Bullets ricochet off the rubble of what was once Damascus as thousands, anticipating airstrikes, flee the city for the uncertain safety of refugee camps. In Memphis Tennessee, Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf shift supervisor Brendan Tesseract disconsolately removes a pin from his war map. Insubordinate barista Terry Nyborg thumbs his nose at his manager and impishly draws a penis in another customer’s latte foam.
I NEED A VACATION FROM THIS VACATION
For months, the two headstrong java slingers have been trading jabs at store meetings and regional meetups for coffee shop and bakery professionals – Nyborg referring to his shift supervisor as “a fat slob”, “lyin’ Brendan”, and simply “sad!”; Tesseract countering that his underling is “too puny and incompetent to seize and maintain power” and that “bean squeezers come and go, but [Tesseract] will be shift supervisor for life!”. Only recently have things escalated into the international arena.
FIRST AS TRAGEDY, THEN AS FARCE
Tesseract originally recommended Nyborg for the job, believing he could easily manipulate the inexperienced percolator activator, thus improving his own standing within the greater Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf organization. However, Nyborg’s Huckleberrian workplace antics and egotistical disregard for employee guidelines left Tesseract with little choice but to poison the disobedient steam jockey with polonium-210. In a prank war worthy of Jim from The Office, Nyborg responded to the attempt on his life by ordering an airstrike on his shift supervisor’s many holdings in the Middle Eastern country of Syria.
BEST. PRANK. EVER.
Now, as the workplace hijinks intensify, customers never know what they’re in for when they walk into this popular Memphis coffee spot, and thousands of Syrian nationals are stranded without access to clean drinking water or basic healthcare. These civilian shrapnel in the clash of the capers can find solace in the knowledge that their lives have been forfeited for the sake of an ideal more radiant than mere humanity. As their homes and places of worship crumble like so much biscotti, the people of Syria can look to the mighty Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf corporation and know that, in a distant land none of them will survive to visit, either one of these guys will have to clean the bathroom at the end of the night, or else the other one will.
Rambunctious orphan Amena Al-Salek, a displaced victim of Tesseract and Nyborg’s Home Alone-style tomfoolery, was one of a dozen lucky refugees to receive a complimentary cup of coffee from International Coffee & Tea, LLC. Upon tasting her very first hot brewed get-up-and-go, she reportedly smiled through broken teeth and said, “They’re killing us!”
THE CUP IS TOO HOT. THE COFFEE IS TOO BITTER.
Amidst allegations that he was compromised by the Deep State as an unwitting participant in the “Mr. F” sting operation, Dr. Tobias Fünke has been removed as a signatory shareholder for all future Bluth Company affairs. Reached for statement, Dr. Fünke commented that, “if [he] responded too enthusiastically to [FBI] intrusion, it was only because [he] was excited by all the big, important men in the room”.
I BLUE MYSELF
Dr. Fünke was thrust into prominence in the business community in the mid-2000s upon marrying socialite Lindsay Bluth, daughter of embattled real estate mogul George Bluth, Sr. Following a mid-life career change, Tobias has found himself floundering in his new profession, frequently acting well beyond his range and improvising wildly to get himself through a scene. However, his involvement with the Bluth Company has been a social and financial windfall, and he has been “filling as many holes in [his] father-in-law’s company as [the senior Bluth] will let [him]”.
WE’RE HAVING A FIRE…SALE
Though the Bluth family has enjoyed unprecedented celebrity in recent years, many dispute the validity of their status, citing insider trading, unethical building policies, and “light treason” as the actual foundation of their success. Plans for the long-awaited Sudden Valley housing development fell through innumerable times before the community was finally engineered cheaply and without access to phone or internet. As of press time, it remains unclear how the company intends to fulfill its promised construction of Single City, Swing City, and F*ck City, or who will pay for them.
100% NATURAL GOOD-TIME FAMILY BAND SOLUTION
The “Mr. F” debacle is far from Dr. Fünke’s only run-in with the law. He has been questioned repeatedly about his family’s business practices for years. More damning by far are a series of compromising photographs leaked to the media, which clearly illustrate Dr. Fünke’s ties to the Middle East and other foreign powers. However, it was not until Dr. Fünke inadvertently agreed to act as a mole for an ongoing investigation that he lost use of the corporate account, company stair car, and the banana stand empire.
THOSE ARE BALLS
The investigation into the Bluth Company is ongoing, and it remains unclear whether Tobias Fünke is taking undue responsibility for his father-in-law’s crimes, acting as a “Patsy” or even a “Nellie” for the company’s misdeeds. Court documents indicate that George Bluth, Sr. has a disturbing history of allowing others to take the fall for his actions, going so far as to abandon his own brother for personal gain.
I’M OSCAR…DOT COM
As yet, the Bluth Company’s heir-apparent Michael Bluth maintains an untarnished-if-unremarkable record, and he remains as always ready to take over the family business should something befall the man he calls “Pop Pop”.
FAMILY LOVE MICHAEL
Citing longstanding legal precedent in Texas for fatally reprimanding the Different, crippled governor Greg Abbott released a statement Wednesday evening that the state would be going forward the following morning with the execution of a mentally handicapped turkey.
“After careful examination,” began the governor from behind a fun-sized podium, “my team – many of whom are fully ambulatory – has determined that the state of Texas has no legal obligation to intercede on behalf of any living creature, irregardless of mental capacity.”
“Disabled people can be evil, too.” – Greg Abbott
Continued the Houston oil tycoon, “This is not a legal issue but a moral one, and the Texas government was founded on the tenet of ‘separation of morality and State’.” The Galveston shipping magnate concluded, “Furthermore, if I were to stand up, I would be three times the size of a normal man, and all of your Hurricane Harvey donations went to fund my personal purchase of thousands of pairs of Air Jordans, none of which, of course, will ever touch the ground.”
THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A TURKEY TO LIVE
Marcel Wayne Kupperman, the mentally disabled turkey slated for execution, was convicted in 2003 of the shooting death of the horse Edgar Fremont during a botched robbery of the grain silo. Kupperman escaped immediate detection but was eventually apprehended by the farmer’s wife on an unrelated drug charge.
While Kupperman was awaiting trial for possession of crack goat-caine, his cellmate Michael Rapaport – the llama, not the actor – informed prison authorities that, connected to the robbery and unsolved death, Kupperman had confided in him, “Gobble gobble gobble” – a damning allegation.
THE NEW JIM CROW
A jury of cottontail rabbits deliberated for only as long as it takes twelve rabbits to eat a trough of timothy hay before delivering a verdict of “guilty” after a trial based entirely on horse-say and cir-cow-stantial evidence. Throughout the course of sentencing, Kupperman’s court-appointed attorney Steve Maddox, a goose, repeatedly pleaded for leniency based on his client’s low IQ score of 8, arguing that a defendant who routinely almost drowns during rainstorms shouldn’t be held competent to stand trial, much less to face capital punishment. However, Maddox’s entreaties were ignored largely due to his relentless pecking at Judge-Farmer Richard Holstein’s eyes and fingernails.
In exchange for his testimony, barnyard informant Michael Rapaport was granted immunity for his involvement in the ritual slaying of the sheep Burt and Vicky Robeson in his capacity as He-Who-Walks-Behind-The-Rows in the Thresher Church of the Final Sacrifice.
SNITCHES GET RICHES
Kupperman’s lawyer released a statement to the press Wednesday, relaying Kupperman’s wish that Mr. Fremont’s family may finally be able to find some closure, and that he doesn’t completely understand what’s happening to him, but he hopes he can gobble-gobble-gobble up some tapioca pudding after.
Marcel Wayne Kupperman is scheduled to die at 8:00 a.m. Thursday morning by lethal hen-jection.
CAN’T WE ALL JUST GRILL ALONG?
Speaking from behind a reinforced wall of ballistic-grade sniper glass in the Press Briefing Room and wearing the same mech suit used by Teddy Roosevelt to vanquish the Wolf Armies, Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders addressed the real news media today for a quick medley of this week’s greatest hits.
“This Russia tarnation just keeps getting slipperier and slipperier! Reminds me of the time I came up on a road-killed mule deer – looked at her belly and seen she was with child – and an idea bird landed in my head and started hollering, ‘Hell, it ain’t calving season! What’s this old girl doing in the family way?’. So, I take out my Bowie knife, and I split her stem to stern to get at her miracle baby’s Savior Meats, and – wouldn’t you know it? – a big ol’ mud snake come out instead!” Huck began, punctuating her sentiment by licking a dollop of sorghum off her thumb. “That mud snake had the face of my daddy.”
SNAKES FOR THE MEMORIES
“What else is in the funnypapers? Oh yeah. Guns! Guns! Guns!” Hocking a loogie into the Press Room spittoon, Huckabee Sanders continued, “That is our official stance on guns.”
“Korea was being a real stick in the mud, so I put some masking tape on the map where Korea was. Now there’s no Korea.”
“The National Anthem is a real nice song, and, if you don’t like it, you probably live in a neighborhood where there’s a lot of check cashing places.”
YOU DON’T NEED A WEATHERMAN TO KNOW WHICH WAY THE SHIT WIND BLOWS
Clearing her throat of molasses, the White House Press Secretary took a moment to reassure the nation that sightings of flesh-ripping grotesqueries that emerge from confusion to feast on the marrow of the innocent are entirely without merit. “So long as your house was built on American geometry, you don’t need to be chickenshit about them things with teeth-for-skin gettin’ in your business.”
STOP THE WORLD AND MELT WITH US
“Where was I?” Huck surveyed the press as she contemplatively tongued a single blade of wheat from one side of her mouth to the other. “That’s right. Rapid fire now. I got a hootenanny to get to. We told a whole mess of teenagers that penicillin gets you fucked up, so we don’t need to worry about healthcare no more.”
“Because abortion is murder, we’re just gonna train already-convicted child murderers to do abortions. That way, we don’t end up with a bunch of extra people in Hell. See that, Kathy Griffin, we solved abortion.”
WHEN THERE’S NO MORE ROOM IN HELL, TRUE PATRIOTS WILL WALK THE EARTH
“Ain’t no such thing as sexual harassment. Just look at the derivation of the word ‘harassment’. It’s like – Her mouth said ‘no’ but her-ass-meant ‘hell yeah!’ – Think about that one, sheeple.”
DOWN LOW? TOO SLOW!!!
“Jeff Sessions ain’t real. Simple as that.”
Running down the grocery list of national discourse, Sarah “Huckleberry” Sanders crossed off the last items. “I already talked about the Black Magic abominations that eat your nightmares, so that’s done. All that’s left is, as far as you know, we fixed the railroads, too.”
WE KEEP THE TRAINS RUNNING ON TIME
Huckabee Sanders signaled the conclusion of the press conference by removing her formal coonskin cap and replacing it with her leisure coonskin cap before opening the floor for questions.
I LONG FOR THE FURNACE OF HADES
Visibly winded, the gathered media scrambled to locate a single, logical starting point of inquiry. Amidst the susurrus of shuffling legal pads, Cigar Aficionado correspondent Lulu Velasquez approached the fortified dais, “I know I should be concerned about the issues, but I really just want to know more about these – what are they – space monsters?”
“Extradimensional.” Huckabee Sanders corrected, “And you’re right to fixate on that point, honey. The monsters are real, and I think one of them might could’a got in here. If we don’t scramble quick, it’ll fill our pretty little heads with terror-lies!”
Feeling around the podium for her strolling cane, Huck entreated the press, “Now, would one of y’all be a dear and guide a poor old debutante out of the room. I’m afraid I have done blinded myself with moonshine.”
Y’ALL COME BACK NOW…IF YOU DARE!
In the first recorded instance of anybody giving a fuck about sculpture, nationwide violence erupted last month as a handful of statues were targeted for removal based on nothing more than the color of their subjects’ hearts. A process that otherwise might have provoked such inflammatory remarks as, “Didn’t there used to be a statue here?” was instead intensified catastrophically by white dudes doing the kind of reactionary shit that you get your statues taken away for.
STATUARY CELEBRATING A RICH AND COMPLEX CULTURAL HERITAGE
Bafflingly dignifying the elderly boy-king with a microphone, the American media pretended to be surprised when a wetly incandescent Donald Trump praised elements within the white nationalist community rather than condemning the cartoonish villains he tricked into electing him.
“Nobody could have seen this coming. Why wouldn’t a sitting president simply reject the support of a small but fanatically militant, extremist organization after running a campaign that actively discredited the sanctity of truth?” lamented sensual song parodist Ambrose Neckerchief. “It’s almost as if he were politically beholden to an impoverished, disenfranchised, fringe population that has, on an institutional basis, had no access to basic education apart from Clay’s dad’s copy of The Turner Diaries and has a longstanding, cultural history of persecution by Fear Demons. Who would exploit that?”
“There’s a Jewish wind a’blowin in the holler tonight, boys.”
Cameras kept rolling long after the conclusion of Trump’s speech as the country collectively held its breath in anticipation of a cathartic, exaggerated wink from the POTUS. However, the jellyfish president, as is his sexual policy, left everyone but himself unsatisfied and damp with the excretions of a revenge-fuck gone horribly awry.
The inevitable, exhausting outrage from major news outlets quickly inspired the same sweeping policy change that has always fueled public perception of the media’s credibility.
“We offered [Trump] the option of a pinky swear to make sure he’s not really into Nazis and stuff,” chirped investigative titan Katie Couric, “but he said his pinkies were too huge and powerful for regular negotiations and that he wouldn’t want to accidentally seduce me with them.”
Couric: “We’ve given him literally every opportunity.”
Consummate businessman that he is, Trump made the counter-offer of a spit shake disavowing “all bad hombres”, but this arbitration tactic was ruled inadmissible by journalists, as it is impossible to distinguish between the forty-fifth president’s saliva and the supple flesh heaving beneath it.
News organizations ultimately “got the scoop” on Trump’s potentially damning ties to white supremacist organizations by simply dropping the issue and moving on to the next thing.
MOSQUITO SEASON IS ON THE WAY!
“Turns out it’s a lot easier to just not challenge the traditional, American assumption that we beat the Nazis for good when we dropped the neutron bomb on Auschwitz and ended the Kaiser’s reign of terror,” CNN White House correspondent Jim Acosta groaned as his Estonian concubine Hemlock refilled his hookah. “Praise the fucking Eclipse we have a hurricane to talk about now. I was afraid for a second we’d have to address a legitimately insidious scourge that’s actually corroding our nation in real time.”
As for Trump, he has remained steadfast in his inaction, maintaining that, “There are some good eggs in [the American Nazi Party], and, when I get to prison, I’m going to need a strong Denver omelet to protect me from all the mean huevos rancheros.”
“There was violence committed on both sides of the roller coaster.”
C-SPAN lamented the loss of another one-hour, unscripted drama this week as network execs pulled flagship reality program The White Houseguys of D.C. mid-season due to dwindling viewership and outright, public disdain for literally the entire cast. According to critics, the show had initial potential. Helmed by established reality star Donald Trump, most believed Houseguys could be the next Imprison ZZ Top, but, despite its sterling pedigree, the program encountered problems from the jump – including an overwhelming majority of the viewing public expressing outrage that the show was even on the air. However, nothing seemed insurmountable until halfway through the first season when Houseguys began exhibiting the flailing death throes of a kickboxer that doesn’t yet know he’s been knocked unconscious.
DOWN FOR THE COUNT, DEAD ON THE MAT
“The plot lines got really confusing. I couldn’t tell which characters were participating in the show, which ones got roped in just to justify the show’s existence, and which ones were secretly there to annihilate the entire medium of television,” complains freelance meter maid Gus Justgus. “At the end of the day, all I really care about is who’s peeing on who.”
The lack of a consistent vision or focused tone was never more apparent than during the final round of in-show confessionals, wherein the principal cast took turns contradicting one other in an apparent game of Dumbshit Rashomon. Tortured anti-hero James “Comey Comey Comey Comey Comey Chameleon” Comey, like a moistened and gritty lollipop sticking to the flip-flop of whoever stepped on him last, spent his allotted time alternately bemoaning his inability to shine within the established framework of the show and cock-teasing the audience about potential plot twists for future episodes that everyone knew would never come.
YOU COME AND GO, YOU COME AND GO
Teen heartthrob Jeff “Twang Beer Salt” Sessions, on the other hand, used his opportunity in the booth not to defend backstabbing his frenemies on-air but rather to suggest that maybe nothing ever happens on the show, that the human experience is filtered through the clogged sump pump of our perceptions, and that experiential reality is therefore necessarily subjective. Asked by producers to elaborate, Sessions sucked his gerbil teeth and screeched, “HOW COULD MY MEMORIES BE THE SAME AS YOURS?!?” before skittering into his CritterTrail tube maze to hide.
“I REMEMBER NOTHING”
In the final blow to the show’s remaining fans, resident Houseguys card sharp Donald Trump skirted accountability by distancing himself from his costars and Cheshire Catting into the ether without delivering a satisfying resolution to his character arc one way or the other. The premature cancellation has left many critics wondering weather the ostensible star will ever have to answer directly for his betrayal of audience expectations.
The White Houseguys of D.C. swung for the fences in its opening months, drumming up viewers via direct social media marketing campaigns and attracting curiosity-seekers through its inherent controversy and sheer implausibility. However, as sweeps week approached, Houseguys resorted to the same hokey gimmicks and ad hominem attacks that ultimately doomed the short-lived XFL.
TRUMP CURRIES FAVOR DURING HIS “FLATULATE OF THE UNION” ADDRESS
Shortly before cancellation, early adopters of the program admitted to feeling fleeced and like they frankly should have known better.
“It makes me a little sick to have been a part of the hysteria,” reported Greg Upchurch of the American hard rock group 3 Doors Down. “Now the MAGA hat I used to think was so cool is gathering dust in the carport utility closet next to my speed-reading cassettes and my Slap Chop. At least I’ve got my fidget spinners to fall back on.”
I WANT SOMETHING ELSE TO GET ME THROUGH THIS SEMI-CHARMED KIND OF LIFE
Houseguys is the second reality flop for C-SPAN, which only recently recovered from the PR nightmare that was 1998’s Book TV vs. Road Rules Challenge, in which Christopher Hitchens was inadvertently dry-drowned by MTV VJ Jesse Camp during a grueling, two-and-a-half-hour wet t-shirt contest.
The plucky network refuses to give up, though. Despite the cancellation of its tent-pole show, C-SPAN still intends to move forward with a spin-off series. Starring fan-favorite, breakout character Mike Pence, the new broadcast will follow an enigmatic loner as he governs a failing nation-state all while attempting to reunite with his long-lost, creepy twin brother. The new program is tentatively titled The Handmaid’s Tale.
UNDER HIS EYE
When Americans hit the polls last November and elected Green Party candidate Jill Stein by an historically narrow margin, no one could have predicted that, little more than three months after her inauguration, this dark horse would be roaming the blackened streets of Washington, D.C., dual-wielding torture-grade cattle prods and wearing the dripping skin of Libertarian opponent Gary Johnson as a cloak. Flanked by an armada of weaponized spiny anteaters, Stein’s warpath stops just long enough for her to check the new rainwater collection silo outside the Library of Congress before she ventures inside to electrocute cowering Senate Majority Whip John Cornyn to death.
THIS IS JILL STEIN’S AMERICA
How did the United States get here? Join Gnawing the Chaff as we review President Stein’s first hundred days in office:
Inauguration goes smoothly for the unlikely candidate, whom Americans – or, as we are now known, the Conquerors of the Flesh – chose as leader despite her endorsement by the fringe organization Ancient Order of Druids in America and her public confession that she doesn’t know what Louisiana is. Her speech is brief but hopeful, welcoming everyone, regardless of past allegiances, to share in the love that unites the human race. The cake is vegan and the frosting predictably green.
FOUR MORE TIERS!
On her fist official day, rookie President Jill Stein meets with predecessor Barack Obama to review policy goals of the departing administration and begin enacting those of her own. Sheepishly shaking hands with Mr. Obama, Stein – still wet behind the ears – announces her intentions to start making good on campaign promises immediately.
To the satisfaction of her constituents, she begins that Monday, working tirelessly to make our nation’s capitol 100% sustainable, installing solar panels on all government buildings, harvesting rainwater to reduce greywater waste, and replacing inefficient commodes with composting toilets to benefit the D.C. community gardens program. As a token gesture, she commutes the sentences of several incarcerated activists held on domestic terrorism charges since the 1999 World Trade Organization protests. President Stein fulfills commitments to the Green Party by signing an executive order imposing a carbon tax on domestic manufacturers.
HOW A DILL BECOMES A SLAW
Shortly after the carbon tax goes into effect, Stein gains an improbable adversary in the Sloan Valve and Urinal Screen Corporation. Apparently, the vulcanization process used by Sloan to manufacture urinal screens voids a massive amount of poisonous carbon monoxide into the atmosphere. Sloan states that they would “happily pay the new tax if given exclusive vending rights to the capitol”. However, the composting toilets now used in Washington, D.C. restrooms make scented urinal screens unnecessary, leaving the bathroom giant with no recourse but to flex its considerable political muscle.
YOU DON’T PISS ON HOSPITALITY
Congress, long in the pocket of Big Urinal Screen, urges President Stein to either drop her carbon tax or reinstate the use of urinals in D.C. public bathrooms. Stein, loyal to the Green Party and her environmentalist constituents, refuses to budge on either issue. Congress retaliates by blocking her appointment of Zach de la Rocha, formerly of Rage Against the Machine, to the Supreme Court.
SLEEP NOW IN THE FILIBUSTER
With Washington at a standstill and her popularity in the midwest plummeting by her second month in office, President Stein’s frustration becomes palpable. Conservative opponents begin a grassroots campaign to restore their party by orchestrating Republican wins in many local elections across the nation.
Approval at an all-time low, President Stein seems prepared to concede some leftist doctrines when Washington is rocked by a series of firebombs, igniting the White House, Capitol Building, and the Washington Monument reflecting pool. Convicted ecoterrorists Neve “Most-Of-A-Deer” Childress and Artie Nematode, recently freed by President Stein, claim responsibility.
MEAT IS MURDER
President Stein condemns the acts of a “few extremists, whose beliefs do not represent the ideals of the environmental movement as a whole”. Responding to this apparently misrepresentative slander, the World Wildlife Fund counters by simultaneously freeing every animal from every zoo in America, inciting a classic “all animals versus all humans” scenario.
WHOEVER WINS, WE LOSE
A surprise to all involved, the still-burning husk of the White House ignites an immense reservoir of natural gas, which has been collecting unused and unvented beneath the National Mall since the capitol’s radical conversion to solar power. The city becomes an unmitigated sea of flames, and President Stein declares martial law, temporarily suspending the constitution.
Washington lawmakers from all parties call for President Stein’s immediate impeachment following the incidents of the “Green Inferno”. Stein enacts emergency powers, forming a tribunal for the prosecution of detractors. All political opponents are convicted of treason, and, during what has come to be known as the “Night of the Long Vines”, they are ambiguously “fed to the forest”.
SEE THE SMOKE STACKS RISING UP LIKE FUCK YOU TOWERS?
An impromptu Burning Man is held by supporters of President Stein. Throughout the course of the weeklong celebration of self-expression, decommodification, and the hunting and killing of libertarians, Stein’s many pagan advocates perform a Protection Ritual for the embattled POTUS, shielding her from the dark vibes of her would-be enemies. At the culmination of the festival, Federal Reserve Chair Janet Yolen is immolated inside an enormous wicker man.
YOU’LL SIMPLY NEVER UNDERSTAND THE TRUE NATURE OF SACRIFICE
MARCH 18 – APRIL 2
As attacks on citizens by exotic zoo animals become increasingly common during Stein’s third month, separatist militias form to combat the rising tide of nature-on-technology violence. President Stein, from the safety of a combo political rally/pot luck dinner, declares herself to be the “Avenging Angel of Fern Gully”, revealing the true extent of her atavistic powers. Bolstered by the enchantments of the greater Wiccan community, as well as the life force of the immolated Jane Yolen, President Stein commands America’s fire ants to burrow into the skin of any person openly carrying a firearm. A fantail pigeon runs unopposed for deputy mayor of Glen Ridge, Florida.
SPRING BREAK, MOTHERFUCKERS!
Mobile death panels travel peripatetically across the nation condemning citizens apprehended for watering their grass outside of their communities’ established lawn maintenance schedules. The electric chairs used for their executions are powered using renewable energy from Midwestern wind farms.
People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals – or “PETA” – topple the cosmetics industry from the backs of modified War Elephants as President Stein uses fairy magic to transform all automotive plants into one giant, cooperative soup kitchen. Emboldened by the president’s tacit-acceptance of their extreme views, Unitarian Universalists come out of the woodwork to strangle those perceived to “know stuff about economics” with hemp garrotes. Our nation’s streets run red with the blood of the corporate elite. For the first time since the Industrial Revolution, the ozone layer thickens.
EASY. BREEZY. BEAUTIFUL.
Surviving Americans begin to wonder if they have mistakenly placed their trust and, by extension, their lives in the hands of a narcissistic, power-bloated dictator.
LET THEM EAT MOLTEN FUCKING LAVA
Taking an unprecedentedly bold stance on climate change, Donald Trump clothed himself in the presidential wetsuit this morning and christened the United States’s only fully operational, saltwater execution chamber. Submerged in the cramped tank, President Trump stroked the muzzle of the first of what could become thousands of minke whales on the chopping block before giving the “thumbs up” and plunging an unforgiving bar of rotating blade teeth into the neck area of the giant, marine mammal.
As the light faded from the cetacean’s baseball-sized eyes, Trump raised his army-issue, aquatic chainsaw above his head and revved it triumphantly, spraying members of the press with blood-drenched baleen and blubber. “Now who wants to talk about the Paris Agreement?!?” the president goaded the already ecstatic crowd.
DON’T BE A HERO, EARTH
Trump has long been critical of the Paris Agreement, calling it a “half-assed, make-work convolution of meaningless treaties and unenforceable tariffs” designed to “mollify rudimentarily educated activists by indirectly addressing a complex issue.”
Rather than gradually reducing greenhouse gas emissions worldwide to painstakingly forestall the inevitable water riots, Trump went right to the source, aiming his ultimatum at the Earth as an entity. “GLOBE, I SPEAK TO THEE!” his voice boomed through colossal amplifiers pointed into all the major, terrestrial caves, “I DEMAND THAT YOU CEASE WARMING AT ONCE! I WILL CONTINUE TO BEHEAD ONE OF YOUR MINKE WHALES EVERY HOUR UNTIL YOU COMPLY! THAT IS ALL!”
1.5 MILLION PEOPLE ATTENDED THE EVENT
Responding to worries that his strategy might seem ruthless and unnecessary to the uninformed public, Trump sighed with exasperation, “We’re talking about a problem that could lead to the homogenization and de-stratification of global water densities here,” he began as he activated the raft of fan blades on the floor of the execution chamber in order to puree the decapitated leviathan.
“Obviously, that would cause the total shutdown of oceanic, thermohaline circulation. How much clearer does the science have to be? We don’t have time to fuck around with trade agreements.” Dipping his finger into the slurry, he added, “We’re going to make a killing in the chum market.”
THE RED NUMBERS ARE CLEARLY BIGGER THAN THE BLUE NUMBERS
Trump elaborated on his maniacal threat as he directed a dump truck to offload the next minke whale into his kill tank. “I’m an all-or-nothing kind of president. If this Spinning, Blue Bastard insists on trying to burn the human race off of its majestic plains, glorious mountain ranges, and lucrative beaches, I’m not pulling any punches when it comes to a couple hundred bullshit whales.”
Considering his arsenal and ultimately selecting an elegant ball peen hammer to murder the next whale, the president checked his stopwatch and consulted a thermometer before again addressing the world through his subterranean PA. “TIME’S UP, EARTH! TRUMP WINS NO MATTER WHAT! I’M NOT AFRAID TO TAKE A PLANET DOWN WITH ME!”