January 3, 2017
The results are in from our runoff poll! Our incoming president has his proper moniker:
2,469 votes for “President Twitterman”
1,389 votes for “President Pootinesca”
That’s an overwhelming margin—one might say a mandate—for Twitterman. Henceforth the orange fellow in the White House shall be known by that name.
However, some members of the Gridleyville Board were disturbed by anomalies in the voting.
For one thing, this blog has a known readership of 11 souls. Even though individuals were allowed to vote multiple times, it’s a bit surprising that 3,858 ballots were cast.
Second, Twitterman’s total amounted to 64%—eerily similar to the percentage won by Vladimir Putin in 2012.
Third, more than 3,000 of the votes have been traced to keyboards using the Cyrillic alphabet. We do have Russian speakers in the USA, but the sheer volume of Cyrillic-flavored votes has raised suspicion.
Finally, our agents have confirmed that one of the Cyrillic keyboards was connected to a monitor with the following sentence on its screensaver:
Умереть, капиталистические собак!
which, loosely translated, means “Die, capitalist dogs!”
Although the evidence is merely circumstantial, we can say with high confidence that certain high-ranking officials in the Kremlin deliberately intervened to sway the election. Apparently they conceived a deep hatred for the name Pootinesca. Perhaps they objected to the conflation of Vladimir Putin’s surname with the noise typically made by old fat men after a heavy meal. Or, if they themselves are fine diners, they may have recognized the similarity to puttanesca, the popular pasta sauce whose designation literally means “in the style of a prostitute.” Whatever the motive, they programmed their system to cast thousands of ballots for Twitterman and approximately half as many (as a cheap cover-up) for Pootinesca.
After deep deliberation, the Gridleyville Board has therefore approved sanctions against the Kremlin. Once each day for the next month, we will send the following stern message to Moscow:
Плохие русские, плохие русские, пло-o-o-o-хо!
which, loosely translated, means “Bad Russians, bad Russians, ba-a-a-a-d!”
Yet—it should go without saying—as true Americans we must honor our democratic process, however corrupted it may be.
Therefore, long live Twitterman!
With dedication and good luck, he may well become the greatest Twit ever to occupy the White House.
January 2, 2017
Results are in for the presidential name poll posted on December 30!
In an effort to find a proper moniker for the incoming U.S. president, some voters chose among the options offered, some proposed alternatives. A total of six votes were cast, and since this blog has eleven total readers, including bots, the percentage who bothered to vote was nearly identical to that in the November election itself. We find that encouraging.
The vote resulted in a tie, with two names collecting two votes apiece. This calls for a runoff—also encouraging, because it prolongs the excitement!
Now, the original poll asked participants to vote by comment, which was a bit difficult. To register a vote, you first needed to have a sign-in recorded and recognized by the system. Then you had to go through the elaborate motions of typing a name on your keyboard. The setup deliberately mirrored the two-step process of regular voting, in which you first have to register and then, on the day of the vote, you have to show up, sign in, push some buttons and pull a lever.
In fact, five of our six voters circumvented the standard process, casting their ballots by Twitter, Facebook or, in one case, vocally. We Americans just can’t seem to follow the rules, can we? Nevertheless, in a true spirit of liberality, we decided to count those votes without penalty.
Perhaps the laborious effort required to cast a ballot is what discourages so many American voters. Therefore, for this runoff, we’re experimenting with a simpler poll format, in which you merely have to move your index finger twice. The two remaining candidates are listed below. Remember, the point is to choose a surname that, when combined with the title “President,” won’t make us hyperventilate or curse uncontrollably.
Click the circle next to the name you prefer, then click the Vote button. It’s easy!
Besides its simplicity, you’ll note that our runoff format has other important characteristics:
- It’s like a sports poll in that you can vote as many times as you like. Hence it gives an advantage to fanatics and those with nothing better to do with their time, kind of like a primary election between no-names running for Register of Wills.
- It resembles a Russian election in that, after you vote, the information disappears into the cyberether until the authorities (in this case, the Gridleyville Board of Directors) announce the official results, which may or may not reflect actual votes cast.
- It reflects the typical democratic process in that it makes not one iota of difference for the long decline of Western civilization.
So hurry up and vote now! The polls will be open for an unpredictable amount of time.
We wish the best of luck to both candidates.
December 30, 2016
In the spirit of public service, I’ve been working on the proper way to refer to our incoming president, the man gifted to us by the deep wisdom of American nonvoters. Among the great majority of liberals, it seems that his surname can’t be combined with the word president without inducing profound metaphysical shudders as well as clinical symptoms such as hyperventilation and coprolalia. That’s a lot of people who will be getting sick. If you believe the opinion polls (have they ever failed us?), liberals in the broad sense now constitute the mainstream of the U.S. population. Most people won’t accept the dreaded L-word as a label, but they are tolerant and broadminded enough to qualify for it, and hence they may soon display the signs of existential illness.
To avoid traumatizing so many people, we need to find another name for the individual in question, one that will prove appropriate for at least four years.
So far, the principal solutions have come from rhyming slang, to wit, President Drumpf, Dump, Rump, Rumpffff, etc. Even to my 14-year-old mind (a characteristic I share with many of his supporters), this has begun to seem childish. We need a more thoughtful substitute relating to the man’s character, or lack of same.
Along those lines, here are a few possibilities:
- President Biglywiggly
- President Goldilux
- President Nukem
- President Pompadour
- President Pootinesca
- President Twitterman
Let me know your thoughts. Can you suggest any names to add to the list?
Perhaps we should take a vote. If the November pattern prevails, 45 percent of us won’t bother to cast a ballot, but a small, committed minority is all we need to declare a mandate.
As another option, we could use an icon or emoji in place of a name. If Garry Trudeau stays true to his tradition, he’ll come up with a clever one for Doonesbury. In the meantime, my initial graphic suggestion appears at the head of this post. Again, other ideas are welcome. Should we vote on an icon, or fail to vote and let mine win by default?
October 30, 2016
In an unexpected development, The News from Gridleyville has been named an official outlet for TrikiLeaks, the supernal hacker group. We are greatly honored by this distinction, and we promise to exercise our responsibilities responsibly.
As you may know, TrikiLeaks specializes in secret documents involving Higher Powers, in particular communications sent through s-mail, the spiritual equivalent of e-mail. The instance presented here is a recent message between foreign ministers of the eternal kingdoms: Beelzebub, the secretary of state for The Depths, writing to Archangel Michael, his counterpart in The Lofts. The two grew up together before Bubbie, as he was known in his youth, joined the Dark One in rebellion against the Universal Authority. Their long friendship presumably accounts for the chummy tone of the missive.
We publish this now, not in an attempt to influence the U.S. presidential election, but as a possible means of allaying the world’s heartburn.
To: His Lightness Arch. Michael
From: His Darkness Beelzebub
Subject: A Little Favor?
It’s been ages, I know, I been meaning to write, but we been awful busy down here. The crowds you send us get kind of rambunctious sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t complaining, it’s so much fun torturing these ass-monkeys it don’t hardly seem like a job, but it’s an organizational nightmare, if you get my drift. Gotta keep track of who’s been waterboarded, who’s been burned on the eyeball with the Boss’s cigars, who’s had fingernails or toenails yanked, etc. etc. We’re still using these old Power Macs that’ve never been upgraded. When I heard that Steve Jobs geek was comin’, I thought he’d bring some newer gizmos, but your boys in the Property Department musta stripped him on the way. You better check for sticky fingers up there. Just sayin’.
Anyways, geeks like Jobs ain’t the problem, they just walk around twiddling with their thumbs. It’s the other types of sinners that get bored and restless. See, the whole principle of torture—I figure you’re too high-minded to think about this stuff, so I’ll explain it to you—is you gotta give the bums a break between times. If it’s all pain all the time, they get burnt out, their minds blown, their ghostbodies wasted, so when you give ’em another, say, electric zap to the privates, they hardly notice. Which is no fun for us. So the point is, let ’em have a decent life when we aren’t working ’em over, enough that when we grab ’em up for the next session, they get the shakes and the terrors and start pissin’ their ghostpants all over again.
Now, them Lethe waters are a big help, making them forget what they been through. In fact, we’ve been mixing Lethe drops into the waterboarding, so every round’s like a fresh torture ’cause the poor suckers don’t remember what’s coming.
Still, when it’s time for their R&R, we gotta keep ’em amused. Which is hard because they ain’t allowed their former enjoyments like murder, embezzlement, fornication or political campaigns. So what do we have for their entertainment? Mostly old TV shows—and your Big Guy won’t let us have the good ones, will He? No, we gotta make do with trash like Jerry Springer, Jay Leno and Hee Haw Honeys. The ladies down here, even lots of the guys, would kill for one episode of Mary Tyler Moore. True, our audience is pretty cynical, so they get into the so-bad-it’s-hilarious shtick, but that wears thin after a while. They get mopey and grouchy, which is not the right buildup for their next turn in the Iron Maiden. As I said, they should be happy, at least content, before we work ’em over again.
So what I’m writin’ to ask, and I know you’ll wanta help me with this, pal, is maybe havin’ a top entertainer come down to us a little early. No, I don’t mean Madonna, I know the Big Guy’s got a crush on her. (Which I don’t understand. I mean, really?)
What I’m talkin’ about is that Trump dude. You know we’re gettin’ him sooner or later, and if you can make it a little sooner, I’d really appreciate it, ’cause we’ve made some great plans for him.
It’s a show called Devil’s Apprentice. He’s gonna be the host, see, along with one of my cute little acolytes—you know, the one with the honkers? He’ll love her.
Here’s the bit: Contestants will think they’re competing for a full-time job managing the Grue Crew, our pitchfork guys that stab unsuspecting people in the ass and toss ’em in the pit for their next torment. Our huge TV audience will see the apprentices run around like crazy and bust their tails to please The Donald and then get fired anyway. But then the kicker is, at the end of the show, all the ones he’s fired will get to use their pitchforks on The Donald himself.
They’ll plunk him in the pit for a special persecution—watching hours and hours of documentaries—of Hillary’s whole career!
We’ll televise that too, to show him making faces and spitting insults at the screen. Then we’ll give everybody some Lethe drops and start over with a new season.
Ain’t that genius? Talk about entertainment—our restless masses will love it!
So think about it, will you Mikey? I mean, Trump’s already old and fat, it’s not like I’m askin’ for a major speedup. Just a little before his time, so to speak.
If you need to clear this with the Big Guy, give him my best, wouldya? Him and my Boss really oughta get together sometime, clear the air, y’know, discuss new ways to cooperate in this business of processing souls.
Okay, Mikey, gotta sign off now and go sharpen my pitchfork, heh-heh.
Keep that flaming sword of yours polished, boyo.
Yours 4ever & ever & ever,
August 2, 2016
The reason for Donald Trump’s peculiar affinity for Vladimir Putin is not:
(a) his admiration for bullies like himself;
(b) his dependence on Putin’s oligarch pals as investors;
(c) his prurient craving for Hillary’s emails; or
(d) his belief that minor countries, such as Ukraine and Estonia, do not deserve to exist.
No, Mr. Trump’s rapport with the Russian leader stems from their shared devotion to the Art of the Deal.
As a Gridleyville exclusive, we can now report that the two leaders have negotiated a remarkable bargain to profit both the United States and Russia. This dispatch relies on numerous sources, including our trusty underground informant in Moscow, Deepska Throatsky.
The groundbreaking agreement, dubbed the Stolichnaya Accord after the four bottles of vodka consumed during the talks, is based on the irrefutable fact that Putin has already snatched large portions of Ukraine, is likely to take more, and will not be deterred by the United States, NATO, the EU, or the weird spellings of Ukrainian place names. Why not, reasoned Mr. Trump, give Putin our blessing to proceed in that region, but extract an equally valuable commodity as a quid pro quo? Isn’t that what the Art of the Deal is about?
Thus the terms of this historic covenant:
- The United States agrees to make only faint grumbling noises as Russian “aid workers” overrun Kiev in unmarked trucks.
- In return, Russia agrees to make only faint sniffing noises while the United States annexes Mexico.
The net result: Russia gains 233,000 square miles and a few good basketball players. The United States gains 760,000 square miles and the beautiful blood sport of bullfighting.
No doubt you are STUNNED by the audacity of the pact! Your first reaction may be: “But Trump hates Mexicans. Why would he want to seize their country?”
As The Donald himself has told us, his policy statements—in fact, his innermost beliefs and values—are mere negotiating positions. He does not, in reality, hate Mexico or its citizens. His only true problem with Mexicans is that they come here to mow lawns and wash dishes without the permission of affluent white men.
So look at the bold logic of the arrangement: Mexicans will no longer be illegal immigrants in the United States because they will be part of us. Officially, they will become American second-class citizens, much like Puerto Ricans and coal miners.
And the famous wall that Mr. Trump has promised? It will indeed be built—along our new border with Guatemala! This boundary is much shorter and easier to defend than the nearly 2,000 miles of desert between Matamoros and Tijuana. Although the Guatemalans cannot afford to pay for such a wall, we will use our new Mexican-American citizens to do the work at $1.25 per hour.
Unfortunately, the Stolichnaya Accord cannot be officially acknowledged until after the election and inauguration, when Mr. Putin will be invited to the White House for a dinner of gourmet tacos and calabacitas con elote. In the meantime, we can have faith that all of Mr. Trump’s secret deals will live up to this very, very high standard.
February 20, 2016
In the current atmosphere of polarization and vitriol, my important suggestions for resolving the U.S. immigration crisis (“Tzapping the Borders,” August 31, 2015) have been ignored. I take no personal offense. My wife generally ignores me too.
Perhaps, in fact, one fear I expressed in that essay—that mutant penguins might swarm our beaches—was overblown. As yet, I haven’t seen reports of any such invaders, though I doubt Governor Christie has been patrolling the Jersey coast as vigorously as he ought.
In any event, I realize it takes repeated iterations to make a truth sink in, as our presidential candidates demonstrate by uttering the same phrases a dozen times each day. In this post, though, I’m not going to replay my arguments from last August. Instead, to keep up with the evolving debate, I’ll offer a modified proposal.
Our composite Republican candidate for president, Dred Crumpio, insists on building a wall along the Mexican border, and reiterates the plan so often that we have to take it seriously. All right, then, let’s say we agree to it. Let’s look at the practical implications.
The expense of a wall will be enormous, and asserting that the Mexican government will have to pay for it is ludicrous. Mexico City doesn’t have bags of cash lying around, and any Mexican politician who agreed to such payments without getting, say, Texas in trade would be hounded out of office. (And you wouldn’t really trade Texas back to Mexico, would you? The Alamo, Davy Crockett and all that? Wait, you would?)
But there are nongovernmental entities in Mexico that could pay for a wall. Think a moment. Do you see where I’m going?
The drug syndicates! The Sinaloa Cartel! Los Zetas! Cártel del Golfo! Et al., al., al., al. They’re the ones with cash and valuables spilling out of every pocket, not to mention other orifices. But what would induce them to put up funds for a border wall?
Well, it’s obvious: We install a few gates in the wall, which only the cartels can access. Then they’ll be able to bring in drugs without hassle, saving the ongoing costs of recruiting and compensating smugglers and bribing law enforcement. Those costs must be considerable, after all. Consider how difficult it must be to convince potential mules to carry bags of cocaine in their rectums, even if you threaten to slaughter their parents and torture their children. Besides, such threats are abhorrent to successful businessmen. It would make much more sense for the Cartel Lords to help us build a wall through which they, and only they, could export goods safely. And being eminently rational, undeterred by sentiment or idealism, the Lords will agree.
Naturally the gates’ existence must be kept secret. If we the public knew, we’d want to use them for importing other stuff, such as cheap pottery and tequila and underpaid labor. Therefore, for this plan to work, we need to elect a president who is adept at concealing the truth and lying to the American public.
Luckily, we have just such a candidate. Dred Crumpio is our man! Can we all get together and support him now?
February 5, 2016
Now that the presidential campaign season is truly underway, the composite candidates have begun to emerge.
Back in 2012, the composite Republican contender, whom I named Mick Somnorich, was kind of feckless, hard to take seriously. He was, in fact, boring, and everyone’s already forgotten him.
This year’s version is truculent and malevolent, much more exciting to watch in the present and likely more memorable in the long term. For those who haven’t tuned in yet, here is his message in a poetic nutshell:
Ready for a New American Century?
Calling the enemy by its name,
I’m the conservative who Democrats
fear most. I won’t let them take away
our giveaway to the corporate patrons.
They’re rapists on the lookout!
It is our job to kill terrorists. Weakness is
provocative. I would bomb the shit out of them.
And believe me, my temperament is very good,
very calm, I’m proud to have an “A” rating
from the American Rifle Association.
We stop bad guys by using our guns!
If I become president, Americans can work
together to revive Merry Christmas
and infringe on the rights of good, law-abiding
citizens. The whole world is on fire!
Look at that face! Pathological,
there’s no cure for that.
This composite’s name is Dred Crumpio, and he believes everything he says, even if he knows it’s a lie. Because talk is just talk, after all. It’s another thing entirely to whomp the bad guys, and believe you me, Americans don’t care about the actual score as long as we can pretend we’re winning.