The CSA, Rebirth of A Nation

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: marclevytoo

Back to the future gains ground.

The pace of life in the newly organized Certifiable States of America, the CSA, as in most underdeveloped countries of the Third World, was less than breakneck. The pace cars for the weekly sprint were provided gratis as an incentive to lease long term by John Deere. Their tractors were factory guaranteed, per solemn word of close personal sales representatives and advisers to the real Jesus, to plow like the fucking dickens. And they did, you better believe your lily white ass, no fingers, toes, or noses crossed, no lie. The just plain folks in the spanking new but already olden CSA knew how to kick it and have a whale of a traditional swell time. Parades and rallies stressing sharp performance and high yields in straight rows of corn, sharp shooters, and hogs were popular. Even if the factory guaranteed John Deere plows, along with the carbines, had to be imported from the still ill-named United States of America and cost a fucking arm and a leg due to punitive tariffs. And so what if the organization of the new country had come about in a more or less hasty manner and was a tad wee bit of a mite disorganized due to more unreasonable demands by the old country when axing vital farm subsidies. Don't turncoat farmers in Indiana and Idaho deserve as much of a full life as ever? You better believe it, along with a bunch of other crap. In the brave new world of order, though, it is what it fucking is. The president for life says so, no lie.

 

What continued to be most important to indigenous citizens of the ten sort of contiguous states after the grand secession was the ceaseless satisfaction of the president for life of the Certifiable States, Reynard Rumpf, who was somewhat happily residing, praise his magnificent utterness, beach side in the newly built Gilt House and golf course adjacent to the luxury mall featuring name brands on the sugary shores of the new nation's capital, Pass Christian, Mississippi. Somewhat happy is as it turns out, along with a good gob smacked bit of disgruntlement, was as good as it fucking gets. It was so unfair to the president for life. He just couldn't get no satisfaction.

 

Sure, there were grumbles in the incipient state among doomsday dissenters alleging the vice-president and heir apparent for life, Nirvanka the Innocent, might have tried a wee bit harder to negotiate a better deal for the little citizens who don't account for very much. But wasn't she amply demonstrating her enormously great sense of personal sacrifice for the nation by subjecting her nipped, tailored, and tucked body to the rigors of life in filthy Jew York. She was engaged in the ceaseless striving through channels to free her dumber brothers from federal prison in treacherous Pennsylvania. Thank the righteous one god, praise his mighty ass, for the full diplomatic immunity she received as the Ambassador to the United Nations of the CSA.

 

The two brothers, one taller, one smaller, each a fully grown butthole immersed in a tub of his own blooming stink, and not sorry, had been fighting enemies with fists, sticks, balls, gall, and hired goons and thugs for ages. Brickbats were always within reach. Lawsuits were constantly being filed. Both were reliably wrong on the issues. But, so fucking what? Not even Benedict Arnold was perfect.

 

They were not only being forced, in a horrific example of cruel and unusual punishment, to sleep atop a hard single mattress in an actual cell without a plump downy pillow, but awakened at dawn to shovel mealy slop into their sullen maws unfit for the wild animals they bravely hunted for stuffing from sturdy jeeps impervious to rollovers. There was no brunch, no cocktail hours, no late night pick-me-ups from hookers befitting their class. Time in that beastly hellhole seemed to be creeping like dark European centuries.

 

As liars and cheaters honed by rote study of ancestral assholes whose portraits blighted the plastered walls of condos and castles with protruding claws and nails, distinctive patterns had been forged and transformed like steaming magma into stone. What were brothers with arms expected to do but follow and repeat, repeat, repeat? Or what, change behavior? No previous asshole in the family would tolerate such an affront. Backwards was no way for tall or even small brothers of privilege to go. When in autocratic history has that ever been how divine entitlements work? The claims of their stiff lineage went back to the large brown eggs plopped out by Plymouth rock chickens and gathered willy-nilly by the quickest and most nimble fingers on a trigger. All fathers egged on all brothers against all brothers to win and pass it on and on and on. The way forward thus became as clear as cut diamonds and faux gilt gold. By any means necessary was no hollow slogan to those in the know.

 

The president for life was no less valiantly engaged in the struggle for freedom than his preternaturally hot daughter. The dumb and dumber brothers, technically his offspring as well, were sadly on their own while more worldly events continued to loop on a perpetual reel. The president for life was sitting in front of the image of a campfire projected on his wall-to-wall very very flat big screen. He was addressing an intimate cabal of a dozen loyal gas bags and oilmen seated around a conference table in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the lucky seventh state to join the good old gang. Each very very white and paunchy man had deposited for the privilege of gleaning what's up and up on the down low a non-refundable sum of good will including one hundred thousand US dollars, no sketchy foreign counterfeits, in a highly recommended Cayman Island bank selected from the royal family's exquisite collection.

 

This is sort of what to the best of eyewitness recollections the grand masterful man maybe said:

 

"Let me tell ya, this is the way I see it. It is what it is. It's great to be back on stage and screen by the way. But let me continue with what all I see. We can laugh at jokes some other time. What I see is a whole big pizza pie as round as the moon, not full like that movie moon pie with that ditsy Cher going back to some time I don't know when, I used to see her, but close, or at least getting there if you know what I mean. You see it, I see it, we all see it. It's like ice cream in a bowl. It's hard not to see. The thing is, when the bug bites ya gotta scratch no matter where. Am I right or am I right? Underwear, no underwear, wherever and whatever. We play our cards right, dig in, dig under, shoot though, no jokers, nothing wild, and we shoot for the moon as big as that pizza pie, the whole pie, and some very nice cakes too, and we cut our bites into pieces and we bake more pies and we have our pie and cakes too to eat. And ice cream. Where would we be without our ice cream? None of us can forget all there is. You get it and you get it good and then you got it. And we eat."

 

 

 


Submitted: October 26, 2020

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The Gene Puddle

See the boy run. See the man keep running. See the dummkopf Drumpf keep bumbling from behind.

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