Mr. Charlton Learns from the Internet

Every morning, I start the day with some math problems. No joke. I head over to Khan Academy, log myself in, and for anywhere from 15 minutes to half an hour, I either do math problems or watch videos on how to solve math problems. Now, these aren’t difficult math problems. Right now I’m challenging anything from grade 3 math all the way up to grade 8, and once I’ve mastered all of those, I’ll start back into more advanced stuff from the later stages of high school. In the end, I’m hoping to get a better grasp of mathematics as a whole.

mr-charlton-math-score

It just so happens I’m at the quarter mark

What’s really cool about this is the website breaks everything down for you. Fell like you’re ahead of the curve? You can challenge the questions and master the lesson without having to watch a video or practice any problems. Get stumped on some of the homework? You can ask someone about it through the forums. And no matter what choice you make, there are points to be had. Badges to be earned! These people over at Khan Academy have figured out how to get me addicted to learning math!

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PUT THE ACHIEVEMENTS RIGHT INTO MY VEINS!!!

Oh, and it’s not just Khan Academy that’s teaching people new things. There’s Coursera, Udemy, the MIT open courseware (yes, that MIT), I mean, damn, there’s a bunch of websites teaching people a bunch of cool stuff.

The kid in me is ecstatic about learning new things. The cynical adult is a little wary of the whole deal. Because we run into a small issue with many (not all) of the free learning that’s going on over the intertubes; are these skills transferable to the real world?

Obviously, they are, but a lot of these things don’t come with a certificate of any kind. Some of them do offer certification, but then again, are employers willing to….

Willing to….

Oh no. I’m talking about something boring. I read over this and I’m boring the shit out of myself, and I love nothing more than listening to myself talk. Am… am I talking about websites that most people already know about? I mean, at least people who have a regular attention span and don’t spend most of their day drinking by themselves and browsing cat memes.

Christ. Is this what I’ve been reduced to? This is the most interesting thing that’s been going on in my life recently? Oh god, it actually is. Mathematics in the morning has been my little routine for a while now, and that’s the most interesting thing that’s been taking place in Mr. Charlton’s world.

People are traveling the world. I’m seeing pictures of Austrailia, and Thailand, and Denver, and a whole slew of places I’ve never been. Well, except for Denver, I’ve been to Denver. Nice airport. But these people are traveling, and living life to the fullest. The fullest! And here I am, stuck writing about doing morning math problems.

People are having babies. A whole mess of babies! Not that I’m really jealous of that, mind you. Not really a baby guy, never really been interested in the whole ‘trying to replicate part of my genetic strain’ thing. Just not my bag. But babies are interesting, and people seem to be having them. And that’s gotta shake things up a bit. It’s a lot more of a shake up than 15 minutes of arithmatic first thing after a cup of coffee.

You know what? Screw math. I’m also going to shake things up in a big way. Writing is pretty boring to begin with too, you know? Only nerds are reading, anyways, so I’m going to express myself in a dynamic way. Like, like…. music. I’ll become a rockstar. Yeah, that’s sexy.

Can’t really play a music instrument and it seems like a pain in the ass. I need inspiration, some sort of quick fix to make me cool almost instantly and give me the edge to write hit records and become super famous. How did these other rock losers do this? Hold on a sec.

Author’s note: For the next 15 minutes, Mr. Charlton’s house is filled with  the sounds of rummaging, quiet sobbing, the noise a fist makes as it hits a wall, loud sobbing, and a few wild eyed “Eurekas”.

Ok, I’ve got it. It’s heroin. How did I miss that? Instead of an early morning dose of boring old math, I’ll be shooting up some sweet China lily right into the old veins here. It’s what the greats did. People who want to be nerds can do math in the morning. I want to be famous. And it seems like heroin is a great way to start. Screw math. Right now, the only thing going into my body is black tar heroin.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. I remember going to see ‘System of a Down’ a few years ago, when their lead guitarist was going through some of his rougher days. Dude was just wigging out on stage.

No. 45 – Presidential Line

“What do you mean, illegal?”

The President leaned up against the desk. The Rookie never saw him sit down at the desk. Occasionally Steve would sit behind the smooth oak, twirling his pen, but Steve had been absent from the Oval Office as of late. It was probably because the media was reporting Steve was running the show, not the President. If there was one thing the Rookie had learned in the last few weeks, it was to never upstage the President. There’s only one spotlight, and the President needs all the light he could get.

Spicer stood in front of the President, trembling slightly. He was stumbling through his words and was looking forward past the desk, into the drapes that had recently been purchased for the Oval Office. They were gold, the President’s favorite color.

The President’s face was perfectly still as he asked Spicer the question. His eyebrows were raised, waiting for an explanation. The Rookie looked down at the coffee cups he was carrying from Starbucks. The President’s cinnamon caramel macchiato was getting cold, and if Spicer didn’t hurry up and tell the President what he wanted to hear, then he’d be handing the President a cold coffee. The Rookie wasn’t about to let this sissy make him look bad.

“Well, sir, it’s illegal. That’s what I mean.” The Rookie cursed silently under his breath. The sissy decided to play the wrong hand and tell the President the truth.

The President grabbed the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “C’mon Sean, you aren’t answering my question here. I get that you’re telling me it’s illegal. My question is, why is it illegal? That’s what I want to know. Why can’t KellyAnne tell people to buy my daughter’s brand? I don’t understand.” The President looked up at Sean. “I’m not sure what’s illegal about telling people your opinion on television. KA said she happened to like a brand, and it just so happened that the brand is my daughter’s. Would KellyAnne be breaking the law if she said how much she liked Louis Vitton? Or Gucci? Never mind that my daughter’s brand is better than those two, I mean they’re good brands, just not of the same caliber as my daughter’s. That’s what I’m trying to figure out here. Because as far as I’m concerned, KA did a great job.” He made his signature ‘A-OK’ sign with his hand. “A terrific job. You telling the press that she’s been punished is a bonehead move.”

Spice stammered and rolled his eyes. The President pursed his lips. “Something wrong, there Sean? You didn’t seem to like what I just said.”

The Rookie felt the coffee. It was still warm, but barely. The sissy was taking up too much time answering a simple question.

“Sir, with all due respect, I didn’t say she was punished, I said she was consoled.”

The President didn’t budge. “You made it sound like she did something wrong.”

Spice’s face went flush. He was losing his cool. “She broke the law!”

The President shrugged. “Maybe. But she did so in defending my daughter.” The President looked away. “Get out of here. Maybe I’ll take you seriously when you’re no longer played by a girl on television.”

Spice didn’t say a word as he spun and stormed out of the room. The moment the door latched the Rookie sped over to the President. “Your coffee, Mr. President,” he said as he handed over the cinnamon caramel macchiato.

The President took a sip from the coffee and looked at the Rookie, nodding in approval. “You got them to add extra syrup, just like I asked. Good job, Matt. I like people who can follow orders,” he said, then sweeping his arm out for dramatic effect. “Not like these god damn judges. Christ. I can’t believe how this place is run. Disgraceful.”

The Rookie nodded. He saw an opening. “I agree one hundred percent, Mr. President.”

The President took another sip from his coffee. “What would you do?”

“Excuse me?”

The President put the coffee down on the desk. “Let’s say you were the Press Secretary. What would you have done differently?”

The Rookie smiled. “You mean if I were in the sissy’s shoes?”

The President’s face lit up. “Hoy-yo! That’s pretty funny. I like it. I’m going to use it. Sissy boy Sean.”

The Rookie thought about it for a moment. “You know what I’d do? I’d filibuster ’em.”

The President pressed. “Filibuster?”

The Rookie backed up, letting his arms swing a bit, bringing them both in front of him. He started failing them about while he spoke. “Yeah, yeah. Filibustering. You ever see one of these senators or congresspeople or whoever do this? If they really, really don’t want something brought up, they do a filibuster. They basically go up and talk for, like, hours. About whatever. You could go up and read a book for twelve hours. And the other people, they get so sick of it, they drop whatever they were trying to pass in the first place. I’d do that. The press asks me a question, I’d be like ‘Hey, my cat did this cute thing yesterday. Let me tell you about it.’ or ‘You know what’s American? Beef Jerky.’

The President chuckled. “I like that idea, Matt. Keep coming to me with great ideas like that, and maybe you’ll find yourself working directly for me.” He gave the Rookie a wink. “Still, though. These founding fathers of ours, of this great nation. They were entrepreneurs, businessmen, go-getters like you and me. Why would these go-getters make it illegal to keep a business when running the country? My wife, beautiful woman, wants to start a new line of clothing. A presidential line. She can’t though. Her dreams, all of a sudden… Poof. Gone. Seems a little strange to me. Seems weird the founding fathers, great men these founding fathers, would hamper any kind of business.”

The Rookie nodded in agreement. “Seems unAmerican is what it seems like, Mr. President.”

The President gave him a finger gun. “Pow. Bingo Matt. I’m going to let you know one thing right now. The wall? Not a huge deal. The Muzzie ban? I can take it or leave it. What will truly make America great again is business, and I’ll be damned if I can’t help the people by making them my employees.”

A smile broke out over the Rookies face. “If… if you could hire everyone to work for you, well, that would solve all the problems.”

The President smiled back. “It would. I know it would. I’m going to make this country great again. Soon, everyone will be cheering my name. Soon, everyone will be working for me.” He grabbed the coffee next to him and took another sip. He frowned. “Hmm. Coffee’s cold. Do me a favour, kid, and grab me another one. Extra syrup.”

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton.

p.s. What will happen next? Will Spicer go crazy? Will KellyAnne start selling Trump merchandise outside the trunk of her car? Does the Rookie have no shame? Find out next week!

 

First, Pass the Pancakes

Sophie Trudeau was humming in the kitchen as she brewed some coffee and got tea ready. It was Sunday, which meant the staff was given the day off and the family would sit down and have breakfast together. Normally, Sophie was in charge of the meal, and she would make either a quiche or a tourtiere for the morning meal. Today was different, however. Today Justin promised to make pancakes.

Justin strode into the room and walked over to his wife. Taking her by the waist, he firmly planted a kiss on her cheek. “Morning, sweetie” he said as he stared into her eyes.

“Morning, mon cheri. I am looking forward to breakfast. This is going to be quite a treat.”

“I know,” he replied as he released himself from the embrace and sat down at the table with the children. “I absolutely love your quiche and/or tourtiere.”

She stood there, mouth agape for a moment, trying to figure out what her husband was up to. “Perhaps you have forgotten, mon cheri, but you said earlier in the week that you’d be making pancakes. I was looking forward to, how do you say, taking my feet off this morning.”

Trudeau leaned forward, placing his hand on his chin. He nodded. “I understand that I said I would be making pancakes this morning. It was one of the issues brought to my attention when we decided to have breakfast. I truly believe my pancakes are in the best interests of everyone in our family. Unfortunately, after some polling, we haven’t been able to draw consensus on what we should be having for breakfast this morning. Currently, half of the family wants pancakes for breakfast, and that isn’t broad enough support to justify a change from the usual delicious quiche and/or tourtiere that you usually make.”

Sophie’s eyes widened. “Mon cheri, what are you talking about? Poll? Alright, let us take a vote right now. Xavier, do you want pancakes for breakfast?” The eldest Trudeau child nodded. “And you, Ella-Grace, do you want the normal quiche or do you want pancakes with syrup and whipped cream?” Ella-Grace nodded in agreement. “Yes, Mama, I want pancakes for breakfast.” Sophie began to smile. “Hadrian, do you want cakes for breakfast?” The youngest child, almost three, banged his plastic cutlery on the table. “Cakes, cakes, cakes. I want cakes!” Sophie smirked at her husband. “You see, Mr. Prime Minister, that is four against one. Looks like you are in charge of pancakes this morning, as you promised.”

Justin didn’t move. His hand was still on his chin, and he continued to nod. “I understand you are passionate about pancakes, and I want you to know that I am too. I’m committed to making this a great breakfast. Not only for us but for everyone. Although four out the five members of the family here agree pancakes should be for breakfast, not every member of the family are here. I sent out a poll yesterday to some of the other family members and they all agree that your quiche and/or tourtiere is far better than my pancakes.”

Sophie crossed her arms and put her weight on her right hip. Her words became far more pronounced and enunciated. “Who, exactly, did you send this poll out to?” she asked.

“I sent it to Alexandre, Zoe, and Margaret.” he replied.

Sophie’s shoulders thrust forward, her arms still crossed. “You sent this to your mother?” she shook her head. “Incredible. I can’t believe you would work this hard to get out of making pancakes.”

Justin looked over at the children. “Kids, can you cover your ears for a minute? Mommy and Daddy have to have a parent talk, okay?” The two eldest children nodded and covered their ears, the youngest was oblivious to the conversation. Justin looked back at his wife.

“I’ll level with you, sweetie. My pancakes aren’t very good. I’m a lot of things. I’m a great politician, a fantastic boxer, and an amazing lover.” Sophie started to cough loudly. “…but I’m not a good cook. At first, I thought making the pancakes would make me look better in the kids eyes, put me in the ‘cool dad’ books. The truth is, if they have my pancakes, I’ll drop a peg. It simply doesn’t benefit me to make pancakes at this stage anymore.”

Sophie’s face turned crimson, and she stamped her foot. “You promised me, though, you’d be making pancakes. You are breaking your promise.”

Trudeau gave her a shit-eating grin. “I know. But there needs to be consensus, sweetie. Now, if you could start making a quiche/tourtiere, that would be wonderful. I’m really hungry.”

Sophie spun around and started taking out the necessary hardware to make breakfast, slamming each one down on the counter. “I’m glad I only have to put up with your bullshit for another two years, mon cheri. Then you can go back to being a teacher and not a prick.”

“You mean another decade, sweetie.” he said.

He couldn’t see it, but she was rolling her eyes. “Of course, sure, whatever you say Mr. Prime Minister.”

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Pancakes are my least favorite cakes.

p.s.s. People might be saying, “But Mr. Charlton, what about Yellowcake?” My statement stands.

p.s.s.s. This is a Canadian thing if it doesn’t make sense.

No. 45 – Lunch

“I’ve got everything here”.

The Veteran had to double check. If anything was missing, well, he wouldn’t yell at you, he’d just think you were incapable. Unreliable. A dumbass, in his own words. So the Veteran opened the insulated bag and had a look. A big Mac from McDonald’s. Two cheese and beef melts from Arby’s. A bucket of KFC – Extra Crispy. A small loaded pizza from Papa Johns. Two bottles of coke.

“Seems like everything’s in order. Go on in, he’ll be waiting for you” the Veteran told the Rookie intern. The Rookie looked up at him. The Veteran finished his thought for him before he opened his mouth. “Yes, all of that is for him. Steve might grab a slice of pizza, but… besides that, yeah, it’s all his. No, he’s not going to eat it all in one go. He sets it up like a little buffet and picks at it throughout the afternoon. Go on, he’s expecting you. He might seem scary, but he’s an alright guy.”

The Rookie nodded and trotted off. The Veteran ducked off to the washroom to tweet this. They were cracking down on leaks. But this was too damn good of an opportunity to pass up.

***

The Rookie opened the door to the Oval Office. There was the President of the United States, yelling at the television.”Those fucking liars! Those fucking sons-a-bitches! I didn’t tell the Aussie Prime Minister to go fuck himself.”

The Vice-President was pacing behind him. “No sir, you didn’t say that. But you were rather curt.”

The President of the United States spun around. “Yeah, and I hung up on the clown. Over a thousand refugee he says he’s sending over. Said he made a deal with the last guy. What a lousy deal. You know what we get? Nothing. We get a bunch of broken sand hicks and their shitty offspring.”

Steve was sitting in the chair behind the desk, twirling a pen. “It was good of you to show your strong hand there, Mr. President. We can’t be letting just anyone into the country. The last guy was soft. You need to be strong.”

The President walked over to the desk, put his hands on it and leaned right over to look at Steve. “I am strong. I’m the strongest. There’s nobody out there who’s stronger than me.” Steve looked right at the President and didn’t break eye contact. There was a pause. “Good. That’s exactly what this country needs. Mr. President”. Steve flashed a grin and soon the President of the United States was beaming. “You’re my guy Steve, this is why you’re my guy.” The Vice-President shook his head in the corner.

“Lunch! I can smell it. New guy. Thank you so much for running out and grabbing this for me. You’re a rockstar, you know that? Just put it on the desk”. The Rookie intern walked over to the desk and placed to order down. The Vice-President finally spoke again. “Look, with all due respect Mr. President, at your age you shouldn’t be eating this kind of…” The President of the United States waved his hand at the Vice-Pres. “Now, now, we’ve talked about this, okay? I’m healthy. I’ve got a body like, like, hey, who’s that superhero that can rejuvenate himself? Played by that hairy guy.”

The Rookie’s eyes brightened. “You mean Wolverine?”

The President clapped his hands and pointed at the Rookie. “This kid. This kid right here. RockStar. You’re going places kid, I can see it. What’s your name?”

The Rookie thrust out his hand. “The name’s Matt, sir. Matt Goading.” The President shook his hand. “Whoa there, Matt, strong grip you’ve got. I like that in a man. Good business skill”.

Suddenly there was a buzz from the President’s pocket. He pulled out his cell phone. He looked at it, and then his face curdled. His jovial, round features became hard lines, and he started turning red as the blood rushed to his face.

“Fuck!” he screamed. It was clear now that, even though he might have been disappointed with the television earlier, he didn’t lose his cool. Now, the calm seas in the oval office became a torrential storm of scorching emotions.

“How the fuck did they know? This @RoguePOTUSStaff on Twitter. How the fuck did this shit for brains asshole knew what I was eating? He’s got the whole list right here.”

Steve looked at the Rookie, his dropping eyes piercing right through him to the back of his skull. “Mr. President, we might have a traitor in our midst right here.”

The President looked at Steve, then over at the Rookie. He started pointing his finger right in the Rookie’s face. “Do you know who the fuck I am? I will wipe the fucking floor with you. I will ram so many lawsuits down your goddamn throat you’ll be begging me to stop. You-will-be-begging-me. I will go to fucking war over this. Who the fuck are you?” The Rookie tried to say something but was shot down immediately. “I do not give a shit who the fuck Matt Goading is. I will bury you, your family and your goddamn children.”

The President straighten his tie, threw a hand through his hair. The red drained from his face. He held out his phone. “Your phone. Lemme see it.” The Rookie was pale, shaking nervously as beads of sweat started running down his face. “C’mon, don’t make this harder on yourself kid. Gimme your phone.” The Rookie pulled out his cell phone and handed it over. The President swiped at it. “What’s your password?” The Rookie stuttered slightly “It… It’s 5468…” The President tapped the phone a couple times, then started swiping again. After a while, he cocked an eyebrow and looked up at the Rookie. “Where’s your Twitter app? I can’t find it.” The Rookie gulped nervously. “C’mon kid, I don’t have all day. Where’s the app?” The Rookie was looking down at his feet. “I… ummm. I…” The President poked him with the phone. “C’mon, big man, where’s Twitter? You’re saying something. Say it.” The Rookie shuffled in place. “I don’t…. I don’t have Twitter. I don’t even have a Twitter account.”

The President’s eyes bulged, then rolled back. “Jesus Christ, I thought we were only hiring kids who understood cyber.” He shook his head and handed the phone back. His face went scarlet and he kicked at a chair. “Goddamnit!” The entire time, Steve hadn’t taken his eyes off the Rookie. “Mr. President, we don’t have a traitor here. But we might have a tool. A Trojan Horse.”

The President was still red in the face and walked towards the desk. “Not in the mood for riddles about horses, Steve. You have an idea, spit it out.”

Steve broke his gaze with the Rookie and looked over at the President. “The person in charge of this account, it’s obviously a brat. What we need is someone to find out this brat, sniff ’em out. We need a younger person, someone fresh.” he continued twirling the pen.

The President threw up his hands. “Stop with the games Steve, who are you talking about?”

Steve sighed. “The RockStar here. He goes out, makes himself chummy with all the other staff members, finds out who’s in charge of the handle @RoguePOTUSStaff. Our solution is right here in the room.”

The President looked over at the Rookie, back to Steve, then back to the Rookie. His eyes lit up when the pieces came together. “Good idea. I like that idea. I like that idea a lot.” He walked back to the Rookie and put his hands on his shoulders. “Listen, Matt, sorry about earlier. But I’m surrounded, surrounded by losers who want to bring me down. I need loyal people. If you’re loyal to me, I’ll be loyal to you. You get whatever you want. You want a new car? I’ll get you a new car. You want to fuck a bus full of models? I will personally hand pick the models myself. I’m offering you the key to a new life, a life of success, a key that will open every door for you. All you need to do is be loyal to me. Can you do that, Matt?”

The Rookie, still pale as a ghost and sweating profusely, nodded in agreement.

“Not good enough Matt. How do businessmen do business?” The President put out his hand. The Rookie extended his own and shook his. “Beautiful. What a handshake. You’re going to go far, Matt. You help us find this leak, and we’ll plug it up.” The President reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and produced a stack of hundred dollar bills. “Here’s some money. You make friends out there. Take them out for drinks, take them to dinner, buy them whatever they want. Grease ’em up and make ’em talk.” the President said as he handed the stack of hundreds to the Rookie. “I’m counting on you. Now get at it, tiger.” The President smiled and winked.

The Rookie gave a grin, just about tripped over his feet as he turned and walked out of the room. Just before he was out the door, the President spoke.

“One last thing, kid. Get a Twitter app. It’ll help you find this loser.” The Rookie nodded once and pushed the door open.

On the other side of the door, the White House was bustling as usual, but the air was less heavy. The door latch clicked. The Rookie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was only his first day, and already he making waves. He opened his eyes and he saw the Veteran, the guy who double checked his order, on the other side of the hall. The Veteran grinned and gave the Rookie a thumbs up. The Rookie returned the thumbs up, even though his hand was trembling. It was going to be a long four years.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. I’m not even sure this even counts as satire anymore.

 

 

The Little Weaponized Germ That Could

Note: Recently, Russian largest tank manufacturer, Uralvagonzavod has contracted award-winning children’s writer Svetlana Lavrova to write a kid’s story about tanks. It’s intended to teach children about the patriotic values of war machines, and follows a character known as “The Little Tank”. Not happy to see prestige and wealth go to some jerk in Russia, Mr. Charlton has decided to step into the game and produce his own children’s book. Not only will the child learn the phonetics of the English language, he or she will be more comfortable of the likelihood of a disease ridden Apocalypse. Mr. Charlton will now gladly accept submission’s from artists to have to honor of creating pictures for his new story.

Blankie was sad. Even though he’d been Timmy’s frien his entire existence, Timmy was now forgetting Blankie more and more often. Timmy used to bring Blankie everywhere! Now, as Timmy was growing older, he was taking Blankie out with him less often. Timmy was also forgetting Blankie in the strangest of places. Timmy was walking away as Blankie laid on the floor of Site 42-X, a laboratory (LA-BRA-TO-RY) located in New Mexico, in the US of A. Timmy’s dad was a scientist here, and worked on weaponized (WE-PON-IZED)  germs. Blankie wasn’t really sure what that meant. What isimportant to Blankie is Timmy had forgotten him once again, and now he was left in the laboratory overnight. Tears welled up in Blankies eyes as he began to cry.

“Now now there, young fella. No need to shed tears when you’re among friends.” Blankie looks around. Through the dark, he saw three strangers appear through the darkness. The was a test tube, a syringe (SUR-INGE), and a small beaker full of green liquid. They approached slowly. Blankie stopped crying, and looked up at these new friends.

“Who… who are you?” he asked. They began to chuckle. The test tube stepped forwards, and she spoke. “Why, we’re diseases. We make weak people very sick, and then die. The great government (GO-VERN-MENT) of the United States keeps us a secret, but in case of extreme situations (SI-TU-A-SHUN), the president tears up the Geneva convention and puts us to work”.

The syringe sighed. “That’s only if the Apocalypse takes place, and the entire world goes to hell. Things have been pretty quiet up there, and we might not ever leave this laboratory.”

“Gosh, it’s nice to meet you all. What’s your names? My name is Blankie.”

The test tube curtsied (CURT-SEED). “My name is Small Pox , this syringe here goes by Anthrax, and the cute little beaker on the end is weaponized Ebola (EE-BOL-A)”. The syringe and the beaker nodded. “It’s nice to meet you Blankie. We don’t meet a lot of others down here in the lab”.

Blankie looked down at the floor. “Shucks, the only reason I’m here is because my friend Timmy left me behind…” The other gasped. “He left you behind? That doesn’t sound like a friend to me, Blankie.” said Small Pox. “We’d never leave behind a friend.” said Anthrax. Ebola spoke up, in his squeaky (SKWEE-KEE) voice. “It’s Un-American!”

Blankie got mad. The edges of the blanket became little fists. “I wish I could take you all with me, but I know that Timmy’s dad is mean. He won’t let us be friends. He’s always saying how ‘If anything got out, it would be the end of the world’. And Timmy will remember me eventually (EV- EN-TCHU-LY, and he’ll come back to get me.”

They were all sad. Then, weaponized Ebola had an idea. “I know! We can get out of here, together! It’s you Blankie. Even though you aren’t a disease like we are, you can be the vessel (VES-ELL) that transports us.” Small Pox piped up. “You know, that just might work!”

Blankie looked up at his new friends. “You think that would work?” Ebola chimed in. “Would it? That’s one of the ways the noble Europeans decimated (DES-E-MATE-ED) the dirty horde that was festering in God’s new land!” he said, in his squeaky voice. “Yeah, they just took the blankets from their sick soldiers (SOL-GERS), and gave them to the natives. They almost wiped them out completely to finish their holy genocide.” said Anthrax.

Blankie puffed out his chest. He was only a blanket before, but now he was going to usher in a new age of darkness. He was beaming (BEEM-EENE) with pride. All three of the diseases blessed Blankie with their power. “Soon, my new friends, we’ll all leave this place, and sing the song that will end the world!” And with that, they all began to sing.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. I could also use a song writer here, I think I’m striking gold with this kid’s stuff. If anyone wants to jam out a couple songs about the harbinger of death, drop me a line.

p.s.s. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not very good at spelling things out phonetically. I really struggled with that part, just so you know.

Here Come the (Hip-Hop) Clowns

Trump sat in the Oval Office. Even though the room was empty, his face was contorting slightly as he ran through conversations in his head. Occasionally, he’d make little hand gestures. There was a knock on the door. It cracked open, and Sean Spicer stuck his head through the gap.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Trump massaged the bridge of his nose. “Seanie, we’ve been through this. You’re supposed to be in here on the hour, every hour, to give me updates on what’s happening out there. Of course I want to see you. You need to burst through that door, though. I want you exploding through that door. I want energy. Can you give me energy Seanie?”

“I believe so, sir.”

Trump gestured a small explosion with his tiny hands. “Boom, Seanie. Energy. Let me see some energy.”

Sean Spicer sighed, then threw the door open and jumped into the room. “Sir! Sean Spicer reporting the word on the Presidency, sir!”

Trump nodded slightly. “Much better, Seanie. I want to see that sort of performance at your press conferences. So far you’ve been lackluster. I need winners on my team, Seanie.” Trump leaned back into his chair. “Alright, gimme the bad news first.”

Sean squirmed and scanned the entire room even though it was empty. “Are you sure, sir? The last time I gave you the bad news first, you had a bit of an incident.”

Trump shook his head. “Don’t worry about it Seanie boy, give it to me straight. I had a television in here, but they took it away. Said I have a bunch of…” he waved at the paper work on his desk “…stuff to read and sign. Just give me the word”.

“Okay. Well, seems like you angered a lot of scientists lately.”

Trump shrugged. “So what. I hate eggheads. They think they’re smarter than me? I went to school too, you know. I built a bunch of schools. Take away their Twitter privileges. What are they going to do?”

Sean scratched his head. “They… they kinda went and made their own Twitter accounts.”

Trump frowned. “I don’t understand. Just phone up Twitter and tell them to cancel them. Shouldn’t be hard”.

Sweat started forming on his brow. “That’s not how it works. Even if they banned those accounts, they could just make more accounts, truthfully. Also, scientists are forming their own political party.”

“Losers. I’ve never seen an egghead get laid. The only thing scientists ever win are science fairs. Look, just make them go away, okay? Easy problem, go solve it. Next piece of news”.

“Okay, well it seems that a bunch of Juggalos will march on Washington this year sometime.”

Trump squinted. “What’s a Juggalo?”

Sean threw his hands up. “Goddamned if I know, sir. I did some research, but they’re some sort of loosely organized gang that worships the Insane Clown Posse.”

“The Insane Clown… what?” Trump stared at Sean for a while.

“It’s… it’s a rap group, based out of Detroit. They have a cult like following all over the nation, mostly in poor, rural regions.”

Trump put his child-sized hand up. “I don’t like clowns, Seanie. Had one at my birthday party as a kid. You come to my party, you’re going to act with dignity. I don’t want buffoons surrounding me. What are these clowns doing? What do they want?”

Sean looked around for a chair. “Sir, can I sit down?”

Trump thought about this for a moment, then raised a finger. “No. Now, get on with the clowns.”

Sean’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what their agenda is. Right now it’s stating that they’re marching “For all the weirdos, freaks, and side shows” and that they’re going to “Soak the town in Faygo”.

Trump waved it off. “Whatever, they sound dangerous. We’ll send in the army when they get here.”

Sean raised an eyebrow. “You mean the National Guard, sir?”

Trump’s face twisted. “Army, National Guard. The guys with guns, Seanie, same thing. Stop being an egghead. You’re not smarter than me.” Trump clicked his pen a bunch, then looked back at Sean. “Well, Mr. Smart guy, anything else?”

Stains immediately appeared around Sean’s armpits. He started trembling slightly. “It’s bad, sir. Please don’t throw anything at me.”

Trump raised both his hands, showing Sean his palms. “Nothing here, Seanie. You just let me have it.”

Sean stared directly at the window, not looking Trump in the eyes as he spoke. “They’re giving Alec Baldwin an entire episode of Saturday Night Live“.

There was a loud crash from the Oval Office. Sean Spicer tore out of the room. Loud cussing could be heard in every part of the White House. It soon subsided, until the only sound that could be heard was gentle sobbing into incredibly minuscule hands.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Faygo is a small brand of soda pop that comes from Detroit. It is incredibly popular with both the Insane Clown Posse and its followers the Juggalos. ICP shows usually have the rap duo spraying the drink into the crowd.

p.s.s. It hasn’t even been a week people.

 

Lies are the Spicer of Life

Note: This is a transcript of the third press conference held by Press Secretary Sean Spicer. The conference was held Tuesday, January 24th, 2017.

<Muffled noise as reporters are taking their places. Sean Spicer walks out to the podium>

“Hello, everyone. I’m glad you could all make it on such short notice. There have been a lot of lies spouted recently about not only myself but also Kellyanne Conway and many other people within the Trump team. Today, I will be making a point of clearing up some of the misconceptions so that you can untwist the media out of the crooked perverse form you’ve managed to wrangle it into.”

<A number of reporters jump up at the pause, shouting and pointing  small microphone devices in the direction of  Sean>

“Does it look like I’m taking questions today? Your job is to open your earholes and learn something. Now, what I’m talking about is complicated. It might just pass over your head. You media jerks have been calling us liars. That’s not very nice. We’ve said before, President Trump had the largest turnout for his inauguration in the history of the United States. In the words of our President, and I quote, ‘It was the bigliest inauguration ever. The ratings were good. They were so good. The ratings were through the roof. In fact, we had to get a repair person in to fix the roof. With our record attendance, we broke a roof and gave a man a job’.”

“Now, I understand some of you have been tweeting pictures of past inaugurations, and data gathered by the DC metro regarding tickets, and Nielson ratings for television. You keep throwing facts in our direction. As Kellyanne mentioned, we’re using alternative-facts here, or as we’re calling ’em now, alt-facts.”

<Four reporters scream out ‘Alt-facts?’ in unison. Loud grumbling and murmuring fill the room. One reporter faints>

“Can I finish? Can I finish, please? What you don’t know is that not only is Kellyanne Conway a very talented individual in getting people elected, she’s also has a degree in theoretical physics. What she’s discovered is this; there are an infinite number of universes, and each universe is an alternate version of this reality. And there are facts that can come from these universes, which we’ve labeled as alt-facts. So, in theory, there is an alternate universe where over a billion people tuned into the inauguration. I want you to think about that for a second.”

<More rabble from the press. One journalist gets a question out.”

“Mr. Press Secretary, Mr. Press Secretary!”

“Oh jeez, god, really? Fine, you there, in the sweater. Yes, you.”

“Margaret Sullivan, Washington Post. If what you are saying is true…”

“It is.”

“…Ahem. If what you’re saying is true, then would it stand to imagine a reality where Hillary Clinton the presidency? If the answer is yes, is there any way to travel there?”

“To put it bluntly, no. President Donald Trump is such a sensation that his popularity spans all the infinite universes. He’s that huge.”

<Shouting again from the press. More hands are raised.>

“Alright, I think I handled that last question pretty well. Let’s keep this streak going! Yes, you there.”

“Yes, hello, Gary O’Donoghue, BBC. I’ve had a little bit of time since you stated Kellyanne Conway to do some research. There doesn’t seem to be any indication that she studied physics at any of the universities she attended. Would you care to explain?”

<Sean Spicer reaches for his temples.>

“See? This is why we can’t have nice things. You’re trying to twist things here, you Limey jerk. You’re just trying to wind me up. Have you not been listening? Have you not been paying attention? There are other universes, moron, and in some of those universes Kellyanne went to MIT and studied theoretical physics and found out about these infinite universes. Is that so hard? Is it getting through your thick skull? Because you couldn’t play fair, I’m only taking one more question and it’s going to be from our friends over at Breitbart.”

<The person from Breitbart, now sitting up from the lazyboy provided for him, smirks at the reporters before asking a question.>

“Sup Sean, I had a blast over the weekend. Thanks for showing me the town. I gotta ask. How do you feel about Dippin Dots?”

<Sean Spicer’s face goes red. He starts to visibly grind his teeth.>

“Dippin Dots? Ice cream of the future? I feel like they should be taken out with extreme prejudice. I’m talking black masks and BMXs at night. Tactical precision strikes. You struck a nerve there. Anyways, that’s a wrap. I have to go figure out some other great ideas, one of the versions of me in the infinite universes is Rhode Scholar.”

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. The jokes is that for some reason, Sean Spicer hates Dippin Dots.

p.s.s. Apparently, and I heard this through the grape vine so it might not be real, but Trump is sending out Spicer to meet the press on these issues. I guess the President would be pretty upset at the idea of not having the biggest inauguration ever.

p.s.s.s. I think Trump is going to hate these next four years more than his detractors ever will.

 

Inauguration Day

Melania Trump sat outside the bathroom.  Her back against the door, she glossed over the luggage packed for her trip back to Manhattan. Her flight was going to have to be delayed unless she could wrap this up quickly. She tapped the door with her hands. “Honey, I’m going to have to leave soon. I just want you to know your inauguration went very well today and I’m incredibly proud of you.”

She could hear rustling on the other side of the bathroom door. “His numbers were better” she heard him mumble.

Melania sighed. Her Donnie wasn’t normally like this, but the few times he faced defeat, or seemingly faced defeat, Donald would lock himself in the washroom and would stay there for a number of hours. Normally, Melania would just let him sit in there for a while, let him be upset for a little bit. His enormous ego would soon repair itself, and he would emerge triumphantly from the washroom, having spun his defeat into a victory. But he was now the President of the United States, and he had to get back to work.

“We don’t know that there were more people at his inauguration than yours” she said through the door. There was another mumble, she could barely hear it. “What was that honey?” she asked. “I said, I saw pictures! They were on Twitter. He had twice as many people there in 2009. And in 2013, he still had more people.” There was silence for a moment. Melania spoke again. “Well, maybe a lot of people were inside at the time the picture was taken. They might be trying to make you look like a fool.”

She heard the soap dispenser get thrown into the tub where it made an audible thud. “They’re ALWAYS trying to make me look like a fool. They had an anti-me protest in New York, right outside our home. You know who was there? Robert DeNiro. I always thought he was cool, but NOW he’s hanging out with  Micheal Moore and that asshole Alec Baldwin. You know what? I’m going after him. I’m going after that prick Alec, and I’m gonna piss all over his things. I’m going to stand right over his face and piss in his mouth when he’s sleeping. He’s got a little dog, right? I’m going to piss all over that dog, and then I’m going to take it. That dog will love me more than it ever loved Alec. I’m going to hop in Air Force One and do that right now.” She could hear tiny hands wringing menacingly.

“Ok, but you might have to check with your new friend Pence first.” It sounded like some bars of soap were being tossed against the wall in protest. “I have to check with EVERYONE before I do something fun. It’s SO unfair! They said no tanks or missiles at the inauguration, saying it would wreck the roads. So what? We’ll build new roads, give something people to do. I’d be creating jobs. Putin gets to have tanks and missiles at his parties, it’s these losers over here who won’t let me. I don’t care what Pence says.”

“I know this has been tough on you, honey, but you knew there would be some changes. Anyways, I hear the doorbell, I think Pence is here now.”

“Fine, Go, Whatever, I don’t care. Tell him to go away.”

Melania ignored the statement and made her way through the Penthouse of the Trump International Hotel in Washington DC. At the door was Pence. As she opened the door, he let himself in. “Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Trump. I had the LGBTQ page on the government website taken down, and that took a little longer than expected. I think I know the man well enough now that I can handle this problem.” Melania shook her head. “I’ve been married to him for years, and he still doesn’t always make sense to me.”

Pence strode up to the bathroom door and gave it a commanding knock. “Mr. President, it’s Mr. Vice-President. Can we speak for a moment?”

“Go away, Pence! You’re not cool.” The voice started loud and trailed off. Pence straightened his tie. “Of course I’m not cool, Mr. President. My job is to make you look cool. I know you’re upset about the numbers. But there’s a reason Obama has higher numbers.”

Trump blew his nose. “Yeah, and why’s that?”

“Affirmative action, sir.” said Pence.

There was a pause. “Really?”

“Of course. He was the first black president. The liberals of this nation propped him up to make him look better. How else could you explain Obama having better numbers? You remember your numbers from the first season of Celebrity Apprentice? To use your own words sir, they were terrific.”

The was another pause, then the flow of water. Trump threw open the door and marched out. “You know what Pence? You are so right. You are so right to bring this to my attention. Of course it’s the blacks, propping up their own guy with affirmative action. And this affirmative action? It doesn’t help the blacks, it just makes it harder for everyone else. And that’s not fair.”

He went to a mirror and ran a comb through his hair. He then walked to Melania and grabbed her firmly by the ass. “Babe, thanks so much for staying with me. When you get home, they’ll be the biggest diamond waiting for you in our room. I’m seeing to that right now.” He gave her a pat on the bum and focused his attention to Pence. “In the meantime, we need to get my numbers up. I need to have my face on every corner of every street. Could we get some screens with loud speakers everywhere? Letting the audience know I’m always there? Make that happen.”

Pence smiled. “Of course Mr. President. I’ll look into that immediately. I need you to sign some papers, though. I read them so you don’t have to. They’re not deals, just boring law stuff.”

Trump whipped out a pen. “Smart move, leaving the deals to me. I’m a deal-making machine” he said as he signed the papers. “I can’t wait for this screen thing, it’s going to be huge. Can you imagine? My face, on every corner. It’ll let my enemies know I’m always there.”

He tucked his pen back into his breast pocket. “You know what, I think this’ll work out. You deal with the boring stuff, and I’ll take care of the deals and the audience.”

Pence flashed a smile that would make sharks nervous. “Absolutely, Mr. President. I will always have your best interests in mind.”

Trump smiled. “Good. Now, let’s get a few cocktails into me. I’m going to need a bunch if I’m going to piss all over Alec Baldwin.”

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. It is going to be an interesting four years. That’s putting it nicely.

Woe for Trudeau

Justin Trudeau sat at the edge of his bed, cup of coffee in hand, as his Filipino maid left the breakfast tray next to him on the mattress. He looked down at the mug, which was a cup with a gold trim lining the rim. It was a gift he had received as a child, when his father had taken them all to a quaint mansion owned by an old family friend in France. The coffee was rich and warm, and it too was a gift, from the son of the former president of Columbia. He let the smell of the coffee flow into his nostrils, then he sighed heavily.

Trudeau had just returned from his cross country bus trip. Ontario was a bit of a struggle, but the Maritimes were lovely as always, and then the trip across the prairies had been wonderful, until of course, he had hit Alberta. There was a large group of protesters in Medicine Hat, and the crowd had become so ruckus and unruly that there was no choice but to hop on a chartered plane and cross over Alberta in the air. When they landed in Cranbrook BC, they got back on a bus and finished the tour. Most of the media had been responsive to the tour, but the newspapers in Alberta were less than kind. The Calgary Sun had called his actions “cowardly”. The Lethbridge Herald called him “Spineless”. And the Rebel’s own Ezra Levant had posted a video, stating that Justin was “A Liberal Faggot”.

He put his coffee down and looked over at Maria, the maid. “Maria, I’ve got a question for you. Why do people in Alberta hate me so much?”

It was Maria’s turn to sigh. “Mr. Trudeau. I very busy today. Can you not ask your wife?”

Trudeau shook his head. “I’ve asked her, and she doesn’t know either.”

“Okay.” Maria said as she pulled out a chair that was close by. She sat down. “The first province I started in, when I move to Canada? It was Alberta. I moved to Edmonton so that I might support my family back home, yes? The people in Alberta are very different than the rest of country. How many hours a week I work?”

Trudeau looked puzzled “Well, I think you work about 40 hours a week.”

Maria nodded. “It is 44 hours, but you are so close. Now, how many hours in Alberta did I work?” Before Justin could answer, Maria interrupted. “I work 50 to 70 hours a week in Alberta.” Justin gasped. “But…. but what about family and free time and hobbies?” Maria waved her hand “People from Alberta, they have no hobbies or free time. Everyone work. You live in Alberta, you work. You bored? Find second job. Everyone work like crazy in Alberta.”

Trudeau looked aghast. “What about the arts, and music, and….” Maria silenced him again. “You talk of culture. No culture in Alberta except for work culture. You have many famous Canadians. You have Jim Carrey, you have Pam Anderson, you have many stars from Canada. Anyone from Alberta famous? Nickleback. Everyone hate Nickleback. No. Alberta famous for work.”

Justin scratched his head. “But if they’re working so hard, why are they so worried about increases in taxes?” Maria started laughing hysterically. “That crazy part about Alberta, see? They blow money all the time. Even government. No saving. You have money, you buy car, or watch, or boat. You know how many boats in Alberta? More boats in Alberta than in Philippines. And Philippines island in ocean. Albertans hard working, but crazy. But they spend money, it good for Alberta economy, good for car salesman, good for watchmaker, good for everyone. Tax for Albertan mean less money for Albertans, more money for people in who do not work like crazy. Albertans think free time waste of time.”

Justin Trudeau scratched his head. “So why are they mad at me then?”

Maria’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “Dummy! You not listening to Maria? You threaten Albertans work? You threaten their culture. They see you, they see pretty cultured boy. You cultured? Means you not working. Only culture in Alberta is work. Remember that.” She squinted, tapping the side of her head. “Remember that.”

With that said, Maria stood up, pushed the chair back in, and started out the door. As her hand twisted the knob, Justin spoke again.

“What could I do to make them like me, then?”

Maria shrugged. “Probably nothing. You could sign crazy deal with Devil and make oil rain in Alberta, they still hate you. No, you pretty cultured boy, they always hate you.” she paused. “Maybe work more. No more vacations. No more beaches with rich friends. Albertans have lots of money, but no rich. To be rich, you must have culture. No rich snobs in Alberta, only money. You take vacation in three years, when you no longer politician. You go to beaches with friends then.”

Justin flashed a smile. “You mean 11 more years Maria.” She just rolled her eyes. “Sure, whatever Mr. Prime Minister. I sure you Prime Minister forever.”

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Sure, Nathan Fillion is from Alberta, but Firefly only lasted a season, and he brought shame to his people by being out of work.

 

Barry Cooper – The Birth of ‘Berta Man

Note: This is a response to the editorial written by Barry Cooper. You can find the article in question here.

http://calgaryherald.com/opinion/columnists/cooper-british-columbia-shows-us-what-happens-when-we-go-to-pot

Barry F. Cooper stood in front of the service desk, grinding his teeth. He could barely control his rage at what he was hearing.

“What do you mean, there isn’t a mechanic in on Sundays? It’s a day, isn’t it?”

The BC service person nervous glanced left to right, sweat now appearing on his brow. It was obvious this little miscreant was high. The precipitation on his forehead, the shifty eyes. Barry shook his head. Typical lazy BC people. Barry couldn’t fathom someone taking a day off unless, of course, it was mandated by the ridiculous liberal government at the helm of the nation.

“I’m terribly sorry sir, but we don’t have a mechanic here at the tire shop on Sundays. The soonest we can have someone look at your vehicle is tomorrow morning, but I can assure you it will…” Barry waved his hand to silence the stoned moron.

“You will have it in the shop first thing in the morning, correct?”

Even though he was obviously blitzed out of his mind, the young BC man nodded in agreement. Barry could only hope that he had understood his very specific instructions. Walking to the door, the tropical BC mugginess caught him off guard. He chuckled to himself. How on Earth could anyone believe in global climate change when it was so warm in BC all the time? He was glad he was a member and contributor of ‘Friends of Science’.

He spent time here, as a child, but BC had become a foreign nation in the recent decades. BC was once beautiful, but years of Liberal and NDP government leadership has left the province in tatters. There’s only two things propping up the province; The hard and well-earned dollars of his fellow Albertans visiting the province, and the illicit drug trade of marijuana.

Why would anyone want to pollute their minds and bodies with that filthy weed was beyond Barry, who pulled out a flask of whiskey to steady his nerves. He still couldn’t take the taste of the overcooked BC steak he had last night out of his mouth. His daughter had invited him out for dinner a famous BC steak house known as IHOP, and was disappointed his meat was overdone when he clearly asked for rare. Everyone in this province seemed to be high.

At first, Barry felt pity for BC. Even though British Columbia was basically a nation-state unto itself, these people were still his country men. Pity swiftly turned to anger. The communist traitors of the Liberal party were hell bent on legalizing the devil’s lettuce. Should this foul plant be let loose on the rest of the nation, Barry may not have any country men left. What would the Liberal government legalize next? Heroin? Paint fumes? Bestiality?

It was madness to sit idly by and watch the nation self-destruct. There was only so much he, Barry F. Cooper, could do as a political science genius professor from the esteemed University of Calgary. No, this would take drastic action.

Barry rushed back into the garage where his car was being held captive. He strode up to the service desk. “I demand that you release my vehicle back into my possession, young man. I have to return back to my home province of Alberta post haste!” The BC service man, still gazooed on opiates or uppers or whatever, seemed to sober up immediately once he heard Barry’s authoritative Albertan voice. He handed back the keys to Barry. “Even though the light in the glove box is not functioning, I have to return home. Don’t worry, young man, I will find a way to break the chains of your addiction!”

With those words uttered, Barry whisked himself back to Calgary from Vancouver at record speed, making sure to never slow the vehicle down below at least 120 km/hr. Back at home, he went straight to his workshop to begin preparations on his revolutionary idea that could bring back a province from the depths of hell, and steer the nation away from Satan’s salad.

He needs a set of armor. Steel toed boots, some welders gloves, and a hard hat should do the trick. He needs a weapon. His weapon needed to represent the highest order of capitalism, so he fills a sock full of quarters. Now all he needed was a name…

Looking in the mirror, he saw a working class hero, someone willing to step up to the plate for the little guys in oil and gas, the underdogs at the police force, and the silent middle-aged white men who’ve lost their voice in the culture wars against social justice warriors. He didn’t need to choose a name, the name chose him.

Barry F. Cooper was ‘Berta Man.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Seriously, Barry, you took a pretty sharp turn there going from marijuana to fentanyl. I suggest you lay off the sauce.