry Moon Beam.

Source: the Novelist.

New Yorker vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish

(Language) New Yorker vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, or as some call it, "Ficken English," on its own, is said to account for twenty of the twenty-five variations of Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish thanks to its history as the "Gateway to America."

New Yorker vernacular is patter that is best known for its rapid delivery, in-your-face style and colorful use of four-letter words...with "ficken" the most popular. New York provided the people with the first glimpse of what lay ahead, followed closely by California. New York was in effect a microcosm of what the entire country would eventually become. Outside California, New York remains one of the most expensive regions to live...if you worked. Most experts agree stress is a contributing factor for the hyperactivity one sees in daily New Yorker's speech patterns.

Unlike many variations of the Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, New Yorker vernacular is NOT there to confuse Five-O (the sheriff's department); instead, it is there to enable residents to take advantage of the naive and lame, namely immigrants and vacationers who once arrived in the tens of thousands every year, but with the disappearance of both, the various cultures have begun turning on themselves...if you want to see some major rioting, this is the place to go.

A consensus of experts believe New Yorker vernacular will see the number of variations of slang currently making it up decline as smaller localisms fall prey to the larger localisms who will eventually come to dominate the city.

New Yorker vernacular still allows those who remember the good old days of cheating tourists and immigrants to reconnect with the good old days. It is a language that is celebrated, enjoyed and spoken intentionally by all New Yorkers, in view of the reality that it is easy on the tongue in most districts, somewhat fun, not at all creative, more than a little rude, but does save time for those caught up in the rat race of everyday New York City life.

Source: the Novelist

Schiessen

(Noun) Swiss for "shit." (pronounced shy-zuh)

Source: German Dictionary

Slut Chops

(Noun) A woman who is in all likelihood a prostitute whose expertise apparently surrounds blow jobs. "Slut" means exactly the same as "slut" in most varieties of EEE. "Chops" means mouth.

Source: Urban Dictionary

Smash

(Noun) A sexual-intercourse encounter.

Source: Urban Dictionary

Smash Action

(Verb) Having a sexual-intercourse encounter.

Source: Urban Dictionary
About the Author

Former software guy turned fiction writer, Frank graduated in the late seventies and went to work for NCR in minicomputer sales, then moved into personal computers where he remained for the next ten years. In the early nineties the author left the hardware side of the business for software. Two decades later Frank wound up in Seattle as a sales executive for software developer, WRQ. Shortly after the 'dot.com' bubble burst, Frank with his wife and infant daughter returned to Florida. Besides typing away on a Macbook Air, Frank spends his time as the family chauffeur, gofer and biggest fan of both daughter and wife.

Frank's writing style reflects his business experience and traditionalist outlook on life. Frank writes to a niche of like-minded readers who need an outlet for escaping today's really great times. The topics and plots are intended to be provocative, in some cases humorous, wishful and thought provoking.
Other Books

Visit my website to discover (listed below) other books by yours truly.

http://fbthompson3.com

LIARS - the News Industry

A novel that seeks to alert the ill informed to the existence of the real puppet masters behind the scenes, those pulling the strings, those moving the country further and further to the left - through fiction!
Connect with Author

Personal blog: http://www.fbthompson3.com

Twitter page: http://twitter.com/fbthompson3

Smashwords LIARS Download Page

Satire blog: http://idiocracy.me
