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Comrades! Liberals! Members of The Coastal Elite!

The great day of victory in The War On Christmas is upon us! Driven to desperation by our marauding hordes of social justice warriors, the impotent Defenders Of Christmas have been cowed into total and unconditional surrender!

After decades spent pinned under the cold, black boot of Santa Claus, powerless in the face of the Christmas-industrial complex, we summoned the resolve to take a stand. To rise up!

And rise, we did.

We rose up, in indignation!

We rose up, in anger!

We rose up, in solidarity! …


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Dear People Who Declined My Facebook Event Invite,

It is with great disappointment that I write to you today, the day after our First Annual Footie Pajama Game Of Thrones Bar Crawl. The turnout, as you can imagine, was incredible. Well over half a dozen people showed up, all clad in adult-sized footie pajamas, ready to make the rounds from Chili’s to TGI Friday’s to Applebee’s to Macaroni Grill, and back again. It was, in a word, lit. Appetizers were ordered. Cocktails were consumed. Songs were sung, loudly and in Dothraki.

But not by you. Not by any of you. You all had something better to do.

While I do appreciate you responding to the Facebook invite to let me know you wouldn’t be attending, I have to admit I was quite underwhelmed by some of your reasons.

For example, Billy said he couldn’t attend because he had “just discovered a Seventh Degree Of Kevin Bacon.” While impressive, it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that truly requires a “midnight run to the Patent Office.” Surely, that could have waited until morning, especially because, according to my research, the Patent Office doesn’t actually have a “drive-though window for late-night patents.” Also, the office is in Washington, D.C., and we live in Topeka, Kansas.

Another one of you had to “take a pass on this one” because you had scheduled the delivery of your “lifetime supply of free pudding” for the same day. I’ve been as supportive of your extreme couponing hobby as anyone, but it’s starting to impact your social life in ways that I find concerning. First, you miss Caramel Night because you have to redeem a truckload of Wet Naps box tops, then you skip out on Paddy O’Lopez’s Irish-Mexican Luau to go “bobbing for savings” in a kiddie pool filled with Tampax coupons. And now this. When will it end, Tammy?

Then there’s Tom, who couldn’t attend due to “complications” from a “heart transplant.” Really, Tom? Is that the best you could do? Scott managed to show up, and he’s on oxygen. He didn’t let a collapsed lung or two stand between him and a good time. His colostomy bag? He just tucked it into the pouch of his kangaroo onesie. It was creative and amazing, and we got him and his wheelchair back to the hospital before the nurses even noticed they were gone.

Let’s not forget Pam, who said she “didn’t get the invite” because her “Facebook got deleted”. While responding to said invite. On Facebook. I can only stare in wonder.

Of course, some of you had legitimate reasons why you couldn’t attend. Dale couldn’t come because he wanted to spend some time with his kids. He’s a family man, which is hardly a crime. Well, in this case it was, hence the Amber Alert. …


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RESOLVED, that the President of the United States (“the President”), is impeached for high crimes and misdemeanors, and that the following articles of impeachment be exhibited to the United States Senate:

ARTICLE I

WHEREAS, on the eve of the President’s inauguration, a full moon shone like a beacon against the ink-black darkness of a starless night; and

WHEREAS, the President was seen walking alone across the National Mall that night, an ominous fog swirling around his ankles, his footfalls echoing off the cold marble edifice of the Lincoln Memorial; and

WHEREAS, a werewolf emerged from the shadows behind the President, its pelt matted with dead leaves and encrusted with dried gore; and

WHEREAS, the President turned at the sound of claws clicking on pavement, his voice quivering as he called out, “Who’s there?”; and

WHEREAS, after a pause just long enough to make the President wonder whether his mind was playing tricks on him, the werewolf leapt from the darkness; and

WHEREAS, the President’s Secret Service detail heard the President’s anguished cries, and opened fire on the lupine form that was hunched over the President’s body; and

WHEREAS, the werewolf whipped its head in the direction of the gunshots, its yellow eyes aglow with the firelight of an ancient evil; and

WHEREAS, the werewolf let out a bloodcurdling howl of pain and rage as it disappeared into the night; now, therefore, be it

RESOLVED that the President has been infected with viral lycanthropy, the primary symptom of which is an involuntary metamorphosis into a bloodthirsty man-wolf when the moon is full.

ARTICLE II

WHEREAS, approximately one month later, the next lunar cycle again brought the moon to its fullest form; and

WHEREAS, the President was exposed to the moonlight through the window of the Oval Office; and

WHEREAS, the President looked down at the mobile phone in his hands and was shocked to see thick black hair growing from his knuckles; and

WHEREAS, the President struggled to tap out the last few letters of his tweet (“SAD!”) due to the long claws that were emerging from his fingertips; and

WHEREAS, the back of the President’s oversized suit jacket split open, his spine arching and twisting under a pelt of newly-sprouted fur; and

WHEREAS, the front of the President’s face transmogrified into an elongated, snout-like form, his human teeth morphing into rows of flesh-tearing canines; and

WHEREAS, the President’s ears slid towards the top of his head, while growing into points and turning forward like some kind of fucked-up German Shepard; and

WHEREAS, the President’s eyes rolled back in his head, then rolled forward again to reveal irises the color of eternal hellfire; and

WHEREAS, the President let forth the howl of a wolf driven mad by its unquenchable thirst for human blood; now, therefore, be it

RESOLVED that the President exhibits all the classic symptoms of being a werewolf, including, but not limited to, actually turning into a goddamned werewolf.

ARTICLE III

WHEREAS, upon hearing the howl, the Vice President looked up at the NRA lobbyist he was fellating and asked, “Did you hear that?”; and

WHEREAS, the Vice President resisted the NRA lobbyist’s pleas not to stop, and instead crept cautiously from his office; and

WHEREAS, the Vice President noticed what seemed to be large paw prints pressed into the cream-colored carpet leading from the Oval Office; and

WHEREAS, the Vice President followed the paw prints down the hall, around the corner, and into the Roosevelt Room; and

WHEREAS, the Vice President came face-to-face with the President in wolf-form, his over-long red tie still knotted around his neck; and

WHEREAS, the Wolf-President’s lips curled back to reveal a muzzle full of razor sharp teeth; and

WHEREAS, the Vice President opened his mouth to scream, but was unable to produce a sound before the President seized his throat and tore it from his body; and

WHEREAS, after devouring the Vice President in his entirety, the President leapt through the window of the Roosevelt Room and disappeared into the night; now, therefore, be it

RESOLVED that the President has acted in a manner contrary to his trust as President, subversive of constitutional government, and to the manifest of injury of the people of the United States, especially the Vice President, who, as mentioned above, was eaten.

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that the President, by such conduct warrants impeachment and trial, and removal from office.

AND BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that the President, if spotted while in wolf form, should be shot using one or more bullets fashioned from silver and fired from a government-approved firearm. …


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Hello, and welcome to the Olive Garden! My name is Giovanni, and I’ll be your sommelier for the evening. May I interest you in our delicious selection of wines?

Excellent. Each of our choices tonight were hand-picked to perfectly complement your last day on the face of our ruined, smoldering Earth.

More free breadsticks? Sure, I’ll make sure to tell your server.

Let’s start with our splendid assortment of reds. First, we have our Merlot: soft and medium-bodied, with dark fruit flavors and the smoky undertones of a scorched planet littered with human carrion. You may also detect subtle hints of tree bark and shoe leather, which pairs nicely with chicken, veal, and any meat desperately gnawed from the desiccated corpses of household pets.

Next, we have our Cabernet Sauvignon. This Old World Cab has more of an herbal flavor profile, with hints of black cherry and licorice dancing around the metallic taste of a shotgun barrel in your mouth, your only escape from a lost world devoid of light and hope. If you’ve ever had to sharpen a human femur into a spear to protect yourself against the suffocating terror of nightfall, then this is the wine for you.

Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention our Pinot Noir. It’s a light-bodied red, resplendent with strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry fruit flavors. It goes equally well with fish or cheese, and helps take the edge off the paroxysms of agony as your starving body consumes itself from the inside out.

As for our whites, we have a number of superb selections. Our most popular choice — and my personal favorite — is our Chardonnay. The oak aging delivers a creamy texture with tinges of butter and vanilla, flavors that hearken back to the days before the End Times, when food was lovingly baked by Mother instead of being stripped from the bones of the fallen.

Our Pinot Grigio? Unfortunately, we’re unable to properly chill it to our satisfaction, mostly due to the lack of refrigeration and basic human sanitation. Without electricity, the closest thing we have to refrigeration is the cold realization that all is lost.

We do, however, have a delightful Sauvignon Blanc that presents the zesty, herbaceous flavor of gooseberry when paired with the encroaching darkness of certain death. Its distinctive taste profile conjures memories of better times, before The Last War and The Food Riots, when The Great Cleansing was just a lofty campaign promise from an unlikely candidate.

And finally, we have a special treat: our signature Sangiovese. It’s a savory, rustic red wine, perfectly balanced, with the earthy tones of a freshly-dug mass grave. Tart cherry and red plum — combined with a distinctive bitterness reflective of how avoidable the collapse of our civilization seems in retrospect — make this a fine accompaniment to your final meal.

All of these choices are available either as a full or half carafe, by the glass, or in a collectible Olive Garden decanter crafted from a human skull.

So, what can I start you off with?

More breadsticks. Right. …


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I’m just gonna call her. No big deal. I’m just going to pick up the phone, dial the number … It’s easy. Simple. Painless. I’ll say hi, she’ll say hi, then …

What? What do I say next? I have to say something. There can’t just be silence. I’ll look like an idiot. I need a strategy. A plan. I can’t go into it blind. I need to be prepared.

An icebreaker. That’s what I need. Something to get the conversation started. It’ll make it easier for both of us. Anything will do. The weather. Perfect.

“Great weather we’re having,” I’ll say. …

About

Warren Benedetto

Optimism + time = pessimism

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