The date, dear reader, has already been purged from my mind, but the anguish still lingers in my heart. Nuclear war, Jeb Bush elected president, a day without beer and this blasphemous, heinous day that, like the German word Putsch, is too foul a creati on that a literal translation has never been recorded. These are events that I never hoped to see in my lifetime, in my children’s lifetime nor in my grandchildren’s lifetime.
In fact, I was actually going to call my first son Nineteen. Young Ninete e n was going to be shipped off to Japan, immediately after baptism, where he was going to undergo thourough training in KARATE, in JUDO, in NINJITSU, in TAE KWAN FUCKING DO. All of this training, this lifetime of dedication would be done for the greater g ood. And not exclusivily for those that lived in this great country of America, but for the entire world. All so that this day, this day of days, this new infamy clad day would never exist.
Should I have actually had a son, and should I have actua lly named him Nineteen, and should he have undergone all above written training, and then been trained in time for The Most Blasphemous Day... Ever, what would have happened is young Nineteen hefting his sword or some sort of Chinese throwing star, or fuc k i t, even a motherfucking twenty-five dollar ballpark frank and, Ninjistically of course, hurling himself, with blatant disregard for self wellness, towards the south side of Chicago. There, my son, young Nineteen, would put a stop to the craziness, th is v ile, vomit filled hiccup that has happened to the entire world.
At that point, due to the nature of the ten fans that have actually attended a baseball game on the south side of Chicago, he would be shot. But having prevented such evilness from h appen ing, his death would not have been in vein and generations of good, model Americans would sing songs of what he did that day, on this his St. Nineteen day.
Unfortunately for all of us, I am not my own son, nor have I disciplined myself in arts that are anyway close to those that resemble Martial. Unless, of course, you consider Kung Fu the ability to eat an entire extra topping pizza in one sitting by oneself. If that is the case, I’m a Kung Fu fucking master. But alas, dear reader, I was not able to prevent this terrible, terrible evil. Did I walk around downtown St. Paul with a placard reading “The End is Pretty Fucking Nigh”? Of course I did. Was I subsequently beaten down by a compassionate conservative that was en route to a Norm Colem an ral ly? Of course I was.
And so the terrible day came and passed. For all I know the anti-Christ really was born at home plate as the final out was made. My eyes were too full of tears, crying for the death of the world. Surely this is hell.
mu le∂
