Blogging Builds Character

As I lamented in this post, I don’t like the fact that life has obstacles. Indeed, they really piss me off. *But* there is an upside.  Choosing to do something that isn’t required for your basic day to day survival in the face of irl unpredictability helps build character. In this instance, it’s blogging.

I’m not just blogging. I’m building character.

A Wasteland President, Part 6

“What’s this all about?” Trump asked, looking a little concerned.

“Donald, you have to understand that things are more complex than what’s on the surface.”

“I understand jobs. I understand healthcare.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“For god sake’s Barack, just tell him!”

“Bannon was just playing you, Donald. He’s not your friend. He’s the hand twisting you the wrench, turning the nut of the American people.”

“You’re the wrench, Donald.”

“Yeah. I think I got it.” Trump’s face drooped like he was just stabbed by a dagger. “No, no, I don’t believe it! Why would he do it? Why would he betray me?”

“Not sure. But Steve doesn’t care about ancient files from the FBI headquarters,” Barack said.

“Maybe, maybe not. A little road trip never killed anyone though.”

Trump’s faced brightened. Even if he didn’t agree with them, a road trip sounded fucking terrific.

“I’m not trekking across the U.S.A just to fall into trap!” Barack said. The sky was turning dark and thunder was brewing in the background. The night’s version of coffee. Trump inhaled the fresh air.

“I think Michelle has a good idea. And besides, you two are used to travelling a lot,” Trump replied.

Michelle rolled her eyes. “You’re going to get us killed, I know it.”

“Donald. There’s been a power shift. You’re going to have to…adapt,” Barack added.

“What he’s trying to say is that you’re not in charge anymore.”

“I could go live with Bannon. Live with him in his vault. Re-build the wall and everything will be just fine. We could ride out the apocalypse together!”

“You’re going back into the trunk,” Michelle said. Trump never knew what hit him. He regained consciousness twenty minutes later, seething in the darkness.

A Wasteland President, Part 5

A Wasteland President, Part 7




Poetry and Amnesia

Following hot on the heels of this post, I’m going through some of my older posts to uncover some buried gems. I’ve only had this blog for a couple of months, but when I re-read some older posts it seems like years ago (“The Politics Effect?”). Anyway, enough of my pontificating.

Cosmic Record Keeping

The Sun Made a Promise

Patterns of the Sand and the Sea

Even press secretaries need love

He trips. He soars.

Pure ‘N Salty

An Arid Man


Blogs and Capitalist Packaging

Blogging feels like “sending products down an assembly line” sometimes. A post has to be similar enough to what came before. Which makes sense for the readers. And it’s not like this is particularly insightful. I’ve written about this before.  But it’s a recurring theme that I find a little frustrating.

Sometime frustration with a structure begets that structure. Vigilance towards a pattern can heighten it.

“A man who says the same thing twice turns himself into a broken record.”


A Wasteland President, Part 5

A Wasteland President, Part 5

Everything was dark and choked with dust. Donald couldn’t feel where his elbow ended and his tweeting finger began. He groped frantically through the cloud of dust and grabbed something soft. It was a hand.

“Easy there, Donald.”

Donald grunted and had to be pulled to his feet. When the dust cleared, he recognized the face of Michelle Obama.

“Michelle! Lovely to see you again, that’s a tasteful broach.”

“I’m not wearing a broach.”


An intense silence followed, magnified by the Secret Service agents surrounding her.

“Are you alright, Donald?”

“Yeah. Just wondering why the agents are protecting you and not me.” He combed his fingers awkwardly through dusty hair. Everything was going to be okay. He just had to calm the fuck down.

“You’ve been gone for awhile.” There was another pause. “Look, we should go. Come with us. You should find that the Cadillac to your liking.”

At that, Trump brightened. Here he was starting to think that this new world was bereft of luxury. Before the Cadillac, he was starting to have dark thoughts. About not being alive. Not being subjected to the cruel and persistent elements. But the Cadillac…made it all worth it. What was the word? Appreciation?

“Just get in the trunk. You’ll be safer there. You might not be President anymore, but you pick up enemies like nobody’s business. You should stay out of sight.”

Trump didn’t care. At least he was in the Cadillac, it didn’t matter if he had to curl up into a little ball in the trunk. Once inside, his first instinct was to call Michelle, but he couldn’t find his cellphone. The world had gone to shit again.

The bumpy ride lasted a good three hours. He could hear conversation in the backseat. That made him pissed off. They shouldn’t be talking like that on the job. Where was their work ethic? They talked the whole way, too. Michelle didn’t do anything to shush them, which really pissed him off.

Just before his blood pressure really started to boil, the car gave one last bump and came to a halt.

“Get out, Donald.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And stay focused. We can’t afford to dawdle.”

“Dawdle? Excuse me?”

She rounded on him and slapped him with all her might.

Trump lurched forward, intending to run at her like a badger, but one of the Secret Service men stopped him, only for Michelle to bend his index finger, take the agent’s gun, and use it as a barrier between herself and Trump. Trump ran into the gun, knocking himself out again.

Once Trump woke up again, Michelle turned around and escorted the small party to the coast. Obama was resting in a lawn chair, soaking up a pale sun stunted by reasonably thick clouds.


“Donald! It’s been about a hundred years!”

“That long? I keep forgetting.”

The pair shook hands just like old times, diplomatically and with a sense of deep loathing.

“Look around you, Donald. Isn’t it fantastic?”

“Everything is in ruins! This is terrible! Absolutely terrible…”

“Sure. But it has potential. Just look at what we can create if we really put our minds to it.”

“It’s a lost cause,” Michelle said, plopping into a lawn chair. “We should get a steamer boat and head overseas.”

“I haven’t lost faith in this great country,” Obama replied.

“Amen. Finally, something we can agree on,” Trump said.

“We’ve actually agreed on many things, Donald. You just have issues focusing.”

“So….why did Michelle save me?”

There was a slight pause.

“Because you’re very instrumental in what comes next.”

“I am?”

“Just take a seat,” Michelle said, indicating a chair. Trump obliged, thinking about how nice it was to not be standing, or sitting in a trunk. And finally, someone would be able to explain to him what was really going on.


A Wasteland President, Part 4

A Wasteland President, Part 6

A Wasteland President, Part 4

“One hundred years?!” Trump repeated himself, fiddling in his pocket for a handkerchief to soak up his forehead sweat.

“Looking for your cellphone?”

Trump nodded, looking so wronged and so young.

“Good news is I have your cellphone!”

Trump’s eyes twinkled.

“Bad news is it’s practically worthless! AzureStar no longer has employees.”

Trump lurched forward. “I’ll talk to ’em. I’ll talk to the CEO.  We’ll create jobs and get out of this mess!”

“No one cares about jobs, anymore, Donald. Look around you!”

Donald looked around him. One of the orcs was giving him the fish eye.

“Could use better lighting, I think. Come with me, Steve. We’ll go on the road like old times!”

Bannon clenched both hands inside his tattered trench coat. “Not gonna happen. Things have changed, Donald. Let me spell it out for you. Fuck, never mind that! I’ll just tell you! If there’s anyone resembling a President here, a man in charge, it’s me!”

Donald was about to blow his stack. “The people won’t stand for this!”

“Let’s cut the shit, cuck. No one is around to absorb the blow. Priebus is gone. Tillerson never made it back from Cancun. Kushner is in Texas doing quite well for himself. Point is, all of your old scapegoats are no longer here. Except me.”

“And the Clintons? The Obamas?”

“Okay, they’re still here…”

“Then all isn’t lost. It’s just begun…”

“No, listen. Donald. You’re done. Toast without caviar. Fuckin’ finished! Just accept it. You’re lower on the totem pole now, and I need you to do a job for me.”

“Jobs? I’m listening.”

“Go to the F.B.I headquarters. Hack into the computers and steal a file called “Some_Files.exe, and come back here. We’ll use that info to smear the FBI. Got it? Should I repeat myself?”

“No, Steve, I got it.”

“If you need to contact me for any reason, take this flute. It will summon a homing pigeon. Use it sparingly!”

Trump nodded, only to be knocked to the ground by the debris of an exploding wall to his left. He could hear Obama’s voice before he faded from consciousness. Everything was going to be okay. Obama was there to save him.

A Wasteland President, Part 3

A Wasteland President, Part 5

A Wasteland President, Part 3

Trump was escorted from the ruins of Mar-a-Lago by a rough-handed orc. The beast reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t quite place it. All he knew was that he wanted to ask it questions, to ask it advice. It was far more attuned to this world than he was, seeing as how the world seemed so different from the one he had known less than three hours ago.

“You’ll take me to your leader?” he asked the orc. “Wait, what am I saying? I am your leader.”

The orc merely grunted, pulling Trump’s arm so that what was attached to it would follow. The group of orcs stopped at a circular steel door several blocks away.

“I hope this was made with American steel,” Trump said, glancing at the green beast. It didn’t respond. Trump was hauled before a short man wearing a tattered vampire’s cloak. The man had his back turned to the President.

“All is well, I presume?” Bannon’s voice seemed to rotate his body to face Trump.

“Steve! Thank god! I haven’t seen you in hours! How’s the country holding up?”

“Oh you know, we’re that thin dividing line between civilization and floating in space.”

“I took a chance with you, Bannon. Glad it’s paid off. You served the country well in the few hours I’ve been gone.”

“It’s been a hundred years, you cuck.”

“One hundred years?! You shittin’ me?!”

A Wasteland President, Part 2

A Wasteland President, Part 4

A Wasteland President, Part 2

With the heat from the dead Secret Service agent nearly spent, Trump wondered what would come next. He was all alone finally. No one to distract him from what was really important.

“I’ll just wait for someone to come along. Yep. That’s the plan.”
“But nothing came along”
” Wait, did I say that out loud? Maybe if I talk loudly enough, someone will come. They always do. They have to.”

Something that sounded like a car engine came closer.  One wall came crashing down, chunks of debris being unceremoniously flung to forgotten corners.

“Are you Trump?” an orcish voice asked from the gloom.

“I couldn’t be anyone else,” he responded.

As the smoke cleared, Trump glimpsed a large spiked vehicle. Green muscular beings poured out of it, brandishing chains and the like.

“What do you want?” Trump asked the orcs. “Have you come to save me?”

“No one we’ve ever encountered has put it quite like that,” the one orc who looked like the leader said.

A Wasteland President, Part 1

A Wasteland President, Part 3

The Keys to a Kingdom (Donald Trump’s Psyche)

Not all keys are shaped like keys
He found that out the hard way
Sometimes they are shaped like medals
Not necessarily earned
But infallible anyway

His entourage waited in the shadows
“Only niche journalists would care about them”
He thought
They waved and smiled dutifully
He smiled back when the cameras weren’t looking
They weren’t so bad
They just needed a little training was all
New suits
New haircuts
New reputations

Sometimes the little things
Could go a long way