A Day in the Life of a Trump Voter

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

I spend a lot of time on the web talking to Trump voters, who are easy to distinguish from Russian Trolls. This is a composite of what I have seen talking to them. Sort of a quintessential goob.

A Day in the Life of a Trump Voter

Billy Bob Benson tried to roll out of bed and found that he couldn't. His 417 lb bulk had long ago broken the box spring frame and his mattress now formed a neat pocket that held him. Like the sweet spot in a well broken in baseball mitt. Or perhaps a dog bed.

“I don't need this”, he bitched. Already in a bad mood because the baying of the neighbors coon dog had woke him up. Woke him up out of a wonderful dream where he was again united with his first cousin Jeanie Ann. Jeanie Ann wouldn't have much to do with him now days, but Billy Bob figured she was just busy. Taking care of her twelve kids and chasing down all of her ex husbands for the child support each month was a full time job.

He again tried to roll to the top of his little pocket in the mattress, and onto the flat portion at the edge of the bed. Uneaten pork rinds crackling beneath him. It was just too much effort, he reached for the bottle of vodka and pack of cigarettes on the night stand. He was laying on his ashtray and he reached behind himself to extract it from under his back. He brushed to butts and ashes up and over the rim of his mattress pocket. He poured three fingers of Taaka Vodka into the chipped white coffee mug on the night stand and took a big sip.

“Ahh”, he sighed as he fumbled for his lighter and lit the cigarette. A Warmth seemed to creep through his body. But this was interrupted by a sudden onset of the heaves. It began as a series of coughs and then progressed to an “Urp!, urp!, urp!” that was close to a vomit reflex, but not quite. He fought it down and forced down the rest of the vodka to quiet it. The second cup of vodka went down easier.

Feeling restored by the vodka and cigarette, Billy Bob again tried to rise from his bed. With some effort, he rolled onto his stomach and was able to army crawl over the top, much as one might exit a fox hole.

It had rained the night before and the kitchen floor was wet. Looking up, Billy Bob saw the the sheet metal making up the trailer's roof was coming detached at the seams and he could see slivers of daylight broken by rusty rivets.

“Gotta get me some tar”, he thought. “Butter up them joints again.”

But he had to ask himself who was he fooling? Although he could probably climb a ladder to the roof, he doubted he could haul himself over the edge to the top, especially if he was carrying a bucket of tar. He was, after all, 55 years old and disabled. And his disability was real. What 55 year old, 417 lb man who drank a half gallon of vodka per week didn't have heart problems?

“Prob'bly gonna have to hire [har] good nephew Jethro to do it for me.”, he mused. The idea didn't set well. Jethro would want to be paid in Oxycontin tablets and Billy Bob was running low.

“Maybe I'll just move the mop out of the bathroom and into the kitchen corner there [thar].”

Hungry, he rustled up a couple of packets of Moon Pies and a cherry soda for breakfast. He moved to the living room, shoo'd the dogs off the couch and turned on the Fox News segment he had recorded the evening before. He extracted a bottle of vodka from behind a sofa pillow, poured a little cherry soda into a coffee mug retrieved from the floor and then mixed in the vodka. He opened up a packet of Moon Pies just as Sean Hannity came on.

Hannity explained that it wasn't Billy Bob's fault that he had been unemployed most of his life. The “libruls” had conspired to move the well paying factory jobs out of his West Virginia hamlet of 75 people. And Americans weren't supposed to have to move to where the jobs were, only communists did that. And besides, added Billy Bob, he couldn't move if he wanted to. The tires on the trailer had rotted away and the hubs were frozen.

Billy Bob felt his heartbeat going up in righteous anger and he fumbled around for the the aspirin bottle that held his Oxycontin supply. The first oxy of the day was always special, it felt so virginal. Settled down, he returned his attention to the TV.

A Fox News panel was discussing job training programs for rural Ohio and West Virginia. One panelist noted that such programs were unnecessary as these people were born coal miners and tobacco farmers, and needed no training.

“Damn right”, Billy Bob yelled at the TV. He knew that he was a born coal miner even though he'd never actually been inside of a coal mine, most of his work experience being in dish washing and servicing cars at the pumps.

The panel was now explaining how the “libruls” were moving the high paying factory jobs from the one horse towns in the rural South and mid-west to San Francisco, where they were surreptitiously converted into IT and Financial Sector jobs. Many of these jobs now occupied by Indians, who were not entirely white.

This called for another oxi and Billy Bob was headed that way when his cell phone rang. He fumbled it out of the side pocket of his shorts and, glancing at the screen, decided not to answer. Just one of his ex-wives wanting to yap about the child support. They all started calling about this time every month, just before his disability check arrived.

Billy Bob had a busy day planned and he decided to start getting ready. He was going to see his disability attorney about the amount of his award. It was a disgrace that a hard working, honest American like himself had to count pennies like one of the Mexicans working down in the chicken processing plant.

Sorting through his clothes in the corner of the living room he selected a nice pair of overalls and a white, wife beater t-shirt. He wanted to look businesslike, so there would be no wearing overalls without a t-shirt underneath. Even if it was hot outside. The t-shirt had taken on that dignified gray color after being washed for years by stomping on it in the shower.

Outside, he felt a sense of pride as he approached his truck. He didn't unlock his truck doors with one of those commie plastic clicker things like the libs did. No, sir, he used a real American key in a real lock, that is, before the locks stopped working. He circled the truck and noted with satisfaction that all of the tires were pumped up. Sometimes he forgot to stop at the gas station on the way home and was greeted with three flat tires in the morning, and working that tire pump was a killer. Three hundred pumps per tire to get them up enough to make it back to the gas station. The truck was loud thanks to an exhaust leak that had developed the year before, but Billy Bob thought this helped to keep the deer off the road at night.

His attorney had an office in a sandwich shop he ran on the side. Clients waited outside in the booths. They'd order up a BBQ'd pulled pork sandwich if it was close to the third Wednesday of the month and they had just got their checks.

“Mornin' Lou, mornin' Jeb, mornin' Willie”, said Billy Bob as he entered the restaurant. He was breathing hard after walking in from the parking lot and climbing the three steps to the door.

“Mornin' Billie Bob”, they responded in unison.

The restaurant windows were dirty and most of the tables were covered with old newspapers, or parts of old newspapers, mostly the TV sections and Piggly Wiggly ad inserts. Rush Limbaugh was on the intercom system, but was often interrupted by the orders, “Number 17, your chicken sandwich is ready at the window”.

Billy sat down with the other three and they listened to Rush, who was explaining how their heirs were now free from inheritance tax and could now inherit up to 11.5 million dollars without the government sticking their nose into it. A great improvement from the old 4.5 million dollar cap, and real Americans appreciated this.”

“That's right”, said Lou. “When my trailer goes to my boy, I sure don't want Obama or Hillary grabbing a piece of it.”

“Hell, Lou, they don't gotta grab a piece of it. They just gotta wait down wind an' a piece'll blow off and come to them. Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck, cough, cough, wheeze.”

A client left the attorney's office and and Jeb went in. Rush Limbaugh had changed subjects and was now explaining how easy access to healthcare made men weak and turned them into meterosexuals.

“I seen one of them once”, said Willie. “He come into the Kum'N GO over in Martinsburg and bought gas. But didn't jus' get ten dollars worth like ever body else. Filled his whole tank up he did. An' I'm sure he was hopin' everyone else was watchin' Prob'bly from Washington DC.”.

Eventually, it was Billy Bob's turn. He sat opposite the attorney and made his case.

“Sir, I'm livin' like one of them Mexicans making ten bucks an hour down there at the chicken plant processing chickens. Prob'bly worse. An' it ain't right that a hard workin' American like me has to live this way. Hell, I got expenses. I can't sleep at night without my vodka 'cause my back hurts so bad. An' I need my pain pills too. An' after buying that stuff, and my cigarettes, I hardly got enough left over for gas a groceries.”

“Well, like I explained to you last time”, said the attorney, “this here whole system was set up by commies. And your award is based on what you made before you was disabled. I know it's unfair and un-American, but there ain't nothing we can do about that 'cept vote Republican.”

Billy Bob looked down at the Tasmanian Devil tattoo on his forearm and lit a Pall Mall. “Well, the world just ain't fair. You try and you try and you just get beat down.”

“That's right, you just gotta be strong Billy Bob.”

Back at home, Billy Bob filled the coffee cup up all the way with Taaka Vodka and took an extra Oxy. He needed to ration the Oxycontin until his check arrived, but this was an especially tough day. A real bad news day.

He flipped on Fox News but just couldn't get into the discussion. Usually, at times like this, he liked to fondle one of his guns. This made him feel strong. But the guns were all in the hock shop right now.




Submitted: February 13, 2018

© Copyright 2021 MissFedelm. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



Miss Fedelm, this was some great piece of character building!

Wed, February 14th, 2018 8:40pm


What is scary is that it isn't that much of an exaggeration. I've actually met people like that. They are common in the American South.

Wed, February 14th, 2018 1:01pm

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