A straw man riding a sacred cow pulling a tethered scapegoat arrived in a town named Trope just when they were needed most. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Tag Archives: Satire
The Silent Majority
Over Mother’s Day weekend I attended the 2023 Fiesta Asia Street Fair in Washington, DC. It was a mosaic of wonderful music, dancing, art, and food. Afterwards, I was walking along Constitution Avenue close to the National Museum of African-American History and Culture. That’s when I heard drums.
Looking around, I noticed a parade of approximately 80 white men dressed in little boy sailor suits. They were banging on drums and waving banners that read RECLAIM AMERICA. When they got close, I could read the blue lettering on their white caps: NAMBI, which stands for National Association of Man-Boys & Incels – a neo-Nazi, white supremacist group. They were surrounded by police officers balancing on road bikes.
Curious, I started walking next to one of the marchers and introduced myself. “Are you related to Jim Crow?” he asked.
“No.”
“That’s a shame. He’s our favorite founding father.”
“Who are you trying to reclaim America from?”
“Anyone who isn’t 100% white, 100% Christian, and 100% performatively-Alpha male.”
“Is anyone in America 100% anything?”
“That’s why we need to act now. Before it’s too late.”
“Are you disappointed no one has come out to support you?”
“Not at all. We know the majority of people support us. They’re just silent.”
“Have you thought they might be silent because they disagree with you?”
“I didn’t get here by having thoughts.””
“Do you find it funny that every police officer here protecting you is black?”
“As far as I know, NAMBIs don’t have a sense of humor. So, no, I don’t find that funny.”
“When you say reclaim America, what do you mean?”
“Go back to the way things used to be.”
“How far back is that? Like, does that mean going back to the days of slavery?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just trying to stop the erosion of de facto segregation. Once we do that, we can work on bringing back de jure segregation. But let me be clear – no one, and I mean no one, is trying to bring back slavery. Yet.”
Saffron Crow, Parade Reporter
Kissing Cousins
Despite what Prius driving, pious posing virtue vigilantes may tell you heritage and hate are not kissing cousins. They do not share a liver like those conjoined twins - unfair housing and workplace discrimination. The truth is heritage detests hate just as wasps despise Jews. Heritage and hate are shackles on entirely different whipping posts. They are lynching trees located in separate parts of the park. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Grab Some Afternoon Delight
There’s a new trend affecting today’s children – especially teens. It’s an anti-social attitude and behavior that’s rather shocking. I am not the first to notice it, but I am probably the wisest to comment on it. This belligerent attitude is reflected in the music young people listen to. Bands like The Rolling Stones (I can’t get no satisfaction”), The Clash (“Let fury have the hour, anger can be power/Do you know that you can use it?”), and The Cure (“Let’s go to bed”). This music is beginning to change how young people interact with their superiors. But the music is a symptom of the real issue. These children and teens have too much free time.
Having elegantly explained the problem, I will now artfully bring you the solution. Repeal child labor laws. Instead of allowing these children to watch MTV all day on their personal handheld devices, let’s put them to work. Then they would be too tired to be anti-social. Who knows? Our youth may start listening to wholesome music again. Musicians like Starland Vocal Band (“Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight/Gonna grab some afternoon delight”), Sheena Easton (“My baby takes the morning train”), and whoever sang “God save the Queen/we mean it, man”).
While we’re at it. We should repeal minimum wage laws as well. We could hire a lot more children without those pesky laws. Plus, the government has no expertise in this arena. No one knows better than me and my business clients what your children are for and how much they’re worth.
Treacherous Gulp, Esquire – Counsel for Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology
Absurdistan: Love and Geopolitics
Gary Shteyngart’s Absurdistan is a geopolitical romp that ends on September 10, 2001. But the book was published in 2006 – so make no mistake – 9/11 hangs over the narrative like an ominous cloud. Don’t make this mistake either – though 9/11 was a tragedy and geopolitical catastrophe, the novel is a raunchy and satirical examination of life when you’re a geopolitical pawn. And we’re all geopolitical pawns.
As the narrator, Misha Borisovich Vainberg, tells us in the prologue, this is a “book about love. But it’s also a book about geography.” The story opens on June 15, 2001. Misha is 30 years old and the son of the 1238th richest man in Russia. That’s because his father is a kleptocrat.
During the 1990s Misha attended Accidental College in the mid-west. As a result he adores America and rap music. His rapper name is Snack Daddy, because he loves all the snacks that have turned him into a self-described “fatso”. Unfortunately, his father called him back to Russia, and he is stuck there because dad killed a politically connected Oklahoman in St. Petersburg. Now the U.S. won’t let Misha back.
Misha hates Russia and its corrupt transition from the Soviet Union – even though he has benefitted tremendously from that corruption. “These miscreants were our country’s rulers. To survive in their world, one has to wear many hats – perpetrator, victim, silent bystander.” He’s desperate to get back to his girlfriend in the Bronx – so desperate he travels to Absurdistan, where he has been promised a Belgian passport that will enable him to finally return to the U.S.
Absurdistan does not exist in the real world. I googled it. However, in the novel it is one of the Stans in the former Soviet Union. It consists of several ethnic groups, and they all hate each other. As soon as Misha shows up, civil war breaks out and the borders are closed. Each ethnic group wants to use Misha for its own political purposes, and Misha wants to use them to escape to the Bronx and his girlfriend. Sex, humor, and violence ensue.
Similar to Candide, Misha is a “holy fool” who is wrong about pretty much everything. Near the novel’s end he confesses, “I thought I was Different and had a Special Story to tell but I guess I’m not and I don’t.” Fortunately, he’s wrong about that as well.
Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor
Cerebral Thoughts on Art’s Entirely Benevolent Contribution to Civilization
I have drawn a portrait of God
and He looks like me.
Not you.
Me.
Saffron Crow, Art Editor
Cerebral Thoughts on How to Live a Purpose-Driven Life
When I see or hear someone doing or saying something I find offensive or the least bit disruptive to my sense of propriety, I ask myself a question. Does this idiot’s conduct affect me? If I can come up with some possible way it does, I immediately tell the degenerate to stop, or I will post his picture on Grumblr where me and my fellow like-minded Grumblrs will Grumbl at him.
If the answer is no, this malcontent’s conduct doesn’t affect me in the slightest, I ask another question. Is this pervert finding joy in doing whatever it is she’s doing? If so, I immediately tell her to stop. And if she doesn’t, it’s straight to Grumblr with her.
Knowgood Carp, Owner of all the Hotels on Block Island (and Some in Connecticut)
Easter Service on Stone Mountain
When the sun began to rise so, too, did the deacon scaling that sacred rock to the Nimbus Arena where the Holy Trinity resides in petrified consternation. He plopped himself down at the left hand of Lee, gave a grim nod to Stonewall on his stony steed, and from the lap of Jefferson Davis proclaimed the good news: Heritage is the Way of preserving power; the Truth tamed by tradition; and the Life lived in the past. Heritage is the burning cross illuminating the Master's house in the cotton-filled clouds. So blessed be heritage’s most zealous defenders for they shall inherit the blistered remains of the earth. Blessed, too, be any deed done in the name of heritage, no matter how heinous, for heritage sanctions everything except change.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
It Doesn’t Take Balls to Support Equal Rights. It Takes SurrenderWatch
To honor international women on International Women’s Day, buy a SurrenderWatch and go exercise!
We, here at SurrenderWatch (patent pending), love women! And on this particular day we support equal rights for international women. In fact, we think international women should have more equal rights than anyone. So go buy a SurrenderWatch and get some exercise. Then we’ll sell your biometric data, and everyone will be equal.
What’s that? You’re not sure women need rights? Fine by us. Now go buy a SurrenderWatch and get some exercise.
Wait, you actually hate women, except your mom? So do we! Just buy a SurrenderWatch and get some exercise! You’ll burn off some of that righteous anger and perhaps lose that third butt cheek. And I’ll get rich.
Titmouse Beak, CEO of Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology and Owner of Pungent Sound’s Only SurrenderWatch Store
White Porcelain
Nothing proclaims privilege like white porcelain. Its glossy surface reflects a prestige anyone can appreciate, though the privilege, surprisingly, is getting harder to preserve, even here in this milk-white marbled executive suite populated by the pale and mostly male descendants of white porcelain’s original beneficiaries – all of us attired in the traditional uniform of extremely starched ivory shirts and aggressively angry red ties. So privilege, nowadays, does bring problems – though, trust me, you will get no sympathy from the plastic port-a-john people on this. White porcelain, even when it is safely segregated behind a locked door, to which I, alone, possess the code, can still get sprayed – as happens often when I assume a standing position of casual authority with my hands resting gently, yet firmly, on my hips. And, sometimes, white porcelain can get spackled, even when I am comfortably seated, skillfully conducting a contentious board meeting by Zoom. Of particular relevance right now, white porcelain can get clogged when the flusher thingy suddenly won’t work, which, of course, I only learn too late; when, let’s say, a large deposit (the only kind I make) has been dropped at the bank. I pride myself on solving problems - even unwieldy ones. But how do I make peace with this unexpected imposition? Acknowledging it makes me human, a thought I can’t abide. Asking for help makes me humble, an approach I will not try. However, ignoring it makes me privileged, and that just feels right inside. Plus, there’s no harm done. Tonight it will be disposed of by someone I do not know and will never meet. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 