Tag Archives: politics

Donald Trump Tweets Reviews of Classic Christmas Movies

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‘Tis the season for unreason! For better or worse, our new President-Elect is not shy about sharing his opinions on Twitter, whether he’s bashing Alec Baldwin’s “sad” impression on SNL or recommending that flag-burners should go to jail. That’s all good and well, but what we Americans are really looking for are some solid recommendations for Christmas flicks. After all, this is very likely the last Christmas ever.

Accordingly, we at The Danopticon dug into the Trump Twitter vault to scrounge up some previously unpublished movie reviews. Will Trump fire your holiday favorite, or will he declare it to be the very best? Take a look:

It’s a Wonderful Life

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A Christmas Story

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Christmas Vacation

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The Santa Clause

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How the Grinch Stole Christmas

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Frosty the Snowman

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Thanks for reading, and have a bigly merry Christmas!

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The Lonely Kid’s Guide to a Donald Trump-Themed Birthday

birthday

Jesus, look at you. It’s your tenth birthday party, and nobody even showed up. I remember when I turned ten. It was great! We all rode speedboats, and my dad got me twenty minutes with a high-end prostitute. But you, you’re just sad.

Who knows why your party blows? Maybe your parents are idiots, or you’re just a plain old loser. Luckily, it doesn’t have to be that way. With my party planning tips, you’ll never have to worry about being ignored on your birthday again.

1) Like any other investment, this party is gonna require some capital upfront. Simply ask your father for a small loan of one million dollars. This will allow you to cover all the expenses for the filet mignons, string quartet, and Prada goodie bags, while still having enough left over to give yourself a modest six-figure bonus.

 

2) I’ve never thrown a party without a piñata. It combines two of my favorite pastimes: beating animals with a stick, and watching poor people pick up food off the ground. To save a few bucks on your budget, just run into the party store and grab whichever piñata you like. Let the Mexicans pay for it.

 

3) Put flyers with my face all over town. Once you’ve attached the Donald to your party, turnout won’t be an issue. In fact, it will almost be like you’re having two parties at once. One will be with all your loyal, hard-working American friends, and the other will be filled with of jealous nincompoops who only showed up because they have nothing better to do. As long as each guest meets the three-gift minimum, let them all in.

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I’ve got a talent for bringing people together. I really do.

4) No matter how balls-to-the-wall awesome a party is going, it will reach a certain point where guests start to wonder, “Does the birthday boy have a big penis? I’m not sure I want to stay any longer if he doesn’t have a big penis.” To ease their minds, carry around a birthday candle while assuring guests that it’s actually a full-size candle. I’ll make your hands look yuuuuuge, everyone’ll know your schlong is worth sticking around for.

 

5) So the party went perfect, but now you’ve got to deal with the pain of the cleanup. Are those stains on the sofa from red wine or blood? Honestly, it’s not worth finding out. Save yourself the hassle by declaring bankruptcy on your home. It’s a totally legal business maneuver where you take your problems and throw them far, far away. When the other kids are blowing out their birthday candles in the months to come, they’ll all be wishing they could be as good of a dealmaker as you.

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Ted Cruz Tries to Spin His Sex Scandal

U.S. Senator Cruz speaks to members of the Texas Federation of Republican Women in San Antonio, Texas

Hello again, America. Although my mission to become the next Republican President is going peachy keen, I’m afraid I have some disturbing news to share with y’all. It happened last night, during my twenty minutes of allotted computer time. As you know, due to strict parental controls, there are only three websites available in the Cruz household: Fox News, Christian Mingle, and Neopets.com. However, I somehow stumbled upon a forbidden website, where people were writing the most terrible things. Worst of all were the claims that I cheated on my beautiful wife Heidi with five different women.

I have no doubt that these defamations have come from nowhere else than the mouth of Donald Trump. It was a tricky play, taking my largest strength—my sensuality—and using it against me. But no matter how much Donald fears that I will seduce all the women in his life, I feel it is time to come clean about this whole mess.

Of course, I do not have five mistresses. I do, however, have fifty mistresses. That’s right, I didn’t stutter. I said Ted Cruz has no fewer than half a hundred paramours, all of whom he makes sweet, sticky love to on a daily basis.

What are the dirty details, you ask? Well, we usually rendezvous in this little place you might have heard of, called the United States of America. Sometimes I meet up with Montana up North and do it under the stars. I’m known to enthrall Maryland with my rocket’s red glare. And let’s not forget how much Mississippi digs those whips and chains.

I-da-ho? No sir, I-da-passionate-lover. Heidi doesn’t mind either; oftentimes she even joins in the fun! You see, America has been my booty call all along. I’ve done them all. Except for Washington, which was named after a dude. Gross.

So as American voters continue to flock to the polls, please do not think of me as a cheap floozy or moralistic hypocrite. Most of all, please do not talk to Carol at the El Paso PetSmart. We two have never met, and she never knows when to keep her big mouth shut.

Instead, ask any of the states about me, and they will tell you about my gentle, caring touch. Just let me have the Oval Office. It won’t hurt, I promise. At this crucial juncture, our country needs a leader who can deliver a gratifying smack both to a set of buttocks and to the illegals crossing our southern border. A leader trained in the art of the lover’s caress as well as the art of job creation. A leader who will not try to take away your guns, but may try to give you a little smooch with the world’s smallest set of lips.

That leader is me. As soon as I’m elected, you’ll already be begging me for a second term. They always do.

I’m Ted Cruz, and I’m coming soon to a bedroom near you.

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I Finally Watched The First Debate, And Boy Am I Excited About This Rand Paul Character!

http://www.nationalmemo.com/i-finally-watched-the-first-debate-and-boy-am-i-excited-about-this-rand-paul-character/

Hi all!

As you may have noticed from my publications page, I recently starting writing for political news site The National Memo. Yesterday, I published a fun satire piece called, “I Finally Watched The First Debate, And Boy Am I Excited About This Rand Paul Character,” which mocks a lot of the awful predictions pundits were throwing out earlier this election cycle.

As a bonus, check out the comments section, featuring the valuable insights of several readers who didn’t get the joke!

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Does the 1% Dare to Spend a Night in Count Bernardo Sanders’ House of Horrors!?

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Wanna hear a scary story? We live in a country where the top one-tenth of the 1% has almost as much wealth as the bottom 90%. Making matters worse, the children of the ultra-rich are poised to inherit all of their parents’ money. We simply cannot allow this process to continue, unless those kids manage to stay in a spooky mansion for a whole night.

You know the deal, Trump Jr. Make it till dawn in the haunted house without running off or winding up dead, and you win the family jewels. Otherwise, you walk away with jack squat.

Trust me, this is the only solution. I did the math; I did the monster math. That’s why I built Count Bernardo’s House of Horrors. It’s the one reform measure guaranteed to give everyone a fair shake and make your hair stand on end. And I should know a thing or two about that—just ask my barber!

Sure, maybe this sounds like a cinch at first. But just wait until you’re shacked up with cobwebbed candelabras, eerie organ music, and a bunch of portraits whose eyes move all by themselves! There will also be tons of hidden trapdoors, symbolic of the countless pitfalls braved by the middle class every day. But they’ll be literal trapdoors too, probably leading to the cellar or something. You get the idea.

If you’re really unlucky, a gaggle of ghastly ghouls will pop out from the woodwork and bury you alive. In college debt, that is. Frightened yet?

Even if those trust fund brats aren’t rattled by all the spooks and scares, let’s see how they handle the lack of sleep! If it was me, I would just drink a little bit of nighttime cold medicine before bedtime. Knocks you right out! However, this mansion only has dusty goblets filled with a red goo that makes you see apparitions of Ronald Reagan and deny the existence of climate change.

Of course, other candidates may propose similar plans, except they’re all in cahoots with Wall Street bankers. Secretary Clinton, for example, just opened up Killary’s Clin-tomb’s Night of Frights. Sure, it’s got plenty of CGI effects, celebrity cameos, and a full raw bar, but it’s also financed completely by Goldman-Sachs. My haunted house, on the other hand, was funded by handfuls of loose change from everyday voters, just like you. It’s amazing what you can do with an old tool shed and a few strips of paper mâché.

Anyway, I better hit the road. I’ve got to catch a bus back to Montpelier. Our local joke shop is having a sale on vampire fangs. If I don’t get them by tomorrow, they’ll become possessed—by a bloated hedge fund!

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When the GOP and Science Work Together

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Chris Christie and Carly Fiorina both dropped out today, proving Galileo’s theory that heavy and light objects fall at the same speed.

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Ammon Bundy’s Super Awesome Tips for the Best Sleepover Ever

Bundy sleeping bag

Hi, I’m Ammon. You’ve probably heard about me, on account of me and my friends throwing the coolest sleepover of all time. Jealous, buttface? Well don’t sweat it, because you too can be a radical dude who doesn’t answer to anyone—especially parents.

  • Instead of using a crummy old basement, make a sweet fort! Simply drape a blanket across some couch cushions, or take over a federal building in Oregon.
  • As long as you’ve still got your cowboy hat on, you can change into your footsie pajamas and not get called a little baby.
  • Once it’s dark out, pass around a photo of a pretty lady in a bathing suit. Talk about how much action you’d get if the government wasn’t always in the way.
  • Everybody gets a little bit homesick sometimes, so it’s okay to sleep holding a teddy bear or assault rifle.
  • Have mom pack lots of extra snacks. VERY IMPORTANT!!!
  • I like to bring along my dad’s lighter to play with, and maybe set a pile of leaves on fire. It’s my property, so I can do whatever I want with it!
  • Lamewad neighbors might try to get you to go to sleep around 11:30, but the Constitution says you can stay up later if you want to.
  • Don’t tread on my sleeping bag.
  • Make sure everyone’s parents are there to pick up their kids and their guns the next morning, and nobody will go to jail.
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My Cover Letter to the National Rifle Association

NRA

Dear ladies and germs of the National Rifle Association,

Hi there! My name is Doctor Danny, but my hunting buddies call me ‘El Poopador.’ I’m your next Grassroots Coordinator! Let me tell you why.

I have to admit, I think we have a major problem with guns in our country. There simply aren’t enough of them! When it comes to gun rights, I think the founding fathers said it best. “Sorry I accidentally shot your friend with my gun,” said George ‘The First President’ Washington to Ben ‘The Second President’ Franklin, “but don’t worry, he was only a slave.”

Sure, guns are loud and scary, but you know what’s even scarier than guns? That’s right, immigrants! For me, immigrants are extra scary, since I’m not actually sure what “immigrant” means. I once started reading an article about it, but I ran out of apple juice that day. I fall asleep if I don’t have my juice.

This goes without saying, but I love camouflage outfits. I hate when people can see me; it violates my rights as an American. Granted, if I’m wearing my camo jacket at the mall, I might be visible to other shoppers. But for a second maybe, just maybe, those people are totally uncertain of what they’re seeing. Am I predator or prey, light or shadow, man or anthropomorphic tree?

My involvement with the NRA would also help cover up the fact that I possess hideously shrunken genitalia. To the naked eye, my nether-regions are perfectly smooth. Medical experts say this is likely because both my parents are G.I. Joe dolls (that’s right, I come from a long line of American heroes)! The only time I’m actually able to spot my little fellow is when I’m peering through the scope of a sniper rifle, which I’m sure you have plenty of.

I am a proud college graduate, having spent four years watching Monsters University. As you would expect, I am highly proficient in all aspects of Microsoft Office, thouGH SOMETIMES I HAVE TRoubLE FIGURING OUt how to uSE CAPs lock. But my typing is accurate about 84% of the time, which should be pretty good for yOU GUys, amirite?

To sum things up, I’m just a cool dude dedicated to the pro-gun crusade. If it came down to it, I would even be willing to die for the freedom to bear arms, just like Presidents Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy. And as an NRA employee, I would try my best to make many others do the same.

Anywho, give me a heads-up when the NRA decides to hire me. I’ll be out fucking around in the woods. Just holler, I’ll hear you.

Your friend,

El Poopador

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Is America Ready for a Female President Without a Face?

In our nation’s storied history, there have been 43 different people to hold the office of President of the United States. That’s quite a few. Yet, if you were to study each of their portraits, what would you notice? What singular feature seemingly defines this sacred position?

That’s right—every President ever has had a face.

In fact, Nixon had two of them.

In fact, Nixon had two of them.

It is nothing less than disturbing. What is it about having functional eyes, mouth, and nose that supposedly “qualifies” someone to hold office? Maybe it makes a candidate more conventionally attractive, but this fascist facism is really just holding us back.

Imagine, if you will, that our current commander-in-chief had all the best qualifications: a rich education, military service, and a solid track record across multiple stints in Congress. But here’s the catch. She also just happens to be a woman who, instead of a face, possesses a blank canvas of pale, unmoving flesh on the front of her skull. I see no problem there.

Faceless Hillary

Would her inability to make eye contact or speak beyond a series of muffled groans really affect her capacity to deal with foreign dignitaries or inspire the American people? No open-minded adult should mind that her pronunciation of “America” sounds like “mmm-mmm-MMM!” We’ve all heard Boston accents before.

Could you bear to watch her kiss babies at public events, rubbing the ice-cold skin of her featureless mandible against a bawling infant? Sounds pretty darn adorable to me. Would you be startled by the black, syrupy residue that congealed on her face after physical contact? If so, it’s time for a reality check.

Would it be really so disturbing if we never saw her eat in public, but rather she would retreat to the cellar twice a day with a live chicken, only to emerge hours later, completely naked and covered in blood? I say, “Save a drumstick for me, Madam President!”

We Americans simply have to drop our complacency with historical precedent and consider the merits of a different kind of leader. There would be undeniable advantages in having an American leader whose visage resembles a smooth chunk of challah bread. I doubt that the South would have had the guts to secede from a faceless Lincoln, or that a missile-mad Khrushchev would have entered a staring contest with a JFK who could not blink.

Unfortunately, every potential candidate in the 2016 race thus far fits the facist mold, though Chris Christie’s drooping jowls may be a step in the right direction. Nevertheless, I implore American voters to follow their noses toward a leader who doesn’t have one.

God bless mmm-mmm-MMM!

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Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Stopping Power

The stuff spread all over the wall. It was not quite a stain, but something more purposeful, as if a painter had carefully brushed each red streak out from the gloopy center. The mottled bits of bone and brain matter formed bric-a-brac of shapes and textures, as vast and diverse as the young mind that they once composed. The human decoration hung only for a second more, then a soapy brush wiped through the spot. It had to be done—the smell would attract flies, which would certainly that disrupt evening’s parent-teacher conference night.

Marie McKinley knelt down and scrubbed the build-up from every crevice around the molding. She noticed a spot of blood on the collar of her pastel yellow blouse and frowned—another thing to clean, another errand to run.

“Ah, Marie—it’s been such a long time!” The voice caught her by surprise, which did not happen often. She was one of the best hunters in Heller County, and her daddy had told her that she had the “ears like a wildcat, eyes like a bat” ever since she was a little girl. Most bats, of course, are practically blind, but the McKinleys never let such facts disrupt their way of life.

Marie turned around to examine which one of God’s wondrous creatures had greeted her. She saw before her a noble figure nearly six and a half feet tall. His handsome grey suit clung to a pair of muscular arms, and his bright gaze appeared fixed to the horizon, perhaps spotting an idyllic future off in the distance. Maybe it was just the sweat in Marie’s eyes, but his brown hair even seemed to have tints of red, white, and yes, even blue. Here was a good, strong man, the kind that you might see in a presidential portrait or an underwear advertisement.

“Tucker Freeman, you are looking as put together as ever. Oh god, I guess I should be calling you ‘Senator’ now, shouldn’t I?” she giggled.

“Now Marie, you’ve known me since Sunday School. Besides, I’m a politician for the people. It’s still Tucker. Nobody even calls me Senator Freeman.” Senator Freeman threw back his head and chuckled along with her until he took note of the mess. “They told me about the accident as soon as the assembly ended, but I didn’t realize it was one of your own boys. I’m sorry.”

Marie got up and used a Kleenex to wipe some of her son’s gore from between her fingers. It was not an uncommon event these days. The occurrence of school shootings had risen so much in the past five years that authorities statewide could not keep up with every case. They soon gave up prosecution altogether. Eventually, the costs of cleanup took up such a large chunk of the budget that Congress found itself without enough money to properly host their yearly gala and gourmet dinner. This spurred them to pass the controversial Offspring Accountability Act. It stipulated that, “in the event of the death of an American citizen in a state facility, the deceased’s parent or legal guardian bears sole responsibility for restoring the educational facilities to their prior state of cleanliness, cleared of any residual corporal tissue or odor.” It was really a pain in the backside of working parents everywhere, but it paid for one hell of a prime rib au jus back in D.C.

Marie shrugged. “Yeah, it was Bobby. Just as much of a nuisance to me now as her ever was,” she remarked, pointing to the blotch on her collar. “Can’t really say it’s a surprise though. Chubby little bastard was too slow to ever outrun a bullet.”

Freeman grasped her shoulders and stared deep into the eyes of his fellow American and potential voter. “Marie, your fortitude in this time of distress truly inspires me. Bobby was an outstanding young man. Just know that his death honors our most fundamental values and sacred laws.”

“Oh, I know, Tucker.” She clasped her bloody hand around his wrist as a tear rolled down her cheek. “The last thing we want to do in the face of such tragedy is to forsake our traditions and compromise our freedoms.”

Marie dried her face and reached into her sweater with both hands. “Besides,” she announced with a smile, “I’ve still got these two sons.” She brandished a pair of silver Nighthawk T4 pistols, engraved with her initials in a tasteful cursive font. “Plus, you can’t ever forget about Ol’ Rusty.”

Ol’ Rusty was a fully functioning replica of a 1768 Charleville flintlock musket that Marie kept in the back of her PT Cruiser. The weapon was a product of a bill that preceded the sweeping pro-gun reform of the next couple years. Frustrated by countless arguments of historical necessity by most of Congress, opponents of the Second Amendment announced that the government might as well issue Revolutionary War rifles to all U.S. citizens. The suggestion caught fire, and one morning every household in the country found a historically accurate firearm delivered to their front porch. With a bit of practice, the average shooter could hit a target from as far as 30 feet away and fire up to seven shots in the span of five minutes, barring the occasional misfire. The gun was identical to the model used by the Minutemen in every way, except everyone agreed that it would not have a bayonet. These were modern folks, after all, and they were not barbarians.

The two admired the shiny pistols for a whole orgasmic minute. Images of majestic bald eagles and Dirty Harry Callahan swept through their minds. Fittingly, the sound of gunfire echoed in the distance like a patriotic drum.

“You should really put those away.” Marie and Freeman broke out of the daze and whipped around toward the interrupter. Ms. Tessa Ballard, the young fifth grade history teacher faced them. She was a diminutive, mousy woman who rarely spoke above a whisper. She clasped her hands over her mouth, horrified that she had said anything at all.

“What right do you have to tell me what to do?” snapped Marie. “My Bobby died today, and it all would have been for nothing if I didn’t have the God-given right to hold these

“But isn’t that the problem?” Ms. Ballard asked, staring at her shoes. “A gun like that killed Bobby, it—”

“Now pardon me for one second, Miss.” Freeman put his hand out and stepped forward. “Try to understand. We can’t blame poor Bobby’s death on a gun. A gun is just a tool, and an extremely useful one at that. Truth be told, there are a lot of bad people in this world, and that means that you can’t ever know when you will be called upon to defend yourself or the values you believe in. The ability and preparedness to protect oneself could be the difference between life and death.” He spoke with the confidence of a well-endowed Clark Kent.

“I don’t know that he died for anything. He got into an argument with Jake Mundersen and—”

“That’s Jake Allen Munderson.” Shooters were always identified by three names—John Wilkes Booth, Mark David Chapman—and Freeman would be damned if he broke with tradition at this crucial point in time. “These boys were simply taking part in a great historical legacy. It’s just a shame that they didn’t know enough about it and someone got hurt. You see, guns aren’t dangerous if you know how to use them. That’s where our educational system fails us. We aren’t teaching today’s youth when it is appropriate to use a gun in school, and when it isn’t.”

“Wait a second.” Marie cut into the good senator’s lecture. “I’ve heard about you, Ballard. You’re the one who’s telling the kids that they can’t have their guns out in school. For all we know, it’s your bull crap that got Bobby killed!”

Ballard’s lip quivered as she slunk back to the opposite wall, realizing that this year’s parent-teacher conference night would be a particularly difficult one.

“That’s right, Ballard. I know your kind and I know what you think. And I don’t like you and your Groucho Marx socialism stepping all over my constitutional rights. I may just feel the need to defend myself.” She shoved her two barrels of American steel into the face of the Commie bookworm.

Ballard trembled at gunpoint. She knew what she was supposed to do in this situation. She like, every other teacher in the country, signed a pledge promising to react to threats of violence with violence of her own. Just months ago, the government had mandated that all teachers carry a firearm in the interest of preventing future school shootings. And this was no ordinary peashooter—it was an H&K Fabarm FP6 Entry short-barreled shotgun, perfect for gunning down truants and troublemakers in the close-quarters of the American public educational system.

But Ballard could even barely lift the thing, let alone point it at someone. Still petrified, she looked to Freeman for some reprieve. “Can’t you do something about this?” she begged him.

“If I were to interfere now, I would be infringing upon yours and Mrs. McKinley’s right to liberty. I’m confident in your mutual ability as exceptional American individuals to resolve this conflict in the best way possible.” He smiled and motioned for the two women to continue with their standoff.

Ever so slowly, Ballard stretched her lanky arms into the bag at her side. Fumbling in between her lesson books and notepads, she retrieved the cold, deadly metal, locked and loaded for some primetime mommy killing.

Marie chirped, “Ooh, pinko bitch came to fight.” Any grief she had experienced earlier evaporated into a cloud of giddy jingoism.

Ballard wanted to point her gun back at Marie, she tried to hoist the sights up to her eyes and take aim, but she could not. The shotgun fell out of her hands and clattered uselessly to the floor. She wanted to condemn the senator for his poisonous rhetoric and ineffective decisions, but she could not. She collapsed against the wall in tears.

“Now ladies, I think we’ve had enough,” Freeman cut in.

Marie did not want to listen. “Say your prayers, pinko!”

She shoved a pistol into Ballard’s cheek.

“No, no, no. Marie, I’m sensing that this is getting us nowhere. Please put your guns down, and let’s show Miss Ballard here how to properly operate a firearm.”

Marie panted heavily. After a moment’s hesitation, she complied with Freeman’s wishes and dropped her twin pistols to the ground.

“Miss Ballard, I would hate to see you get upset by all this. Don’t believe all the terrible things you see on the news and read in the papers. Despite the occasional accident, we, as a society, are making progress.” He stepped forward to embrace her. “Please don’t worry. I am in complete control.”

But he never reached Ms. Ballard with a reassuring hug or chin-up-you-can-do-it pat on the back. A lone bullet burst through the hallway window and careened into the head of Senator Freeman. Skull fragments shot out like fireworks on the Fourth of July in between his outstretched arms. A true patriot, he even stood for a moment in death before falling to the ground. Even months afterward, no one would be able to say where the shot came from. Most likely, some children became careless while playing outside with their guns in the schoolyard. The kids did not have much else to do those days. Television and video games failed to catch their interest due to unrealistic standards of violence—how could they ever hope to kill off characters as often as people did in the real world?

The body of the late, great state senator lay still upon the floor of the hallway. He fell with his right hand over his heart, the American flag pin in his lapel gleaming beneath the mighty fluorescent lights. It all would have made an inspiring campaign photo, had his head not been missing.

The two women stared at each other, bespattered in the lifeblood of Tucker Freeman. Ms. Ballard tried to speak, but all that came out was a short spurt of vomit that landed on the senator’s shoes. His leg convulsed upon impact, as if the mere thought of any projectile excited him enough to give a final impassioned kick. Ballard, though, could not take any more. She sprinted into the nearby library and locked the door. Marie just laughed and slid her bucket of cleaning supplies to Tucker’s feet.

“Well, at least there’s mess I don’t have to worry about,” she said aloud. She headed out to the parking lot to find her PT Cruiser and Ol’ Rusty.

Fifteen minutes later, the principal stumbled upon the fresh body in the hallway, and he trudged back to his office in search of a phonebook. He had to find out whether or not Mr. or Mrs. Freeman was still alive. If so, they had quite a bit of cleaning to do.

 

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