‘I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU,’ my father said, ‘but I could really go for some burgers and fries.’ Together, we rounded up the troops, me, my three daughters, and a small toy poodle named Frodo, and began our walk into town. It was a cool, shadowy evening in America, the sidewalks were paved all the way down to the major intersection that doubled as the town center. In reality, there was an old Presbyterian church, the Apple bank, the new and improved firehouse and some commercial buildings. Starbucks, the true epicenter, was a way off in another shopping center. That was where others gathered to mingle and report on whose kid got into what Ivy League and thus was assured a swift pathway to financial success and class prestige.
When we reached the Long Island Burger Kiosk, we could see a pre-election pep rally was taking place. How had we not heard about this? How had we wandered in here? It was a vast hall; all its seats were full. On stage, there sat a line of recently fired generals. Admonishing them was the Secretary of War Pete Kegbreath, his silver pompadour glistening in the lights, his face sparkling with sweat. He was saying, “To all of you, I would ask, ‘Cui bono?’ Who is benefitting from woke transgenderism? I’ll tell you who, the plastic surgeons who cut off men’s dicks and call it ‘gender affirmation surgery.’ The hormone makers, who sell you estrogen!”
With that, he unsheathed his own syringe. “And that’s why we have decided to come up with our own war serum, to counter the effects of transgender wokery. It’s laden with testosterone and other minerals and compounds that every warfighter needs to fight wars.” He approached one of the generals and injected him with the serum. The old general began to shiver in his seat but otherwise was indifferent to what was happening. In his soul, he had already given up.
When the president came onto the stage, there were cheers and boos. Rory Lapp, the bestselling Estonian writer and poet, was in the middle of the melee. I saw him stand atop a chair, with his pink, dinner party sweater tied around his waist, and thrust his middle finger into the air. Then Rory began to shout, with an Estonian accent, “Fuck you!” Others began to join him. “Fuck you!” From the middle of the crowd, a rastafarian baker from the small Estonian town of Viljandi stood. He shouted out, “Hail Satan!” The crowds began to shout after him, “Hail Satan! Hail Satan! Hail Satan!” Secretary of War Kegbreath nodded. He injected another general, who began to convulse under the blinding lights on the flag-draped stage.
In the corner, the president was quietly dancing.
The funny thing is, we just watched this go on the whole time, transfixed by the spectacle. Even the little toy poodle watched curiously. Soon our orders of burgers and fries were ready. Crisp East End potato fries, seasoned with sea salt. Is there anything better in this world?
