Glibertarians.com 2019 Archive

Category: Fiction

  • If You Can Beat Them, Join Them

    A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part Two:

    If You Can Beat Them, Join Them

    by Tonio

     

     

    “So, the second time I got pregnant I had gotten really drunk with this boy who seemed so nice and said he had a condom, but when I was cleaning up the room the next day I didn’t see a condom in the trash. I missed my next period and tested pregnant, then he was a total shitlord douchenugget when I asked for abortion money. I had just joined Campus Action Feminists and Professor Kudchuian told us about Rescue This! I told her I was pregnant and asked if she could put me in touch with them.”

    “A week later I took the train up to DC and met the RT! activists. They took me to this out-of-the-way toilet they had found at the Immaculate Conception Basilica and kept watch while I aborted. That time was pretty quick and easy. Then they stickered the inside of the stall with their ‘ABORTED FETUS IN TOILET’ bumper stickers and locked the door. Once we were back on the Metro they emailed the church and the media.”

    “And we all know the rest of the story,” said Angelica Cortasio-Ortez. She remembered the news footage of the clerical outrage, and the countless crying and praying nuns, and then the of the Knights of Columbus in their silly fucking patriarchal antique British Navy hats staging a full dress funeral for the news cameras.

    “So Moira,” asked Ella, “how many people know that you’re a fully fledged RT! activist?”

    “Outside of the RT! women, only Professor Kudchuian.”

    Ella ticked her pen against her teeth. “If this ever comes out the entire right will turn into poo-flinging monkeys, just like they did the first time. And then you will own the abortion debate from the left for a few news cycles. You can always distance yourself from her if she becomes too hot.” She looked at Moira. “Everyone is expendable except your officeholder, dear. That’s the first thing you learn in politics.”

    Angelica nodded at her chief of staff.

    “May I excuse myself, Congresswoman,” asked Ella, “I want to be there to greet the Superintendent of Buildings people for your next appointment. You know how they like to wander off.”

    “Of course, Ella. Thanks. ”

    Angelica waited for the door to close.

    “Do you still want the job?”

    “Oh, yes,” answered Moira, her voice squeaking.

    Angelica’s desk phone did the intercom buzz. As she picked up the phone she heard the receptionist scream “can’t go in there…” and then silence.

    A cold breeze blew in through the closed office door. Moira shivered and huddled, drawing her feet up into her chair. “It’s him,” she whispered hoarsely.

    Every woman’s worst nighmare, thought Angelica, your boyfriend going violent after he learns that you aborted your pregnancy. Earlier, Moira had said that her current boyfriend was some sort of church leader and that she had kept the pregnancy from him. It had to be one of the patriarchal religions since progressive boys understood it wasn’t their decision to make.

    She pressed the alarm button under her desk and hoped that the receptionist had already pushed hers. The wind intensified and her office door became somehow different, like there were extra angles in the doorframe. The wind blew colder and faster and was now accompanied by howling. The door now appeared to be made of dark roiling clouds. Suddenly there was a thing in the room, a vastly large and incomprehensible tentacled thing. The thing loomed over Moira and yelled at her in a loud booming voice.

     

     

    “YOU ABORTED MY SPAWN, THEN BEAT IT WITH YOUR SHOE. FOOLISH HUMAN FEMALE.”

    Yoko Ono wasn’t right enough, thought Angelica, not just the world, but apparently the entire universe. “Now look here,” she said, then everything just stopped for her. She was paralyzed with her mouth open and her index finger extended. She could see and hear, but could not move; she couldn’t tell if she was breathing but did not feel out of breath. How patriarchal to police the speech of women.

    “Here we go again,” said Moira rolling her eyes, “‘I am an elder god.’”

    “I AM A GREAT OLD ONE.”

    “‘And I’ve destroyed races greater than yours.’”

    “STOP THAT, YOU IMPUDENT SLUT. YOU ARE THE ONLY BREEDING VESSEL IN ANY TIME, PLACE OR DIMENSION WHO HAS DARED TO TRY TO HARM MY SPAWN. I AM ANGRY. VERY ANGRY INDEED. BUT I AM ALSO IMPRESSED. NOT ONLY WILL I ALLOW YOU TO LIVE, BUT I WILL GIVE YOU A BIRTHING GIFT BEYOND ALL MEASURE.”

    Angelica just couldn’t even.

    “Birthing gift? You mean…”

    “OF COURSE YOU DIDN’T KILL HIM, BUT HE’S SCARED AND HUNGRY AND TRYING TO FIND YOU.”

    Moira didn’t like the sound of that. “Hey, I can’t…”

    “I KNOW YOU CAN’T TAKE CARE OF HIM.”

    How typical, thought Angelica, angry patriarchs telling women they were incapable of proper motherhood – like they’d know anything about that.

    From inside the bathroom came the sound of water, first a stream, then a gush. Just as the carpet outside the door started to darken with fluid there was a great whoosh and the door was sucked open from within. Then the pipe where the toilet had been erupted with a geyser of sewer gas and moisture and a parsnip came screaming out and made a bee-line towards Moira. At least it looked like a parsnip, only fatter; it was conical and wrinkly and had small rootlike tendrils. The parsnip was scooting along on its wide flat base, leaving a moist trail on the carpet.

    “SOMEONE HAS LEARNED HOW TO FEED ALL BY HIMSELF,” boomed the tentacled thing, proudly.

    The parsnip reached Moira’s chair and stopped. “Mama,” it cried in a voice that was at once both high and low, mewling and echoing. The parsnip then scrunched down and quivered its tip like a cat tensing for a vertical jump.

    “WE’LL HAVE NONE OF THAT, YOUNG MAN,” said the great being, quickly extruding a long tentacle and coiling it tightly around the parsnip pinning the base to the floor so that only the top third protruded. “YOUR MOTHER’S BIRTH CANAL IS OFF-LIMITS. YOU’RE A BIG BOY NOW THAT YOU CAN FEED YOURSELF.”

    Just like his father, going straight for the pussy, thought Moira. Ick-factor aside, she was glad that the baby, or whatever it was was being restrained. Her son had grown considerably in the half-hour or so since his birth. Her son. She’d have to get used to that.

    The parsnip opened a mouth and clamped a set of sharp teeth down on the tentacle encircling it.

    “WHY YOU LITTLE…” There was a flash and a pop and the parsnip emitted a small shriek. The sewer smell was punctuated by the smell one experiences after a thunderstorm.

    Using electroshock on a fussy newborn, thought Angelica. That’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard of.

    “Can I hold him,” asked Moira?

    “AFTER WHAT YOU TRIED TO DO,” asked the large tentacled being.

    Moira tilted her head down and stuck out her lower lip ever so slightly and looked up at the being.

    “YOU ARE TREACHEROUS AND YOU EXEMPLIFY THE BANALITY OF EVIL. I AM TOUCHED,” boomed the being and extended the tentacle containing the parsnip and placed it atop Moira’s ample bosom, then resting the tentacle on Moira’s shoulder. Moira encircled the smelly little monster with her arms. The parsnip snuggled in to her cleavage and made a happy sound.

     

     

    “So what comes next,” asked Moira.

    “I WILL TAKE HIM TO LIVE WITH MOTHER HYDRA; SHE HAS RAISED MY FAMILY’S SPAWN FOR EONS AND HAS THE POWER TO KEEP HIM UNDER CONTROL.”

    “WE’LL WORK OUT VISITATION, IF YOU LIKE.”

    Moira nodded, tears running down her cheeks. Her son’s eyes shut one by one and he started a low vibrating noise that she was felt as much as heard.

    “MAYBE WE COULD ALL DO THINGS TOGETHER…”

    “Oh Hastur, that is so sweet.”

    “HE IS ASLEEP. WE WILL GO BEFORE HE WAKES AND NEEDS TO FEED AGAIN.”

    Hastur copped a major feel as he retrieved his son, and they exited via the method by which he had arrived. Angelica found herself unparalyzed.

    Then the Capitol Police arrived, followed by fire and rescue people, then people in yellow plastic hooded suits with reflective letters that said HAZMAT. Angelica and Moira spent the next hour being alternately hosed off and scrubbed; the water was cold and the detergents harsh. And then they were given blister packs of antibiotics and told to be prepared to spend the next 48-72 hours shitting and to stock up on Pedialyte. “And you won’t be able to go back into your office for a few days, anyway, Congresswoman.” The little weasel from building management was enjoying kicking her out of her office.

    The evening news was full of stories of sewer eruptions on Capitol Hill with workers and residents terrified by what the DC Water and Sewer Authority claimed were sewer rats expelled by the pressure. Mayor Bowser demanded more money from Congress to update the sewer system.

    And it was the next day before anyone noticed that Amy Klobuchar was missing.

  • What Are We Reading

    OMWC

    Hardly anything because, well, new job and moving. But my bathroom book for the past week has been Steven Weinberg’s The First Three Minutes, a short tome on the Standard Model of cosmology. Come prepared for some real mental challenge.

    While I was flying back and forth to Arizona, I indulged in a fantastically depressing and wonderful collection of stories, novellas, and a couple of complete novels by my favorite (((author))), A Malamud Reader. Although Malamud is usually lumped with contemporaries like Philip Roth, he really was a far better writer.

    One day, I’ll have time to read again.

    SugarFree

    I have retreated to childhood, reading Piers Anthony’s Split Infinity series for the dozenth or so time. I’m going to be honest: he’s not a great writer, but damn can he churn out enjoyable fiction, and the kind that gets creepier to read the older you get, which is an aspect I like. I started with the Xanth series when I was nine or ten, picking up A Spell For Chameleon–mostly off the Darrell K. Sweet cover, familiar from Ballentine’s paperback series of Heinlein Juveniles–at a bookstore going out of business sale. (My dad’s way of dealing with me over my parent’s divorce was to give me money and turn me loose in a bookstore.) I wandered away from Anthony in high school, around the time I realized was reading books about the panties of little girls in the Xanth books, and the rampant sister-fucking of the Bio of A Space Tyrant series got a little weird, and the Incarnations of Immortality ran out of steam. And, I’ll be honest, I was done with fantasy after, um, certain works were read (Seriously, fuck The Elfstones of Shannara,) and it took years for me to bother reading high or epic fantasy again.

    Riven

    Well, I’ve definitely slowed down some on the Dresden Files, but that shouldn’t be a reflection on the books/stories themselves. It’s my fault for not making time for the important things. I finished White Night, moved on to Small Favor, and then rapidly consumed four short stories set between Small Favor and Turn Coat: Day Off, Backup, The Warrior, and Last Call. I’ve been on the first page of the last short story between Small Favor and Turn Coat for a couple weeks now, but I’m confident that one day, eventually, maybe I’ll finish reading Curses.  … Probably. No promises.

    mexican sharpshooter

    Once again, the only thing of note that I read is a children’s book for my 4 year old.  Today’s entry is Yertle the Turtle by Dr. Seuss.  Yertle of course, really is a turtle.  It is a story I particularly like, because Dr, Seuss explains to children how to deal with assholes, particularly the ones that declare themselves king.

    The story begins when Yertle realizes if he stands upon the shell of another turtle, he can see farther than he could if he stood on his own feet.  Why stand on another turtle’s back?  FYTW.  Yertle eventually declares himself king of all that he sees and continues to enslave more turtles in his quest to obtain more power.  Surprisingly, they all seem to agree to his terms.  Stand upon each other’s shoulders, and let Yertle stand atop them all.

    Except for one.  A turtle named Mack, protested and explained multiple times how much it sucked being at the bottom of the pile.  Yertle responded he was the king, so FYTW.

    Until Mack sneezed.  The entire stack of turtles came tumbling down with Yertle on top falling the farthest distance to Earth.  Yertle spent the rest of his days being king of the mud.  Honestly, this is probably the perfect allegory to explain 2016 to a child.

    jesse.in.mb

    Back in September 2017, I read Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing due to interesting roommate-related circumstances and the pending possibility of moving. My roommate successfully got a job outside of the country and so I figured I’d revisit themes of throwing away all of my shit as I make room for my boyfriend to move in. In that vein I finally picked up The Life-Changing Manga of Tidying Up: A Magical Story. It’s probably a great way to introduce kids to the idea of keeping things tidy and letting go of stuff they don’t want/need. I didn’t really get anything new out of it, but my boyfriend realized most of his instrument collection no longer “sparked joy” and is only bringing his uilleann pipes. 

    The Ruin by Dervla McTiernan was a fun procedural drama set in Galway and its environs that tied together a few disparate stories in pleasing ways. It was an audiobook and the narrator (Aoife McMahon) did a superlative job jumping between different characters in a way that gave them dimension without getting in the way of the story.

    SP

    Inventories of household goods. Bills of lading. Real estate listings and leases. Insurance documents. Utility terms of service. Receipts. Checking account and credit card statements. Truck rental contracts. Google Maps. Hotel booking sites.

     

    Brett L

    It was a slow month for me. I read the latest of John Conroe’s Demon Accords novel. I can’t really understand why I keep reading them at this point, except that they’re fast, and they don’t take themselves too seriously. Oh, and he’s good a blowing up his fake worlds real good. This one was kind of… not mailed in, exactly, but he needed to move some players from A to B to write the book he really wants to write. Contrived is a better word. Still fun, although he did kind of Harry Dresden genocide most of an alien race. What else? Oh, I did a re-read of Stross’s Iron Sunrise. I’m still sad he couldn’t really salvage that universe, but totally see his point about it being irretrievably broken. And lots and lots of MS Azure documentation.

  • Are You for Eighty Six?

    A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part One:

    Are You for Eighty Six?

    by Tonio

     

    The editors have prudently insisted that I warn my readers that they may find some material in the following story to be deeply disturbing and offensive. You, dear reader, should be both disturbed and offended that such stories have to exist, that the source material is all too real and not just the febrile rantings of a madman.

    Angelica Cortasio-Ortez heard the corridor door open and through the slit in the stall door she saw a fat chick in a pussy hat enter the restroom. Angelica was trying to pee, not because she had to but because it was an excuse to escape the office for a few minutes. She should be sulking in her own private bathroom but she was not allowed to actually use it – couldn’t use it at this point. She had assumed that the locked door in her office which none of her keys fit was a maintenance corridor or something; nobody had told her she even had a bathroom until the cleaning lady had opened it one evening when she was working late. She had called the after-hours maintenance number and when she finally reached a person he told her that he’d enter a “door needs re-key” ticket but that it wasn’t an emergency. The next morning she arrived to find the door unlocked, but blocked by construction tape. She had cut through the red “Caution / Cuidado” tape only to find that all the fixtures had been ripped out overnight.

    The fat chick entered the stall next to Angelica and locked the door. She then heard the seat go up and found that strange. But she shouldn’t judge; not all women peed sitting down, after all. Upon learning of the destruction of her private bathroom she had called the Superintendent of House Office Buildings and the smarmy little man she got on the phone told her that the bathroom had been condemned as unsafe after the office had been assigned to her.

    “Of course we would not have assigned you an office with an unsafe bathroom, Congresswoman; the final inspection from when the last tenant vacated listed everything in good order. But mold grew in the room when the suite wasn’t occupied. We can’t expose you to unsafe conditions. We’ll get you a new bathroom as soon as possible once the shutdown is over… No, I’m afraid there are no more available executive grade offices available.”

    Angelica fumed to relive the moment, her hands involuntarily forming into fists and shaking up and down in unison. She bet her eyes had what the old white men called her “crazy look.”

    The fat chick was doing a lot of moving around in her stall, like she was changing clothes or something. All of a sudden the moving stopped and the stall walls shuddered. Angelica could no longer see the fat chick’s feet – she must be doing a toilet squat. Never a good sign.

    “Everything okay,” asked Angelica tentatively.

    “Yeah, sorry. I’m doing a medical abortion and the vaginal suppository has made me really crampy. Normally it’s a lot easier than this, but I should have known that this one would be difficult. I’ve got an interview in a couple of minutes and want to get this done beforehand.”

    And in that few seconds Angelica had learned more about the fat chick than she knew about people she had known her entire life. She felt an instant kinship with the fat chick and wondered whether she was the one interviewing for her personal assistant position. No, that would be too coincidental, like something in bad fiction.

    “So, this is going to get really nasty really soon and you should leave if you’re done.”

    “You’re sure…”

    “Totes.”

    “Where are you interviewing,” asked Angelica standing up and doing a show flush.

    “Congresswoman Angelica Cortasio-Ortez,” said the fat chick emitting a grunt and a long fart.

    “I work in that office, I can tell them I saw you here and that you’ll be a couple of minutes late. I’m sure she’ll understand” said Angelica.

    “Thanks,” said the fat chick. “Tell them Moira Flaherty will be just a few minutes late.”

    “Good luck Moira.” Angelica fled the bathroom with due haste as a cacaphony of sounds erupted. She made it into the corridor and as the door closed was sure she heard a cry and a splash, followed by the sound of something being beaten with a shoe.

    This was what the patriarchy made women endure – aborting in anonymous public toilets, little better than the back-alley abortions the crones had told her about. There should be numerous warm, safe public walk-in abortatoriums staffed by caring women. With onsite childcare, of course. Women should also have mandatory access to abortion doulas in times of need. Her breathing quickened as she imagined herself leading America down a shining path towards full health equity for women.

    She decided to take the steps down to her office. The elevators went to the basement, at least one of them anyway, but it was generally quicker to take the steps unless you had a cart or something. Hers was the only congressional office in the basement of the House Rayburn Office Building. They had moved senior staff out of their offices to make room for the freshman class of congresspersons, and the lottery had assigned her the office formerly occupied by the Head of Housekeeping.

    Angelica walked past her receptionist who waved her down and handed her a pink square of paper, a phone call memo. Incredibly old-fashioned, but her staff had quickly learned that their computers were unreliable. The receptionist was talking to someone through her headset, answering one of the many misdirected calls.

    “This really is Congresswoman Cortasio-Ortez’ office… We get a lot of calls for housekeeping… There is a problem with the House switchboard… Then I suggest you contact the Superintendent of House Office Buildings… You, too.”

    She walked into the private part of her office and found Ella, her chief of staff. “Moira Flaherty is going to be a few minutes late. I ran into her in the restroom, she’s aborting. Can you get someone to have a pot of tea ready in my office when she comes in?”

    “Poor thing. Of course, Congresswoman.”

  • The Glibening, Part Six: Your Routine Crazy Girl Call

    The Glibening, Part Six:

    Your Routine Crazy Girl Call

    by Tonio

     

     

    Previously.

    Gilhooly and Kestrel reappeared in the elevator lobby of Thought! Magazine. The Muzak began playing a peppy brass instrumental. The receptionist had removed her own dress and was trying to fit it over the skeletal remains of Jane Fappington-Smythe, the very recent former editor.

    “I like those things walking around in their skins better than I like them,” said Kestrel blankly.

    At that moment two NYPD officers burst out of the stairwell door, pistols drawn.

    “Okay, folks, everyone just stay still for a second until we can get this sorted out. Everyone OK in here? Oh, she’s not,” said the skinny redhead cop looking at the receptionist. His partner, a dark-haired beefy man, circled the lobby.

    “Anyone injured? Any threats we should know about?”

    Gilhooly and Kestrel shook their heads mutely, trying to figure out whether their situations had improved or gotten worse.

    “Squirrels ate Jay-Fap.” the receptionist giggled, pushing the skeleton’s hand through one of the armholes of the dress.

    “Squirrels?”

    “A whole bunch of them. They all got off the elevator and just ate her!”

    The skinny cop looked at Gilhooly and Kestrel.

    “Officer…Reardon, this poor girl is our receptionist. She’s only been here since Monday. She’s obviously disturbed,” said Gilhooly.

    “Canadian, eh? And, who are you?”

    “Dmitri Gilhooly,” he said gesturing at the directory board. “I’m an editor here,” he said, seeking to be as vague as possible given the circumstances.

    “And you are,” asked Reardon, looking at Kestrel.

    “Regina Kestrel, editor emeritus.”

    “Editor whatius?”

    “Former editor, now moved on to other things.”

    “And who or what is ‘Jay-Fap,’” asked Reardon.

    “This is Jay-Fap,” said the receptionist brightly, grasping the skeleton’s arm bones to wave its hand at the cop.

    Reardon snorted at the grinning skeleton with the outlandish purple hair waving at him. “Uh-huh.” A routine crazy girl call, and this one wasn’t bad looking; he had a good view of her in her bra and panties playing with the skeleton. Probably she wasn’t actually crazy, but had been drugged by some scumbag. He planned to follow up on her in the hospital once the thorazine wore off and maybe score a date.

    “Jane Fappington-Smythe. Jay-Fap.”

    “Hey Reardon, Jane Fappington-Smythe is on the directory here,” said the stocky officer. “Also, Dmitri Gilhooly.”

    “Okay, folks, can I see some ID from everyone. And where is ‘Jay-Fap,’” said Reardon looking at Gilhooly.

    “Jane had to go,” said Gilhooly producing his ID and trying very hard to tell only the truth, and as little of it as possible.

    “Thanks, Mr. Gilhooly,” said Reardon after looking at Gilhooly’s driver’s license.

    “Morning sickness,” said Kestrel, reaching into her knockoff handbag for her wallet. “That wall ashtray there is full of her vomit.”

    “I was going to ask about that,” said Reardon, nodding to Kestrel after checking her ID. “Normally your magazine offices smell like a urinal.”

    “Room appears to be clear,” said the beefy cop.

    “Roger that, Stern.” Reardon holstered his pistol. Stern continued to check the entrances and exits.

    “So, you folks normally keep a skeleton in your lobby? What type of magazine is this, anyway,” asked Reardon.

    “Officer, this skeleton is a prop. Something our art department was setting up for the Halloween issue photo shoot.”

    “In July?”

    “Magazine publishing has a long lead time. In October we’ll be finishing the New Year issue.”

    “Stern, radio down to the sarge that EMS…”

    Gilhooly started to remove his turtleneck, or at least that’s what it looked like to Officer Reardon who moved his hand to the taser on his belt. He bet it was Gilhooly who had drugged the girl. Tasing the SOB would help him score with her if that were the case.

    “Sir, EMS will be here in just a minute,” said Reardon as he moved his hand to his taser wondering if Gilhooly was on the same drug as the receptionist.

    Gilhooly’s trademark hipster turtleneck (“before it was cool, eh?”) slithered up over his head then jumped to the floor and unravelled some of its lower parts and scurried on its wispy tendrils toward Reardon.

    “Sir, control your dog,” yelled Reardon, firing the taser at the sweater.

    The sweater slowed briefly as the taser hit it but kept coming.

    “Holy shit,” said Stern as Kestrel’s dress rippled and out slipped a matronly foundation garment which started running across the floor toward him on its garter straps, the metal hosiery clips making ticka-ticka sounds on the terrazzo floor, like the nails of a small dog.

    Stern shot the lingerie item. The bullet passed cleanly through, the hosiery clips missing a couple of beats but then continuing their previous rhythm.

    “Get this thing off me,” screamed Reardon as the turtleneck slithered over his head and uniform, pinning his arms to his sides like a straitjacket.

    “They don’t take orders from us,” said Kestrel.

    “Officer Reardon,” said Korb’s voice from Reardon’s radio earpiece, “please don’t struggle. Just go along with us and no harm will come to you or the other policeman.”

    The girdle likewise swarmed Stern and encased his torso and arms.

    “Don’t worry, Big Boy, I’ll be off you in a few minutes,” cooed Xylpig through Stern’s earpiece.

    “Hey now,” said Stern, turning beet red.

    “Okay, everyone, this is what’s going to happen,” said Korb. “Some nice women are going to come in and take poor Jay-Fap away. They’ll be in and out in sixty seconds Kestrel will keep Crazy McCrazypants out of the way. You two officers will stand here with us and not cause any trouble.” At the word “trouble,” Reardon bucked up and grunted.

    Once the body is gone then we get off you two and go back to our hosts. You radio down that the scene is clear and everything continues like nothing else happened.”

    “There never was a skeleton,” said Xylpig . “It was all in the mind of the girl who freaked out on drugs, called the cops, then did a striptease in the lobby.”

    “What about the taser and gunshot,” asked Reardon. “We have to account for that shit, you know.”

  • We Interrupt this Transmission

    Recorded from Durham University institute for Computational Cosmology—March 2018

    “This is absolutely amazing.”  Kegerreirris exclaimed.

    He raced through the lab shouting happily as he finally found evidence to support his theory of Uranus.

    ”Cue the Ron Paul GIF.  ITS HAPPENING!”

    He continued running and slapped an unsuspecting graduate student in her supple behind.  Recognizing his mistake, he quickly to found a male grad student and slapped his behind as well.

    ”What are you doing professor?” The female grad student asked incredulously.

    “Um…Never mind that!  I finally solved the riddle to Uranus!”  Kegerreirris shouted.  Echoing through the crowded hallway.

    “My what?”  The female grad student asked.

    “Uranus!”  Kegerreirris replied.

    ”Her’s may be, but there is no riddle with mine.”  The male grad student said.  Writing his Twitter handle on Kegerreirris‘ hand.

    ”You best be very careful about what you say next, professor.”  The female grad student said, while clutching the electronic #metoo alert hanging from a chain around her neck.

    “We performed a series of hydrodynamic simulations from a deep impact to Uranus.  The data suggests the impact to Uranus is the reason Uranus tumbles instead of rotate.”  Kegerreirris explained.

    ”It doesn’t tumble you sicko!”  The female grad student began to hit the #metoo alert around her neck furiously.  “You all saw what this member of the patriarchy did!”

    “No seriously.  A deep impact on Uranus is the reason it has such an unusual movement.  None like any other body in the solar system.  I have a graphic here on my phone.  See?”

    View post on imgur.com

    She began hitting the button on the #metoo alert as fast as she could.

    ”Alright I think we’ve all seen enough.”  A man in a cheap suit walked out from a shadowy corner of the lab.  He had a slightly tallow tint to the baggy skin hanging around his neck.  Smoking a cigarette in one hand.  “Nothing here happened.  You didn’t see anything in the simulations, that guy didn’t just flirt with you, and this guy didn’t walk up and slap your fat ass.”

    ”Of course he did.  He did it in front of everyone.  He was about to rape me!”  The female grad student began shouting over the cigarette smoking man.

    ”Okay, you need to slow your roll there, sugar tits.  The only thing that got raped was Uranus.”  He began again.

    ”Exactly!  He wanted to—“

    The pudgy, cigarette smoking man reached into his sweaty jacket and pulled out a TASER and stuck the prongs into her thigh.

    She stopped yelling.

    ”You know, they say Kegelciser—“

    “Kegerreirris.  Dr. Kegerreirris.”

    ”I don’t like that name.  You’re now Dr. Kegelciser unless you fail to keep this quiet.  Now as I was saying.  They say you need to aim for the a large muscle group.  Its always the chunky ones that make it difficult to determine that.  Is the thigh meaty, flabby, a bit of both—mmmm.”  He took a long drag of the cigarette and put it out on the laboratory floor.  “You are going to do something for me.  You see your research comes dangerously close to something we’ve been tracking for a long time.  You found evidence it can rape planet sized objects.  We need you to keep this quiet or I am going to have to take you back to the National Archives with sugar tits over here.  Capice?”

    ”So what do I say happened to Uranus?”  Kegerreirris asked.

    ”The world cannot know of the truth behind SPACE SMITH.  Just say it was a rock or something.”

     

    End Recoding ring