How I felt watching Trump hug our flag
“I will now tell you the words of our grandmother,” Hillary said grandly. She bent painfully to put her ear to the lips of the tiny swaddled form. Hillary nodded and nodded and then turned to the cell meeting and raised her arms, bingo wings in majestic flight.
“She speaks to me, children!” Hillary said. “She speaks to me!”
A hush fell over the small knot of angry women, nervous women, the few that had bothered to show up.
“Grandmother says: ‘The days of darkness are nearly passed. The stars have come right and my Daughter shall ascend!’” Hillary was grinning so widely the bones of her skull threatened to push through.
“Me,” Hillary continued. “I am the Daughter, that’s me. I must run for President again!”
Two of the women clapped listlessly and one toward the back started crying; the rest were looking down at their feet or at the unmoving body on the dais with Hillary. They were in the basement of a DC townhouse and it was cold and lit with only one bare bulb.
“I shall take back what was stolen!” Hillary went on, oblivious to the lack of enthusiasm. “I shall heal this Trump-broken land! I will bring back the Elder Gods!”
Huma came clomping down the stairs in the silence that followed and said in a quiet voice, ”Sorry, I was putting the baby down.” She moved to stand beside Hillary and bumped the small riser that Grandmother was perched on. The tiny body rocked back and forth until Huma reached out and steadied her. She looked down at the ancient face, collapsing in on itself now, a fruit too long from the tree, brown and wrinkled and beginning to smell.
“The Elder Gods!” Hillary repeated, throwing up her arms again, and again hearing only the embarrassed shuffling of feet. Before she could begin to scold them, various text alerts went off all on the phones in the room. They all looked at their phones.
“What is that?” Hillary hissed. “I said no phones in the sacred chamber!” The sacred chamber had shelves lined with bulk packages of toilet paper, and diapers, and jars of murky pickled unspeakable horrors from damned dimensions birthed dead to poisoned wombs.
Huma looked at her phone. “It is a new tweet, beloved.”
“A tweet? A tweet?” Hillary asked voice edged with hysteria. “We stand in the presence of Grandmother and all the exiled Gods and they are reading a tweet?”
“Yes, beloved,” Huma said, shifting her weight from foot to foot like she needed to pee.
“Who from?” Hillary demanded.
“Her,” Huma said in a tiny voice.
“Her?” Hillary asked, voice rising. “HER?!?”
Huma nodded.
Hillary ground her teeth together and spoke through them. “Is she why there are so few women here tonight?”
Huma nodded and back away a few steps.
“Big-toothed, bug-eyed, bartendering whore,” Hillary muttered. She kicked Ruth’s corpse and it rolled off the dais, settling to the floor, nearly weightless, with a dry papery sigh.
“Oh! My! Gawd!” Sandy screeched and let a lime Jello shot slide from a small plastic cup into her cleavage and then shimmied. “It wiggles all the way down. OMG. OMG. LOL. #wiggle #socialism!”
The Democratic Socialists weekly vegan cupcake / booze bash was underway in a huge loft overlooking DUMBO.
“Have a cupcake, you guys!” Sandy shouted to a nervous knot of bearded anarcho-Marxists huddled together in the corner. The woman who was with them had a terrible fake beard, but no one had been gauche enough to point it out.
Sandy threw her arms around a young cis-het couple she didn’t know who had leaned in to talk to one anyone over the din of Ariana Grande remixes.
“OMG, I love you guys!” she yelled, pushing to get between them. She grabbed the man’s red Solo cup and drained it.
“I really need to pee!” she screamed at them. “Let’s take a selfie!” She held her phone out and yelled, “Say ‘SOCIALISM!’” She held them there taking photos until she got one she liked.
“OMG, you guys! Look!” she finally said, pointing at the floor. The now-warm Jello shot had worked its way out of her dress onto the teak floor of the loft, misshapen and slimy.
“OMG, you guys, that’s totally capitalism!” Sandy said and laughed and laughed, high and piercing, like an ice-pick, at her own joke while snapping dozens of pictures of the forlorn Jello shot for Instagram.
“Pat attention, Donald,” the hair said. “The Democratic primary field is very large.”
“Yuge,” Donald said. “Bigly and yuge.”
“OK, first, we have Amy Klobucher,” the hat said, circling her face with the laser pointer clamped to his bill.
“Ugh,” groaned the hair.
“Is that the lesbian one?” Donald asked.
“No, she’s just ugly,” the hat said. “Pay attention.”
Donald grimaced and sank down into his chair. “They all look like lesbians. And not the hot kind,” he muttered.
“Kamala’s not too bad looking,” the hair said.
“Kamala?!?” the hat squeaked. “I wouldn’t fuck her with Chris’ dick.”
“Who’s Chris?” the hair asked.
“Kamala was with Willie Brown, fucking her way to the top of the California shitheap,” the hat said darkly. “You never want Willie Brown’s sloppy seconds.”
“Oh, c’mon,” the hair said.
“No, seriously,” the hat said. “Willie makes an NBA player look like a WNBA player in terms of sexual partners. And he has the most diseased dick ever. I heard he once gave herpes to a strain of syphilis. Not someone with syphilis, but like a syphilis strain itself that now has Willie Brown herpes. Herphilis. Makes you itchy and crazy.”
“That’s just an urban legend,” the hair said.
“You end up scratching your junk until it falls right off!” the hat said.
“NO!” Donald screamed, clutching his mushroom farm.
“That’s why you need to pay attention, Donald,” the hat said. “Do you want someone like that running the country? Some dirty girl with diseases?”
“She’d get them all over the flag!” Donald said, the distress cracking his voice. “I love the flag!”
Donald began to weep softly and the hair rubbed his scalp until he calmed down. The hat spent the rest of the afternoon using the laser pointer to try and blind the clerical staff as they entered the Oval Office.
