Chapter 13
At the Network News One headquarters building in Manhattan, anchorwoman Natalie Brock sat behind the center of the news desk. She closed her eyes as a makeup artist’s brush dabbed her cheeks. Once all the poking and prodding of her face was finished, she opened her peepers and studied the words on the monitor while working on her voice exercises. “Rubber buggy baby bumpers…rubber buggy…is it rubber baby or rubber buggy?”
On Natalie’s right (from a TV viewer’s perspective) a dapper, healthier, clean-shaven, Ed Enwright sat and ran a highlighter over a sentence in a news article he’d brought in preparation of the next segment. Ed wore a perfectly cut black suit and had shed his extra pounds. “It’s rubber baby buggy bumpers.”
“Shush,” Natalie said. “I’m not talking to you.”
An insanely beautiful woman with an ample bosom to the right of Ed confirmed Ed’s assertion. “It’s rubber baby buggy.”
“No,” Natalie said. “Because why would you have a rubber baby?”
Ed slapped his forehead. “It’s a rubber baby until you get to buggy bumper and then you’re no long talking about a rubber baby, you’re talking about the bumper of a buggy that holds a baby.”
“That makes no sense,” Natalie said. “And stop it. I’m still not talking to you.”
Over on the left side of the news desk, another ridiculously attractive woman with a massive chest confirmed Ed’s claim. “It’s confusing but that’s the point, to get you to string along a number of words that sound similar. It helps you maintain focus while speaking.”
“So, the buggy bumper isn’t made out of rubber?” Natalie asked.
“It is,” the woman on the left said.
“Then why is it a rubber baby buggy…”
Ed snickered.
“Shut up, Ed,” Natalie said. “You’re in no position to…”
Dan Kowalski, Natalie’s nerdy producer, stepped up to a spot that was just a few feet away from one of the multiple cameras in the studio. His frame was slight and his head was bald. Even though he was only in his early thirties, he wore a grandfatherly cardigan sweater. He held a clipboard and wore a headset with a microphone.
“Get ready to make the magic happen, people,” Dan said. “Thirty seconds people
Ed faced a camera and positioned himself in a poised manner. Natalie did the same.
“Are we cancelling our plans this evening then?” Ed asked without taking his gaze from the camera.
“You can cancel my foot up your ass,” Natalie replied.
Ed laughed. The beauties tried not to, but soon enough, they joined in.
“What?” Natalie asked.
“Nothing,” Ed said. “It’s nothing.”
“Ten seconds,” Dan said.
“Idiot,” Natalie said.
“It’s just that if you cancel putting your foot up my ass, that means you’re not putting my foot up your ass,” Ed explained.
Natalie maintained her smile. “Whatever. Please stop speaking to me. I can’t stand you.”
Dan held up three fingers and ticked them off. “3…2…1…action!”
Natalie took her cue. “Welcome back to Network News One, where we have the hottest and also, the not so hot, average, and even below average looking women whose titty size is none of your business. We’re reporting the news and shit a lot more often these days. In political news, confirmation senate confirmation hearings continue for Harold Clarke, President Stugotz’s pick to replace the late Justice Myron Rosenbaum. Here’s a clip of those solemn, dignified proceedings.
The senate chamber appears on screen. In the rafters, three women dressed in purple, frumpy, ankle length dresses with bonnets on their heads are arrested and dragged away, kicking and screaming whilst shouting, “We won’t be your birthing cows! If you appoint Clark to the Supreme Court, your daughters will be birthing cows for the rest of their lives!”
Natalie explained the commotion with a bit of voice over commentary. “For our viewers at home who aren’t up to date on their show streaming, ‘Birthing Cow’ is a popular show on the pay to stream service Wezzle, about a dystopian future in which women are forced by law to remain barefoot and pregnant at all times and never know the joys of working a 9-5 job where a boss breathes down their neck and they never get to…well, I won’t spoil it for you.”
U.S. Appeals Court Judge Harold Clarke took a sip of water while various senators preened for the cameras.
“Republican Senator Phil Taylor of Iowa will now call the meeting to order,” Natalie told viewers.
An elderly man banged a gavel down. “I hereby call these nomination proceedings to order. Before we begin, I’d like to remind my colleagues on both sides of the aisle that the world is watching and therefore, at all times, we must adhere to certain standards of decorum and decency, and not descend into…
Senator Carol Hastings, a California Democrat, interrupted the Republican. “Mr. Chairman?”
Senator Taylor continued. “…petty insults and nasty potshots. I assure you, everyone will have time to get their questions answered, but we must…”
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Hastings said. “I’d like to move that this judicial nominee has poopy pants.”
Senator Taylor banged his gavel. “Senator Hastings, please, hold on until I finish my…”
More protestors appeared in the rafters. They all wore shirts with pictures of fetuses on them. “Save the babies!” they cried. “Every minute Judge Clarke isn’t sitting on the SCOTUS bench is a minute where 1,000 babies die!”
Security dragged the protestors away as the chairman continued. “Now then, as I was saying, a free and open discussion will be allowed, one where a diverse array of opinions will be shared but we must remain respectful to one another and we can’t…”
Republican Senator Scott Masterson, who throughout his career had taken the unusual step of wearing his ten-gallon cowboy hat everywhere, even on the senate floor interrupted. “Mr. Chairman…”
“No,” Senator Taylor said. “The proceedings have not begun yet. When they begin, all will have their time to…”
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Masterson said. “I move this illustrious body recognize the irrefutable fact that the gentlewoman from California’s pants are much poopier and indeed, much smellier than Judge Clarke’s pants ever have been or ever will be.”
Senator Taylor tossed his gavel on the desk and pulled out a shiny flask. “Fuck it,” the old man said as he took a long pull. “Have at it, assholes.”
Senator Hastings took first dibs. “Judge Clarke. When it comes to the issue of abortion, what is your position on the Supreme Court’s ruling on the landmark decision of Roe vs. Wade? Specifically, will you uphold that decision in any and all cases that come before the Supreme Court in the future?”
Judge Clarke leaned into the microphone. “Senator, with all due respect, it would be improper for me, as a judge, to state publicly how I might rule on a matter as I am required at all times to remain impartial and..
“Blah, blah, blah,” Senator Hastings said. “Look, if there’s one thing this country needs, it’s twenty-four-hour, taxpayer funded, drive-through abortion clinics.”
“Disgraceful,” Senator Masterson said.
“No one asked you, redneck,” Senator Hastings said.
“Why don’t you go back to San Francisco and burn your bra, ya’ hairy armed…”
Senator Hastings glared at Senator Taylor.
“What?” the old man asked. “Oh, no we’re paying attention to me?” The old man picked up his gavel and half-heartedly pounded it down. “Whatever. Order, order, and so on. Whatever.”
“All I’m asking you, Judge Clarke,” Senator Hastings said. “Is if the issue of twenty-four-hour, taxpayer funded, drive-through abortion clinics were to come before the highest court in the land, would you be for it or against it?”
Judge Clarke took a sip of water. “Senator, I really don’t foresee a way in which that issue would ever come before the Supreme Court, but even so, like I said, I can’t just publicly make random pronouncements on hypothetical scenarios what may or may not ever happen.”
Senator Masterson interjected. “How the hell would you even have a twenty-four-hour drive-through abortion clinic?”
“No one’s talking to you, Uncle Clovis,” Senator Hastings said.
“I’m genuinely intrigued,” Senator Masterson said. “Is the good woman from California suggesting that women should actually drive their automobiles to a side window located at an abortion clinic and stick their womanly area through two sets of windows, one belonging to the car and the other to the abortion providing establishment?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Senator Hastings said. “Now, Judge Clarke…”
“Or,” Senator Masterson said. “Is my colleague on the opposite side of the aisle suggesting that women drive their cars into some type of garage or pit bay where a doctor will work on their hey-nanner-nanners in a rapid manner, using some type of gas-powered apparatus to remove an unborn child from the womb, as if it were a rusty lug-nut that can only be removed by a pneumatic wrench?”
“It’s a meaningless lump of cells,” Senator Hastings said. “And stop making light of it, because removing that meaningless lump of cells is the hardest decision a woman will ever have to make. Now, if the buffoon from the Lone Star State would stop interrupting, I could proceed with my question. Judge Clarke, we’ve already established your status as an owner of poopy pants…”
“Senator,” Judge Clarke said. “I don’t believe we established the veracity of that allegation with any degree of clarity whatsoever. In fact, I advise this body that my pants are in fact, quite poopy free.”
“We’ll let the debate on that issue rage on,” Senator Hastings said. “But for now, I’ll need an answer as to how you would rule on…”
Senator Masterson pounded his fist down on his desk. “Jumpin Jehosaphat, ya’ ornery broad! Can’t you get it through your thick head that this honorable jurist isn’t here to be picked apart so you can score points with your hippie base?”
The senator from California cleared her throat. “Let the record reflect that my colleague from Texas is only wearing that hat to compensate for his tiny, insignificant…”
Senator Taylor openly read a copy of Breast Connoisseur Digest, ignoring everything that was going on around him.
“It would seem Mr. Chairman has checked out,” Senator Masterson said. “Judge Clarke, I’m so sorry you’ve had to undergo such vicious, underhanded tactics when every nitwit with half a brain knows you can’t comment on matters that might come before the court.”
“Thank you, Senator,” Judge Clarke said. “Now, if we could move on to my qualifications, I think you’ll find that…”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Senator Masterson said. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. Are we gonna string these sinful she-devils up or what?”
“I beg your pardon?” Judge Clarke asked.
“Look,” Senator Masterson said. “I’m not saying we should actually hang a woman for having an abortion, I mean…uh, wait, we can’t do that, right?”
“I’m not aware of any legal precedent that would allow that,” Judge Clarke said.
“Of course not,” Senator Masterson said. “At any rate, I’m not saying we should deep six these shrews. I’m just saying there should be a law that would require them to be placed in a public stockade for a day or two, possibly three, four, no more than five, tops, with a sign hanging from their necks that says something to the effect of, oh, I don’t know, ‘I’m a failure as a mother’ or ‘I care more about a good time than raising the next generation,’ something catchy like that, and people would be allowed to walk by and hurl various and sundry epithets at these women, perhaps pelt them with rotten eggs, throw spoiled food products at them, and just make them think twice about deviating from the course that Mother Nature herself put them on.”
“Where are we going with this line of questioning, Senator?” Judge Clarke asked.
“How would you rule on that, son?” Senator Masterson asked.
Judge Clarke closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “I can’t…even. Let me get this straight. The people of every state had an opportunity to select their best and brightest to represent them, and you people are the result?”
“Damn right, fascist,” Senator Hastings said.
“You’re darn tootin,’’ Senator Masterson added.
Senator Taylor was so startled by the question that he awoke from a state of half-slumber. “Huh? Oh yeah, I ask that all the time. Eh, screw it. I’m just here until my term runs out and then I’m going to go home and become a blueberry farmer. Yes, while the world burns, I’ll be rolling around in a field of blueberries, smushing them between my toes, smearing them all over my naked body until I…”
Senator Taylor remembered that cameras were present and banged his gavel. “Let’s take a five-minute recess.”
Natalie Brock returned on-screen. “In other news, the civil war in the third world nation of “No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan may be over for now, but it is now raging on in the West. Over the past few months, vicious acts of terrorism have broken out in London, France, Canada, and the United States, as radical supporters of both factions in the country with an unpronounceable name have taken their vile show on the road. For more on this, we turn to our very own Network News One Counter-Terrorism Analyst, Ed Enwright. Ed?”
Ed surmised that Natalie’s demand that he not speak to her was only in effect off-camera. “Thank you, Natalie. For years, No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan, there was a bloody conflict over whether the country’s citizenry should submit to one of two rival factions, the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians, or the Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ians.
The war was brutal, with high casualties on both sides. Ironically, the leaders of both groups agreed nearly 100 percent on every single issue that the country faced, but just disagreed on how to get people to go along with their edicts, with the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians maintaining that a machete strike to the taint is the best way to gain compliance, whereas the Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ians held steadfast that if you want to capture a dissenter’s attention, there’s no better way to do it than with a rocket propelled grenade fired directly up the aforementioned dissenter’s posterior.
In late 2017, the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians emerged victorious, taking control of the country the name of which no one can pronounce and renaming it the People’s Republic of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan.
“I’m told the UN has yet to official recognize that designation,” Natalie said.
“That’s correct,” Ed said. “Now, Natalie, when General Ooba Gadooba took control of this country and declared himself the country’s Grand Imperial Honcho, he swore publicly that he would make sure that machete wielding death squads would be spreading his message of control through taint hackery all over the Western world.
Footage rolled of a bearded dictator with sunglasses, a funny hat, and a uniformed chest with hundreds of unearned medals pinned to it spoke at a podium. “We will slash taints in London! We will slash taints in Paris! We will slash taints in America! The streets of the West will run red with the taint blood of the non-believers!”
More footage rolled, this time of three people being carried away on stretchers from a shopping mall in Scranton, Pennsylvania with X shaped bandages covering their genitals. Ed spoke over the footage. “And it looks like the Grand Imperial Honcho made good on his promise. The Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians have set up sleeper cells all throughout the West. These cells are comprised of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan nationals, who by day, pose as hard working, law abiding immigrants and by night, plot heinous acts of taint slashery, like the scene that unfolded yesterday at the Scranton Heights Mall when 28-year-old Doopa Badoopa, who was in the U.S. on a student visa, went berserk in a food court and hacked away at three innocent taints until he was apprehended by police.
Similar attacks have taken place in London and Paris, a total of 103 taints have been hacked beyond recognition thus far. Natalie?
Natalie shuffled some papers around. “President Stugotz spoke about this deadly attack from the White House this morning.”
Footage rolled of President Vinny Stugotz, a man in his early seventies with a spray on tan and a tall, jet black pompadour on his head that defied all laws of physics. “Look, what all of you lying sacks of horse manure in the press need to realize is that these attacks on American taints need to stop, OK? They need to stop. That’s all there is to it. If they continue, then I’ll have no choice but to shoot a nuke up Taint Boy’s ass. That’s what I call Ooba Gadooba on Lifebox, by the way. Taint Boy. He hates it. Gets right under his skin. Alright, I guess I’ll some questions from you suckbags but only because I haven’t got anything else better to do. You! Dirt beard! Go!”
A reporter with a patchy beard addressed the president. “Mr. President, do you think your harsh rhetoric offends the Americans of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian descent, most of whom are hard-working, law abiding, and have made great contributions to this country?”
“That is the dumbest question I have ever heard,” President Stugotz said. “Tonight, I want you to go home, open up the junk drawer in your kitchen, take all of the junk you keep in it, you know, your pencils, your rubber bands, your batteries, your ten old cell phones that you want to keep but don’t know why, that remote control to the TV you don’t have anymore. Take all that junk out of it, then put your literal junk inside of it, by which, I mean, your literal penis. I want you to put your penis inside a drawer and slam the drawer shut at least seventy or eighty times so that the intense pain will remind you to stop asking your president such moronic questions.”
“But,” the reporter said. “Mr. President, your critics on the left have said your approach to this issue is nothing short of bigoted xenophobia.”
“Nine hundred times,” President Stugotz. “I just upped your dose, loser. Slam yourself in the weiner 900 times because that’s the only way you’ll learn to not be so stupid. Look, I’ll explain it so you dummies will understand. When No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan sends its people here, they aren’t sending the cream of the crop, OK? They’re sending people who want to carve your taint up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They’re sending people who want to shoot a rocket propelled grenade so far up your ass then when you burp, it’ll look like you’re spitting out a Roman candle. And yes, OK, once in a blue moon they send like two, maybe three people who just want to live a normal life and drive a cab or become a janitor or mow a lawn or some other shit I wouldn’t be caught dead doing and that’s fine. Let them do that. But I’m telling you, if you start importing No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians into this beautiful country by the boatloads, then get ready, because there won’t be a single taint left. You want to sacrifice every American taint in this nation on the alter of political correctness? I don’t think so. Not on my watch.”
Natalie appeared on screen. “Tough words from a Commander-in-Chief who isn’t afraid to mince them. With us in the student are two of Network News One’s most popular pundits, a hot ass liberal chick with big titties and a hot ass conservative chick with big titties. Hot Ass Liberal Chick With Big Titties, I’ll start with you, what’s your take on the president’s reaction to the wave of taint slash attacks that have been carried out throughout the Western world?”
“Thank you for having me,” the Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties said. “Natalie, what a sad day for America. What this so-called president doesn’t seem to understand is that our country is a nation of immigrants. Our land was built off the blood and sweat of people who came here seeking a better life and the No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian immigrant community is no different. Do you think it’s fun to live in No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan? Do you think it’s fun to wake up every day, not knowing if your taint will be slashed if you incur the wrath of the ruling regime? And suppose you do obey all Grand Imperial Honcho Gadooba’s capricious demands? Then what? You’re still at risk that the roving bands of Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ian rebels will shoot a live, honest to God explosive device up your asshole. Life sucks in No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan and if America can improve the lives of those who are brave enough to make the trek here, then that’s wonderful.”
“Hot Ass Conservative Chick with Big Titties,” Natalie said. “Your response?”
“Thanks Natalie,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said. “You know, it’s funny that all of a sudden, the hot ass liberal chick with big titties has a great opinion of America, that it’s this wonderful country with an amazing track record of helping immigrants live better lives, because if my memory serves, in past segments, the hot ass liberal chick with big titties dumped all over America, saying that all this great country ever does is discriminate against minorities and it’s the most racist place on the face of the earth. Which is it, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties? You can’t say, and I quote, ‘America is a racist turd hole’ and then also say everyone who is suffering around the world should be allowed in? Why would you want suffering people to come to a country that you called a racist turdhole? Come on, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties. Pick a lane and stick with it, already.”
“You’re taking my words out of context,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
“You know what else is funny?” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties asked. “Last year, when President Stugotz, blessed be his name, referred to No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan a, quote, ‘big time shit factory full of shit,’ you said it was racist to refer to any country like that…”
“It is,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
“You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said. “Either No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan is a terrible place where at any moment, a citizen might get a machete to the taint or an RPG up the butt, and therefore, the president was right when he called it a shit factory, or it’s a wonderland full of puppies and kitties and cotton candy and rainbows and the president was racist for referring to it so negatively, but if that’s the case, then why would the No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians need to come to America, which, I remind you, you referred to as a racist turd hole?”
Natalie raised her pointer finger. “I’d just like to point out for our viewers who may not be up to speed on this issue, No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians are actually considered white. In fact, anthropologists have written extensively about how No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians favorite pastime is to locate an old television that has yet to be chopped in half by a machete or blown up by a rocket propelled grenade, set it up, and watch old reruns of NASCAR races. Further, according to historian Roland Dalrymple, who stopped by NN1 last week to discuss his new book about the conflict, not one single No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian has ever uttered the words, ‘Boy, have you lost your damn mind?’ in response to a bratty child’s temper tantrum inside the unpronounceable name’s open market bizarre.”
“Wow,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said.
“That’s white as hell,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties added.
“And,” Natalie said. “No parent in that situation has ever said the words, ‘You’re not getting shit now. Wait till we get home and your father hears about this.’ Instead, as Dalrymple pointed out, No-One-No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian parents will usually buy their unruly children their choice of the limited supply of toys made out of sticks available and will even tell their children they are sorry for being such bad parents and will try better next time. They’ll even let it go when their children talk sass and call them by their first name.”
“I’m surprised Stugotz isn’t importing these people by the millions then,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties.
The hot ass conservative chick sighed. “Once again, another liberal wack-job feels the need to dumpster dive into racebaiting.”
“Slow your roll, facist,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said. “All I’m saying is just because a small handful, a tiny percentage of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian-Americans are taking their allegiance to their ex-country’s leader a little too far doesn’t mean that all immigrants from this country should be treated with suspicion. You’re whiter than a ghost’s asshole, Hot Ass Conservative Chick with Big Titties, and yet, I assume you’d call it racism if minorities were to guard their homes whenever you walked by out of fear that you’d conquer them and call it manifest destiny, right?”
The hot ass conservative chick seethed with rage. “I challenge you!”
A bell rang. Natalie pressed a finger up against her earpiece. “Uh oh, ladies and gentlemen. Dan, my producer, informs me that this is a new feature for Network News One. Whenever one hot ass pundit chick with big titties throws down the gauntlet and the other hot ass pundit chick with big titties accepts, the pundits will move their debate from the news desk to the jello wrestling ring and…wait…Jesus, Dan…do we really have a wrestling ring for women to wrestle in? Have we forgotten this is a news channel? We have? Alright then. Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties, do you accept?”
“I do,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
Natalie turned to the camera. “That’ll do it for this block. Stick with Network News One because coming up in the next hour, our counter-terrorism analyst will give us his response to the recent spate of machete attacks in the West, right after sports and weather. Oh, and stay away Mama Esposito’s frozen pizzas, because according to a recent study, that brand of pie caused ten out of ten test subjects to fart out a powerful hallucinatory gas that makes people believe spiders are crawling all over their body. We’ll be right back.”
Bookshelf Battle 