IT’S ALL MY FAULT
This American Strife
By Duane Scott Cerny
This past month the Trump administration commandeered the entirety of Washington, D.C., the Smithsonian, Jackie Kennedy’s rose garden, and relocated portraits of past presidents to a restricted hidden stairwell of the White House. Further, a ginormous White House ballroom is to be built by a man who thinks his pants barely have room for two.
We have now crossed the reality Rubicon so many times the Rubicon is no longer returning our texts. I suppose the surname Rubicon could imply a certain Hispanic origination or color pigmentation. I’m surmising it fulfilled a masked ICE agent’s quota on any random Thursday. See the letter “R.”
Oh, that’s right. No more teaching of the alphabet. Some 20 years ago, Sesame Street crossed hairs with Donald Trump in a parody involving the building of Sesame Street’s Grump Tower. It would seem the only thing stronger than Trump’s atomic Aqua Net hairspray is his ability to hold a grudge. I wouldn’t be surprised if Trump’s childhood nanny (who reprimanded him for lies) was grudge-defunded as well.
Reality, as we once knew it, is over. And to be honest, it had a good run. From the Stone Age to the Space Age, humans always knew where they stood and who they could gleefully blame. There was only one singular dimensional plane in which to exist, consisting mostly of attempting to accomplish something in any given day … then deciding what was for dinner. Eating is truly the only thing that matters to most. Time may be a construct, but it doesn’t pass fast enough when your grumbling stomach scares away either pterodactyls or lost Amazon drones.
However, before the Trump regime puts their BS into PBS, perhaps we should reflect on this administration; the men and women who shakily stand behind the 47th reason we drink.
James Donald Bowman Hamel Vance, vice president. In addition to keeping his linen initializing assistant in constant pin-pricking panic, Peter Thiel, the man who created JD from a remnant sale at JOANN Fabrics and a Maybelline outlet center blowout, is totally confused. Poor Peter doesn’t know what name to scream out in ecstasy as he screws over America. Thiel, co-founder of PayPal and his latest creation Palantir, a data collection/surveillance mining conglomeration, recently received a $10B investment from the U.S. government.
Mike Johnson, speaker of the house and porno purity ring holder. To be Fox-friendly and fair, Johnson believes The Flintstones was a cartoon documentary, the earth being a mere 6,000 years old to his Southern Baptist psyche. Science, a word soon to be removed for being “too full of itself,” claims dinosaurs lived some 252 to 66 million years ago. This timeline age difference seems to be a recurring Republican sticky wicket: meaning, how young is too young? What is the earth’s age of consent? And is there anything more troublesome than an earth that dresses provocatively like some planetary trollop? Still, Johnson will be shocked when the first tell-all book surfaces with explosive details of the dinosaur’s side of the story; the steamy reptilian explanation for these man-on-dino relationships. Only then will we know who was riding whom.
Kristi Noem, homeland insecurity expert and fashion icon. Not since Annie Oakley has a woman so captivated America with her sharpshooting skills and fashion insensibility, though Annie had the good sense to dodge those unsightly bullet proof vest bulges. Noem (pronounced “No M”… see new Sesame Street rules above) is best known for permitting the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally to become a COVID-19 superspreader event, shooting dead a 14-month-old puppy named Cricket, and killing a goat which may or may not have visited Epstein’s Island as an appetizer. Noem is rounding up anyone not reflective of her flawless skin tone or trend setting camo wear. If nearsighted fascist history repeats itself, anyone wearing glasses or contact lenses (the intelligentsia, leftists, socialists, college educated, etc.) are next. And yes, Thiel knows if you’ve had Lasik surgery and your optician’s mistress’ name, address and favorite aperitif. Say you can’t read the bottom line of the eye test chart? It reads: U R S C R E W E D.
RFK, Secretary of Health and Human Services. What more can be said about this famous name, famous wealth, famous face, and a voice that can clean gritty lime build-up from those hard-to-reach places? To explain RFK you must first accept that everything in life is a simulation. Apparently some unfathomably brilliant entity once stopped by an intergalactic GameStop location, picked up three discarded Atari and Pong cartridges, reworked all those zeros and ones, and now runs this simulation we jokingly refer to as reality. However, every now and then glitches seem to occur, explaining both the very existence of the Trump administration and, of course, anything to do with RFK’s Roadkill Cookbook.
Now we return to the perpetually vexing question: Which came first: the Chick-fil-A or the fertilized egg?
Oh, damn. There goes the letter “A”!
Duane Scott Cerny takes the blame for most everything in his monthly satirical column, It’s All My Fault. Best-selling author of Selling Dead People’s Things and Vintage Confidential,” he is the co-owner of Chicago’s Broadway Antique Market and is a guest favorite among fearless podcasters. Contact him at E-ThanklessGreetings@yahoo.com.
