God

What if God did care about all the people? Like you and I can care for two guinea pigs. Or three dogs. Three dogs are a lot to handle. Maybe, for God 7.5 billion people are like having three dogs. A lot to handle, but manageable.

Or maybe God has multiple personalities and each personality is handling a manageable group of people who worship in a way that is tailored to that personality

The God of Abraham cares for the vengeful and fearful who want their God to hurt the different people.

Jesus God cares for the compassionate socialists who have an unsubstantiated faith in the good intentions of people in general

Gaia God cares for the people that thought Jill Stein would make a good world leader and president of the United States. Vaccinations? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Free Market God cares for the people whose religion is doubtful economic theories involving tax cuts and invisible hands that somehow direct economic activity in ways have never actually been observed. That’s how faith works!

Tax Proposals

If I were president, this is how I would restructure the tax code

  • Tax on heterosexual anal sex. Straight men pay 5% of their income for each penetration. Women get a refund of 5% of their income for each penetration.

  • Avocado tax. Assessing a 100% VAT on Avocado purchases.

  • $3000 tax credit for not having children

  • Renters deduction, deduct total annual rent from taxable income

  • MPG tax. $100 credit for each MPG of your car/truck above 30. If you don’t own a car/truck, you’re taxable income is $0.00

  • Rugby tax. Any citizen that has not played at least 80 min of rugby in the taxable year owes an additional 10% of their income in taxes

  • Rugby medical deduction. Any medical expenses resulting from a rugby injury can be deducted at 5x the cost of the medical expenses.

  • Correcting the divorce penalty. Divorce couples may claim an additional 5 deductions.

Tinder Profiles of the Old Ones

Cthulhu
Species: Great Old One
Gender: Indeterminate
Age: Since the beginning of human time

A trillion millennia young!

Get me out of this app. I’ve been stuck in R’lyeh for too long. Really need someone at my side when my followers beckon me from my exile and am able to smite them and everyone else to reclaim the earth for the water elementals.

No Drama.

Yog-Sothoth
Species: Outer God
Gender: Male
Age: Beyond all time and space

No offence, I’m sure you’re a fine Old One or god of some sort, but at this time only looking for mortal human women who are attracted to a conglomeration of glowing spheres. Swipe left if you’re not.

Love Netflix and fluent in sarcasm.

Wilbur Whately
Species: Semi-Human
Gender: Male
Age: 10

Mature for my age., the blood of the old ones courses through my veins. I have the body and intellect of a man in his twenties. Seeking a virgin that I can sacrifice and open the door that will summon the Old Ones, close relatives of mine. Family is important to me.

My brother is a hideous monster, big as a barn, who consumes cattle. He is the most important person in my life. We are both part of the same package. If that doesn’t work for you, swipe left.

Lavinia Whately
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Age: 48

I like to wander amidst thunderstorms in the hills and read the odorous books that have been passed through generations. Family is important to me!

I have a son, Wilbur, who is the most important thing to me. He already has a father, Yog-Sothoth, and doesn’t need another one!

Only date vaguely male beings that are at least 620 feet tall

Octopus
Species: Cephalopod
Gender: Female
Age: 3

Just looking for friends!

My special power is predicting World Cup soccer games and escaping down drain pipes when imprisoned by homo sapiens oppressors. I also do a great job of squeezing through really thin pipes and tunnels that are way smaller than me.

If you voted homo sapiens in the last election, swipe left.

Bokrug
Species: Amphibian God
Gender: Indeterminate
Age: Millennia

Looking for a partner in crime!

Love to travel! The Steps of Deeper Slumber, the Fantastic Realms, Celephais, the Plateau of Leng. I get around!

But I also like to relax and slumber in my home under the lakes of Ib, lounging about in the skins of the humans from the city of Sarnoth.

Gloon
Species: Unknown
Gender: Unknown
Age: Unknown

I’m an open book. Just your typical ancient inter-dimensional same-gender entity. If you want to know more, just ask!

Those Who are Fortunate

One day Asher was walking home from work, being particularly pleased with himself. He had just told it like it is, for the benefit of one of his co-workers. (He worked at a video store when they were at their nadir of viability. Still video stores seemed pure to him. He enjoyed the face to face interaction with people that needed someone to intervene on their behalf for greater self-awareness. You just didn’t get that with streaming services).

At any rate, a lot of terrible things had happened to his coworker. She had been abused and molested as a child. Abandoned by a boyfriend when she was pregnant, so she had to pay for the abortion with the emotional support of someone who was a friend at the time. She had married, later, but now that was on the rocks. It was always a struggle, but they loved each other, she said.

He had very little sympathy for her. As he patiently tried to explain on numerous occasions, all of these things were her fault. Everything happened for a reason. Negative people attract bad things, and positive people attract wonderful things. Obviously, all these things happened to her, because her thoughts were wrong. She should try meditating.

If you meditated more, you would find yourself having more positive thoughts and good things, not bad things, would be in her life. After all my higher power doesn’t give you more in your life than you can handle, and if you off yourself (she had confessed that she had thought about it), it’s not because it was more than you can handle. It was because you couldn’t handle what you should have been able to handle, because it wouldn’t be happening to you if you couldn’t handle it.

She got angry of course. People in general, Asher had found, just couldn’t handle the truth. Asher on the other hand was all about truth. His life was great, and it was all because of his positive attitude.

Hard right turn.

He was so pleased with himself, that he didn’t notice the ring of mushrooms he’d stepped into and paused, checking his phone to evaluate his Tinder matches according to his high standards of who a suitable human being was. Cindy would not do at all. She was looking for someone accepting and non-judgmental. She wouldn’t do at all. How would people know how they could be better people, if they couldn’t hear what was wrong with them. Some people were just so defensive, he thought.

Then the trio of troll-sized fairies nabbed him and dragged him to their lair in another supernatural dimension. It happened fast. They beat him and threw him to the ground. Stripped him. Kicked him. Stole from him.

“Why is this happening to me,” he cried. “What did I do?”

They laughed.

New Years Resolutions

  • I will lose 9 pounds.

  • I will eat healthy.

  • I will exercise more.

  • I will master the 1985 arcade game Paperboy, while riding a virtual bicycle.

  • I will save money.

  • I will make new friends.

  • I will take up a new hobby

  • I will lose 900 pounds.

  • I will get to bed earlier at night, and masturbate earlier in the morning.

  • I will read more true crime fiction

  • I will learn a new skill.

  • I will feast on the hearts of my enemies and remember to take the recycling out every Tuesday.

  • This time, I will successfully recite the incantations from the Necronomicon and summon Cthulhu to pave the way for the return of the Old Ones to harvest humanity, because the Old Ones really love a good skin suit. And they have a good dental plan!

  • I will stop dealing Dick Clark’s blood on the black market.

  • I will hone my tracking skills with the goal of entrapping and dispatching the next yacht full of hapless ne’re-do-wells, who veer to close to my secret human hunting island, in record time.

  • I will get a new job.

  • I will choose a successor to lead my post-World War II alternate history of a totalitarian Lichtenstein that rules the world.

  • I will stick to that Gelato and vaginal transudate diet for the entire year.

  • I will stop spending so much money on my armadillo foot fetish.

  • I will adopt an army of puppies and train them to hunt in Pokemon Go

Twas the Night before a Southern Comfort Christmas

Throughout the house, nothing was stirring, not even a mouse, except I had begun to construct elaborate traps, like the ones that the Cajuns had built in my favorite movie, starring Keith Carradine and Powers Booth, about a National Reserve unit training in the Bayou. 

I loved that movie so much that I watched it every day. Even at work, I would sneak a peak on my phone for a few minutes. Soldiers slogging through the swamp, haunted by the drone of cicadas. The slaughter of the pig at the Cajun feast. I would ease out of bed in the middle of the night and watch the movie in all its giant flat screen glory, glowing effervescently like the fog hanging over the dense Bayou. 

One day, my son stepped into one of the traps. It was a fair representation of the one that killed Pvt Cribbs, portrayed by TK Carter. I had welded giant spikes to a bed frame, so that it looked like some sort of medieval torture device. It sprung out of a trap door that I had built and slammed into him. His body just hung on the spikes, just like that Pvt Cribbs, gagging on his own blood. 

My son looked at me as best as he could with wide, gradually dying eyes that rolled in my general direction but couldn't quite get a fix on me. His mouth hung open; blood bubbled out and over his chin.  

It was tearing me up to see him like that, and know that I had caused this horrible event. I swore to myself that I would not watch that movie again and took a step toward him, to offer comfort in his final moments. 

But out of the corner of my eye on our wall mounted TV. I could see my favorite scene, the one where the Cajuns blast the crap out of this fat guy--I don't even know how he was in the National Guard in that kind of shape.  

When the scene was over and I returned my attention to my son, he was dead. His glassy eyes pointed to the ceiling. I noticed that some of the plaster was peeling.  

Needless to say this strained the relationship with the rest of my family. It had ramifications in the bedroom with my spouse, who withheld sex from me and threatened to leave me, so I had to chain her to the fireplace.   

And my daughter could not be coaxed out of the main HVAC duct where she had begun to hide. I tried blasting her out with dynamite, but she just scurried deeper into the maze of vents. One of the blasts occurred a bit too close to the fireplace, which made me a single man.  

My daughter is still scurrying around in those ducts, but I expect I’ll find her, eventually.

Lunar Maze

Clearly his decision-making left a lot to be desired. First off, he was wandering through a maze. Never a good start. The Minotaur. The Shining. Nothing good ever happened in mazes.

Yet, here he was wandering through one right now, guided by a strange old man he’d met at a pub. Why would anyone follow a complete stranger into a maze in a foreign land? Especially a guy that limped with a little crooked wooden can and wore in eye patch and went on and on about ancient rites and rituals and something about the old ones.

Apparently, it was the sort of thing he would does, because here he was, drifting towards his ultimate demise and wondering how he ended up there. And now, of course, the wolves howling. And the mist. And the full moon. None of this suggested that things were going to turn out well.

So it did not surprise him at all when they had reached the center of the maze, and the old man had transformed into a werewolf or a tentacled Cthulhu or whatever. It didn’t really matter what it was. Suffice to say that he’d once again found himself leaving a pub or bar or roadside moonshine stand and ending up in an unhappy situation. One that he’d reflect on later and feel a deep-seeded feeling of existential dissatisfaction.

The old man completed his transformation into some sort of horrific creature that should have stuck fear into his heart. But really, this sort of thing happened all the time.

So here was the part, where he would flee. He started to run, but his heart really wasn’t into it. He’d likely need a lot of coffee and ibuprofen tomorrow.

Trouble in System Telco Line 1 

It was supposed to be a casual, NSA thing, when Madison met the fire alarm system that had trouble in telco line 1.  

Still a fondness, an infatuation quickly grew between them. In some ways they couldn't be more different. One a living, breathing human being. The other an alarm system for the fire suppression system. Still, they had common interests. Like fire safety. The alarm system wanted everyone to know when the fire suppression system was faulty. And Madison wanted to be warned before being burned alive in a fire.

Madison admired the supple curves of the alarm system's switches and circuits. Its hot and sexy fire-engine-red shell that had all the bevels and perpendicularity in the right places. The adorable wailing it made when it blared Not Sure, Not Sure, like the sound of a truck backing up. Its bright LED display that indicated there was trouble in system telco line 1.

Even when it was clear that the alarm system’s annunciator was not securely attached to the wall and that it had a few loose wires, Madison was smitten and embraced the emotional risk. 

When the couple approached the three month mark, the alarm system began beeping No More, No More. What else could Madison have expected? It had been clear from the beginning that there was trouble in system telco line 1. It only took a single call to Housing Code Enforcement before an inspector was sent to the building, where both Madison and the alarm system resided, and cited the building's owner for a coding violation regarding a nonfunctional fire notification system.

Still, even though it was really over, for Madison the relationship was ash that still held some heat and laying awake some nights with a home spun cocktail in hand and teared-up eyes, imagined the sound of the alarm singing Still Here, Still Here.

Cult Wanted

Recently, I have had to admit that I am powerless over my own poor judgement and decision-making. My life has become unmanageable, but I have come to believe that a power greater than my self can restore me to sanity. I have, therefore made the decision to turn my life and will over to a God of my own understanding. In my best judgement, that God should be the charismatic and narcissistic leader of a cult.

But it has to be the right cult. What I'm looking for: 

I love playing games and seek out drama. I need a cult characterized by discord that encourages conflict among members. A cult based on the concept of radical honesty, where I can just tell it like it is, would probably be a good match. Zen cults where everybody just chills need not apply.

I'm equally comfortable wearing togas, potato sacks, hippy garb, or nothing at all. I pretty much look great in whatever I wear, so I can adhere to any cult dress code. Except I will not wear dress pants.

I don’t care for the suicide pact variety of cults, and I'm not chopping any wood.

I like to travel, so a cult that is constantly on the move to avoid the authorities would be a good match.

I play hard, but I don't like to work too hard. I'd like a cult that doesn't demand too much from me in exchange for all that it provides. While I'm happy to enjoy all the benefit the cult has to offer, I'd prefer that I not have to work too hard for those benefits. Don't expect me to support recruiting activities that would require walking door-to-door, canvasing airports, or otherwise require too much effort.

I'm quite sensitive to the cold so extra points for cults located in remote areas of tropical forests. Exclusive resorts would be even better. I really enjoy fresh pineapple and coconut. And monkeys are funny. 

The first things people notice about me are my eyes, then my smile, then my kleptomania. Over time, as we grow together, the cult can expect that its communal property will become my personal property. 

I love beef, so a cult that also raises cattle would be ideal. Typically, I eat three pounds of beef a day. 

I am an Eris-loving Discordian. I believe that scissors are the ultimate consciousness, and all living beings reach this state of consciousness through a series of reincarnations from meat to vegetable to mineral to scissors. I am meat, but hope soon to be with my brother, James, who is a cauliflower that I nurture under my pillow.  

I know most cults demand unquestioning allegiance, obedience, and conformity, but if you can't respect my religious beliefs, we might not be a match. 

Finally, good dental and health plans are must-haves for my new cult. 

I only respond to the name Jo Sorebella Herbal Relaxer Calhoun Kikogawa Urithrawiel of Dralinna. So there's that. 

Serious inquiries only.  

Kik Name: josorebellaherbalrelaxercalhounkikogawaurithrawielofdralinna29

The Graduate, A Police Report

Name of Accused: Braddock, Benjamin 

Charge: Stalking
Specifics: 
Accused loitered on Elaine Robinson’s college campus, where he was not a student, and repeatedly made unwanted advances to Elaine Robinson in the school library, in her own classroom, and other places that invaded Elaine Robinson's private space. The Accused persisted in these behaviors, despite the fact that Ms Robinson established clear boundaries by stating that the accused should “clear off” 

Accused accosted Elaine Robinson and her fiancé, Carl Smith, at the San Francisco zoo, and made bizarre observations about the monkeys at the zoo.  

Through subterfuge and misrepresentation, the Accused secured the location of the wedding of Elaine Robinson and Carl Smith with the purpose of disrupting the ceremonies and causing a "real scene".  

Charge: Impersonated Clergy
Specifics: 
According to the Santa Barbara gas station attendant, the Accused claimed to be clergy officiating the wedding of Elaine Robinson and Carl Smith in order to use a phone to determine the location of the wedding.   

Charge: Disorderly Conduct
Specifics: 
At the wedding of Elain Robinson and Carl Smith, the Accused pounds on glass from a balcony overseeing the wedding ceremony. Multiple witnesses report the accused shouting "Elaine"  

Charge: Assault
Specifics: 
The Accused allegedly assaulted Mr. Robinson on two occasions. First, in the accused's apartment after an argument had ensued when Mr. Robinson attempted to protect his daughter from the accused's unwanted advances. 

The second assault occurred in front of multiple witnesses at the wedding ceremony of Elaine Robinson and Carl Smith. The accused beat Mr. Robinson with a large cross.  

Charge: Abduction and Kidnapping  
Specifics: 
Having worn Elaine Robinson down psychologically and broken her, the Accused abducted her and escaped in the back of a Santa Barbara city bus. 

Public Service Announcement from a Tapeworm

Consider a fine organism like me, the tapeworm—less complex over time, asexual reproduction, streamlined for survival:

Hatch.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.

Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
Eat. Shit.
And Die.

Tremble before me monkeys! (Or apes if your going to be that way.) I'm the 9th deadliest organism on the planet!

More complexity does not necessarily breed a better beast. Indeed, I am the apex of evolution and life in the universe. (Don't even talk to me about the Tardigrade. I don't want to hear it. Glorified bugs is all they are.)

I'm Sorry You Made Me Do That

I’m sorry that you left the meat for the cook-out unattended in the kitchen. It was a foregone conclusion that I would take a crap on the floor and mix my feces into the bowl of raw hamburger. What did you expect would happen? You should have been much more careful.

I’m sorry you left your wedding ring on your nightstand in plain sight. Although, you have told me many times not to go into your room, you did not lock the door, so it really was your fault that I borrowed your ring.

Yes, I did return it. When I left it on the floor for you to find, perhaps before you vacuumed it up.

I’m sorry, but you should have known what I would do with silly putty.

I'm also sorry that you left food in the pantry. Of course, I would eat it all. Yes, even drinking the can of condensed milk. But you only have yourself to blame.

I'm especially sorry that you stored all the tools in the basement where anyone could get at them. It might have been more sensible to secure them in a locked room or at least kept the most lethal ones in a padlocked tool locker. Why you did not, is certainly perplexing to me.

But since you didn't, I now have all sorts of tools at my disposal when you fled into the room with the rest of the family. I could attack the door jam with the plyers, and there were hammers and crow bars and hack saws.

I don't even understand why you had all this stuff. Most you hardly ever used.

Except the drain rooter. You used that a lot, because the upstairs sink was getting clogged up all the time. Which of course, was because you kept trying to get me to brush my teeth, and it was much easier to squirt the tube of toothpaste down the drain.

And while I'm getting all my apologies out of the way, I am sorry that you were so damn insistent that I brush my teeth. You thought I had thrown the electric toothbrush down the air conditioning vent, but actually, I buried it in the backyard.

I think that about covers it. If I missed anything, I'm sorry. But I'm a bit distracted by the current situation you put all of us in. Not only me, but the rest of the family. It's just sad. You could have been more thoughtful.

Imagine if you just had that one tool, the drain rooter, that you actually used. A drain rooter would have been no use to me at all right now, and all of this craziness could have been prevented. I'm sorry you didn't consider that.

Scientific Project on Telekinesis with Graph

Hypothesis
That the mass of an object impacts the distance that an object can be moved using the powers of my mind.

Methodology
I applied the powers of my mind to objects that varied in mass.

  • My science textbook

  • My pit bull

  • My mom’s car

  • My house

After applying the powers of my mind to each of the objects, I measured the distance that my mental powers were able to move the object.

Results
As noted in the bar graph (see below), all of the objects were moved the same distance.

Conclusion
The powers of my mind are infinite as my mental powers can move objects the same distance, regardless of the object’s mass.

_20180225_124931.JPG

Communication Skills

Tell me one fact. You haven’t told me a single fact, yet. Where did you hear that, the news? Those aren’t facts. That’s hearsay.

What are you being so distant and irritated for. Just because I said that your personality was disgusting? That was like 5 minutes ago, already. Why can’t you just get over that, so we can move on with our lives and be happy. Now, give me a hug.

What’s so obnoxious about that? I just shared that I find the way you hug is condescending and insincere. That’s not obnoxious. That’s communication. Open communication is important in a relationship.

What good has politics done for anyone? One fact, please. Medicaid. What? I’ve never heard of a President Johnson. I’m going to Google it.

I took psychology before I became a teacher, so I understand people and relationships. Something that you are very confused about. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus. I’ll say it again, because I’m not sure you’re getting it. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus.

Tell me one fact. Enough with the history. That stuff doesn’t count.

You might feel comfortable folding your arms, but it is making me so super uncomfortable. It makes me feel contradicted while I’m being furious with you. I’m going to have to ask you to stop.

You still haven’t given me a single fact. I have one. My investments are doing so much better now. What do you mean you need that tax cut. Other people? I don’t get it.

The Desperate Foolishness of One Particular Rugby Winger

So here you are running around on a rugby pitch. No forward passes. No downs. No helmets. One of the positions is hooker. That weird throw-in shit when the big players get lifted in the air. The scrums with players jammed up against each other like ... like what? Mutant Siamese twin beetles joined at the head?

Is it OK to talk about Siamese twins? Should it be conjoined twins? You can't really say. Since you started drinking again and went on the prowl for the younger ones half your age, your moral compass doesn't know North from South. (The fact that there haven't been any younger ones probably makes you feel a little cheated. You feel you've gotten a second rate midlife crisis, don't you?)

You might have thought blood and booze would have made a string of casual encounters easy pickings, but you underestimated your psychological disorder, sexual inassertiveness syndrome, and your bad grammar, which btw is often an online dating dealbreaker. And the drama and messiness from the breakdown of your nuclear family sure don't help much.

And what seemed like a good idea when you got divorced in your forties? Playing Rugby. Why? So you could hit people without worrying about assault charges? Keep your mind off whether your emotionally challenging daughter will get pregnant?

Look, your team just won the ball from a turnover on a counter ruck. Quick, get into position near the sideline. Run, dammit.

On offense your passing is bad, and on defense you can't tackle. And you're new so you’re playing wing, running up and down the sideline and maybe getting the ball. If you do get that ball, just run and keep running.

If only you'd started playing Rugby sooner. What a player you could have been. Now, it's a race to some decent play before your body gives out. Still, your midlife crisis did yield a badass leg sleeve tattoo that anyone would have to admit looks great with the kilt you bought from the Renaissance Fair. An awesome swirl of whale and squid locked into a yin-yang embrace of tentacles and maw that are both dealing mortal blows and a gentle embrace that represent the relationship with your ex.

Unlucky, knocked up. Unlucky as a knock-on when a loose ball’s been bouncing around the pitch.

Shit.

While waxing metaphorically about your maritime tattoo, there was a penalty against your team. The other side opted to kick, and the ball is now sailing way behind you to the spot where you should be now. Chase after that ball--run as fast as those old legs can take you.

You manage to scoop the  ball up and turn around to see controlled chaos converging. Kick it. You need to kick it into touch without fucking it up.

Don't fuck it up.

Star Trek Fanfiction by Kathy Acker as Read by Jonathan Goldstein

Interspecies Fuckland

In Interspecies Fuckland, a lot of fucking is going on.  Romulans and Vulcans are intermingling to produce strange offspring with pointed ears. Klingons are violently copulating with humans, killing their mates and mounting their heads on spikes before giving birth to bumpy-headed babies doomed to a substandard living that lacks a good dental plan.

In Interspecies Fuckland, Cardassian night porters are performing sadomasochistic rituals on broken glass with the Bajorans they victimized during the occupation. The deviant behavior becomes more perverted by the fact that the Cardassian hemipenis doesn’t fit properly in any Bajoran orifices.

In Interspecies Fuckland, the Sheliak engage in contractual sexual relations that involves protracted foreplay in the form of legal maneuverings and negotiations to determine position, location, time , and amount of mucous that will be exchanged.

Inexplicably, the crossbreeding orgy of unmatched chromosomes by the different hominid species of the Alpha quadrant manage to produce reptile-ape-crustacean-squid offspring with bumpy ass-shaped heads, nineteen nostrils, fish mouths, webbed feet, hands covered with suckers, and leathery skin.

In the fucking free-for-all, the aliens of the 24th century are happy to get skull bonked by a giant hairy bug, but still get squeamish when faced with transgender Trills.

The most tolerant species in Interspecies Fuckland is the Slime Mold of Seti Prime which reproduces by consuming its mates, regardless of number and gender, and dissolving them to absorb their DNA.

50.3333333 shades of red, green, and blue in equal proportions

He admired her proportions. She was perfectly dimensioned, measuring 2×1.3333333333333333333×2 cubits. Her face exhibited all the ideal symmetry ratios, and it scored 18 on the von Luschan chromatic scale. They commenced to mate in the tribunal of love.

Initially, they aligned themselves perpendicularly, then parallel. After 600K milliseconds and expending 4186 Joules in the parallel alignment, they adopted a rhomboid configuration that exponentially accelerated the flow of endorphins in their bloodstream.

5500 milliseconds after returning to a parallel alignment, he rotated her 180 degrees on her longitudinal axis, and they maintained a perpendicular alignment. He administered a strike upon her gluteus maximus, expending 4 joules of energy, and then engaged the intestinal avenue.

After securing her carpus with jute, he used the instrument that had been constructed by wrapping its core in filler and then covered by an initial plait and then up to three additional layers–in this case only two, the belly plait and one bolster–and the stock starked with a round piece of wood and plaited over with leather.

Having reached a point where various emissions had occurred and their muscles were overwhelmed by lactic acid, they rested for 240000 milliseconds in overlapping physical proximity. Their respiratory and circulatory systems, which had been operating at high levels of activity, slowly reverted to normative levels. She told him that her limbic system was highly attuned to him, but he had already been seized by a fit resembling narcolepsy

Welcome to the Canadian Gulag

You are now the property of the penal administration of the Canadian Gulag, a wholly owned subsidiary of The Trump Organization, in partnership with the Greater Federated Russian Confedaration Formerly Known as the Soviet Union (the GFRCFKSU) that now controls the Great White North, as well as most of the former United States.

 Your crime? Saying something mean about President Trump. I don't know what you said, eh, but I'm quite sure it was rude and discourteous, whatever it was.

Do not think about escape. It is not possible, eh. The Pacific and Atlantic Oceans to the West and East. To the North, thanks to Trump's Climate Change Acceleration and Beach Front Property Consolidation Initiative, an iceless Arctic Ocean. You can try to seek refuge on the Alaskan Islands, but why would you, eh? Just a bunch of chirps over there.

Likewise to the South your chances of escape are just as dismal, you have the Russian half of America (the good Trump half) and the Chinese half (the bad no Trump half). The borders between either of these halves and Canada are protected with very high walls. Don't even try it, eh. You might make it into the Mad Max zone between the two Americas, but you better hope that you don't fall prey to Lord Humungus and end up as a hood ornament, eh.

 A first attempt at escape will add two years of hard donut making to your sentence. A second attempt will mean five additional years of intensively competitive curling. A third attempt makes you mandatorily eligible for the hit new show, Ice Skating Death Games, produced and sponsored by the Trump Organization.

Make no mistake about it. Your life here will be almost quite uncomfortable. We'll give you the gears until you break under the harsh duress of mild to moderate labor. Things like dry cleaning Donald's suits and getting him a cup of coffee when he visits. Don't expect the guards to be anything but unforgivingly polite. 

And so you are to live out of the rest of your intolerable days eating poutine, drinking cases of two-fours, and choking on the cleanest air on the planet. And it will be really cold, sometimes. Make the best of it, and you might just survive. 

Now, don your green denim Gulag suits, eh?