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.

 

 

What the Hell is Going On?

Alright, before we even begin, I want you to put on some music. I’ve got the perfect tracks. They’re happy, they’re fun, and most importantly, they’re royalty free.

Okay. So, I’ve seen a bunch of news. A smattering of news. I’m getting bamboozled with news, and feeds, and half-truths, and it’s been non-stop. You probably feel the same way. And if you’re reading this, you’re probably in two camps. You’re either terrified at what the new president of the United States is doing, or you’re terrified someone is going to stop you. Thankfully, Mr. Charlton is here to talk some sense into you lovely people.

No one really seems to know what’s going on outside of the White House. A lot of what’s floating around is speculation.

angryman

BUT TRUMP IS DESTROYING THE WORLD! HE’S BANNING MUSLIMS AND BUILDING A WALL AND CANCELING BLACK HISTORY MONTH AND STEVE BANNON IS RELLY IN CHARGE!

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down there for a minute. Yes, Trump is forcing through a crazy pile of executive orders. And a lot of people are resisting. This is good, and this is how a democracy works. You don’t like something your government is doing? Say something about it. Start making phone calls, start protesting. But don’t spread misinformation. It’s getting harder and harder to disseminate what are real facts and what are alternative facts. In all likelihood, President Trump will get impeached before his term is over.

angrywoman

BUT THE PEOPLE VOTED FOR TRUMP AND HE’S FIGHTING THE ESTABLISHMENT! IF HE GETS IMPEACHED, WE’LL GO TO WAR AGAINST THESE GLOBALIST ELITES LIKE GEORGE SOROS!

Okay, I hear you. There’re a couple issues here, though. Trump is President of the United States. He’s not PrinceGod of AmericaLand. He can sign all the orders he likes, that doesn’t mean they’re constitutional or legal. These deals he’s making have to get checked out by other people. You have to pick and choose your battles, and Trump has decided to pick all the fights. It’s not even the unlawful choices, either. It’s becoming clearer and clearer that Trump and his team don’t understand how politics work. The big example, for me at least, is appointing Steve Bannon to the National Security Council. Well, Trump can’t just appoint Steve to do that. The spots on the National Security Council need to be approved by the Senate, from my understanding. You need to be somewhere on this list in order to be part of the council. Steve Bannon isn’t. This might not seem like a big deal, but it’s just one of the many issues that keep coming up with the Trump administration. If the issues keep adding up, and I’ve got a feeling they will, they’ll declare Trump unfit to be Commander in Chief.

Here’s the other thing. I keep hearing about Globalism and Elites and George Soros when we’re talking about the dangers of the future. Let’s unbox that.

  • There’s no shadowy cabal of billionaires trying to put the world under a new world order. Billionaires are usually interested in one thing; their billions of dollars. Don’t say something like “Follow the paper trail”. I will follow the paper trail if it’s coming from an accountant or a journalist that’s been talking to accountants. You want to know who’s actually part of a shadowy cabal? Vladmir Putin. And Trump has been getting awfully cozy with him lately.
  • There’s a pretty good reason why people are getting nervous when Trump tears up trade deals. See, back in the day, nations were pretty nationalistic, way more than today. You were really proud to be from Britain, or France, or what have you. And you really thought less of the other nations. Trading among nation wasn’t nearly as prevalent as it is today. Then the world had a couple of really big and nasty wars. The idea was toted around to start trading among nations. If nations are benefitting economically from each other, then they are way less likely to go war. Tearing up all of your trade deals is the worldly equivalent of slamming a beer mug down and demanding a tussle from someone else at the bar.
  • The whole banning Muslim immigrants isn’t a smart move. First, it’s unconstitutional. Second, it creates something utterly devastating for a nation: The brain drain. Back in WW2, Germany started getting rid of Jews, including all the really smart ones, (Einstien for instance). That turned out great for the Allies because we took those smart people and put ’em to work. Among those immigrants and refugees are some utterly smart Muslim folks. America just told them to go somewhere else. Hopefully up here to Canada. We could always use more smart people.
  • I’m not sure if you noticed, but Trump is an elite billionaire. He’s not “A blue-collar billionaire”. Having lousy taste doesn’t make you blue collar. I know plenty of blue collar workers who have style and taste. He didn’t drain the swamp and he’s not going to. If you like Trump, understand that this is what you sound like when you’re telling me Trump is different than the establishment. I’m simply going to replace billionaire with the word ‘King’.

thinking

These goddamn King’s are running the government. We need representation. You know what we need? A King.

It’s unprecedented that a president is already as unpopular as Trump is, and if his numbers keep sliding, then it’s almost inevitable that he’ll get impeached. If Trump wants to remain president, then he’ll have to keep his head down and lay low for a little bit. But knowing his need for attention and approval, it’s likely we’ll be hearing more about Trump. And you are going to hear about Trump as long as he’s president. The man loves attention, whether it’s good or bad.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. I mean, he hung up on the Austrailian Prime Minister. He’s spatting with Mexico. Trump is poking the dragon in China. Who isn’t he picking a fight with?

p.s.s. This is just my opinion, by the way. I really don’t have a clue what’s going on either. But I re-iterate. There’s no shadow Illuminati running the show. There’s shadow spy networks, but every country seems to have those (or at least tries to).

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.

 

Meta Post – The Big 100

Since the inception of the website, back in May of 2016, I’ve posted 100 blog posts. Every post so far has been at least 750 words (except for one post. I can’t remember for the life of me which one it was, but I was busy and the subject was pretty sparse to begin with). Now, I’m no accountant, but doing a little math shows that I’ve then written well over 75,000 words on the ol’ website here.

What that doesn’t include are the rejects that don’t get posted or that get erased. Combined with the 55,000 words I’ve written for my novel, a bunch of short stories, the writing prompts I did with the River Bottom Writers, well, I’ve written a lot last year. It’s a number, for sure. I’m going to be writing even more this year.

While I sit here and congratulate myself by patting myself on the back while researching information about removing a couple of ribs, there’s other things I have to mention when I talk about the craft of writing.

See, not only do I write a lot, I read a fair amount as well. Reading is a wonderful tool that allows me to look smarter than I actually am without really doing any work. I recently read Stephen King’s ‘On Writing’, where he talks about his job. Which is sitting down, thinking about a bunch of crazy stuff, then putting in down on paper. It was a fascinating read, especially since I’m not actually a huge fan of his work (I mean, I could be, I’ve just never read any of his stuff, besides the ‘On Writing’ book). One of the things that stuck out for me was he considered writing something he’d be doing anyways, even if he wasn’t a big name.

Now, this stuck out for me for a couple reasons. One, right now it costs me money to write on this site. Not a lot, mind you, but the space ain’t free. And two, the game has changed slightly. There’s a lot more people writing today than there was when Stephen started his journey. The market for paid writing is also a lot smaller. There was a number of magazines catering to his kind of stuff. There are websites that cater to it, for sure, but they pay a lot less than they did in the 70’s. Magazines and websites now hold contests instead of asking for submissions. The opportunities presented to authors today is less of a low-paying gig and more of a low paying chance to win.

I’m not complaining. I’m going to continue writing, even if I never get published, even if no one except a couple of close friends and family are reading. I’m alright with that, because writing gives me something I don’t have in real space, and that’s the ability to express myself. I’m pretty closed off in real life, and for whatever reason, the walls get torn down when I put myself behind a keyboard. It’s good for my mental health too, because I don’t bottle up everything inside and let it rot.

There are a few things I’ve learned along the way about writing, some wisdom I hope to pass to anyone who might be delving into the craft themselves this year.

Getting Published means you’ll need an editor, and editors cost money.

A lot of money. If you have a book you want someone to go over with a fine-tooth comb, expect to pay somewhere between $3000-$6000. Keep in mind, there’re a couple of types of editors. Paying someone to do developmental editing means they’ll be looking over the story structure and they won’t be necessarily be paying attention to the grammar. Every time they go over it, they’ll want more money. That means tighten you work up and get some beta readers (friends who read a lot) and get their input before you hand it off to someone. Editors are people with jobs, and people have jobs to make money. They’re not going to work for free.

It’s not about what you know, it’s about who you know.

There’s this notion that writers sit in quiet rooms, working away at their novel, free of distractions. And that’s absolutely true. You need a quiet space to work in to write. If you want to get published, however, you’re going to have to meet some people, rub some elbows, make some connections. Join a writers group. Move to a bigger city. Don’t quit your day job. There are zero paths to success that don’t require you working with other people. If you don’t know how to socialize and network, then learn.

Ask yourself why you want to get published.

If it’s because you want money, look somewhere else. Seriously, there are so many better ways to make money. Same with fame and recognition. I learned a lot of things in 2016, but the bigger lesson I learned was this; there’s a good chance I’ll never be a successful writer, whereas success is defined by money and people telling me I’m awesome. Writing is just too saturated of a field. This is going to come across as silly, but what I’ve found is that being a writer isn’t something you do, it’s something you are. I mean, you still have to do it, you have to write, but if you’re writing without getting paid, that’s perfectly fine. I write because it makes me better at recognizing my own emotions, and it makes me a better story teller. If I could also get paid for it, that’d be awesome, but it could be a damn long time before any checks roll in.

People are going to tell you that you’re not a writer.

Or they’ll tell you that you’re not a real writer. Personally, I’ve never had someone tell me this, mostly because Mr. Charlton surrounds himself with only the best people. My solution is having business cards made out. Business cards seem to legitimize it, and they’re cheap to get.

To wrap it up, if you’re writing, or painting, or playing music, do it because it makes you a better, more interesting person. Don’t expect applause or money, because it often isn’t there. Sometimes the art itself is the reward.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Also the sex. People like banging artists. Known fact.

p.s.s. Next milestone is going to be 1000.

No Party for Trump

You know, I really want to talk about the whole Justin Trudeau thing. I’d love to pick apart some of the lousy choices he’s made in the last few weeks. I’d relish the talk discussing the whole debacle with the crying lady, Kathy Katula, and how the Ontario government is poorly managing the juice flowing through the power lines. Now Justin has got himself a set of wheels and his taking his show across the nation. There’re some interesting things happening here in Canada. But have you seen what’s happening down south?

Trump’s inauguration is officially a week away, and he’s had more scandals in the last two months than President Obama had in the last two terms. Seriously. You want to know how bad it is? The Presidential inauguration is usually a star-studded event. Trump’s team is struggling to get anyone to show up. Trump’s been tweeting that he wants the PEOPLE there, not the celebrities he’s been hobnobbing with for the last decade. It’s weird to see a guy who spent years hosting celebrities on his game show not have any celebrities show up. Sad!

It’s not just celebrities boycotting the event. There are a couple of politicians who will be spending the day at home instead of at the White House, and I have a feeling that number is going to grow in the next few days. First, Rep. John Lewis, a congressman and civil rights leader, stated he wouldn’t be attending the inauguration, saying Trump wasn’t a legitimate president. Trump can’t resist low hanging fruit, and pounced on the opportunity to attack Lewis, stating his district is “in horrible shape” and that Lewis is all “talk, talk, talk”. This wasn’t exactly a smart move on Trump’s part, because John Lewis’ district is actually in good condition, and he’s a pretty stand-up guy. This led to a huge volume of people calling Trump out on his statement, Democrats and Republicans alike.  Now Rep. Mark Takano is skipping the event as well. I thin Mark and John will be getting beers that evening and repeating the same phrase throughout the night. “Isn’t having Trump as president insane?” They’ll look at each other, laugh a little, then get quiet for bit before talking about whatever congressmen talk about. Breakfast cereal, I would imagine.

But this isn’t really news. You want to know what’s news? The fact that the incoming president might actually have compromising ties to Russia. You that post I wrote a couple days ago, saying there are rumors that the Krelim has been working closely with Trump’s team? It’s turning out that those allegations might have some weight to them. Spy agencies all over the world are freaking out right now. Israel, one of the United States closest allies is terrified the new president might hand over compromising information to Russia, who is strongly allied with Iran.

You might be wondering why I, a modest Canadian, living a modest Canadian lifestyle, is so wrapped up in what’s going on across the border. I happen to live in Southern Alberta, which is probably the furthest politically right area in Canada. It’s the bible belt part of Canukistan. That being said, I know a number of people who think that having Trump as president is a good idea. Not only that Trump is STILL a good idea, but rather the idea that Trump would be a better statesperson than the current Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau.

Now, you might not like Justin Trudeau spending habits. I can understand that. You might despise the fact that he broke the law when he accepted a ride in a helicopter while on vacation, and that he had a lobbyist buddy along with him for the ride. I’m there with you in thinking that was a bone head move. If you’re fuming because he wants to phase out the oil sands, I can sympathize.

But, if for one second, you think that a pretentious legacy politician from out East is less qualified than a pretentious, legacy, petty, narcissistic, pussy-grabbing, conman who’s only goal as head of state is to empty its coffers into his pockets, well, you’re wrong. If you think that a sneering elite is better than a boorish elite who’s colluding with a hostile foreign nation that squashes free speech with imprisonment and death, well, that would make you a traitor to freedom. If you think that Trump would be better than Trudeau, then there’s only one thing I can say to you. And that’s…

 

Hail Comrade Trump.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. If you like Trump because he’s saying what you’re thinking, then you’re not thinking hard enough.