From comedy writer, public speaker, and founding editor of The Onion Scott Dikkers comes this laugh-out-loud hilarious guide to surviving and thriving under Donald Trump’s presidency.
With satirical graphics, pictorials, news columns, and bulletins that are screamingly funny to everyone regardless of political persuasion, this is the ultimate handbook to the forty-fifth President of the United States.
Everything from a schematic of Trump’s presidential chariot (with missile launchers) to a handy pictorial that explains how Trump would have won every American war in three days or less is included in this sidesplitting anthology. Discover more about the new President with articles such as “Inside the Twitter War Room” and “If Einstein Was So Smart, Why Wasn’t He Rich?”
This work was previously published as Trump’s America: The Complete Loser’s Guide.
Other books in this genre:
In Destined for Destiny, George W. Bush offers readers an intimate, plainspoken, and often readable look at the character-shaping achievements that led to his inevitable rise to the office of President of the United States.
Written from the heart, not from the brain, this definitive autobiography takes readers on a journey through the 43rd President's life, including his hardscrabble beginnings as the child of West Texas oil millionaires, the remarkable academic performance that earned him entry into the finest East Coast schools, and his proud service to the country as an occasional member of the National Guard sometime around 1972 or 1973.
He proudly recounts his years as a successful oil-business failure and the owner of a baseball team. He even dares to dream the ultimate dream: to become Commissioner of Baseball.
The great man we meet here displays his mother's steely resolve and vindictive temper, his father's keen mastery of language, and his own unique gift of deciding.
His gripping life story deepens when a faith in God hits him one day "like a bottle of Jack on an empty stomach," and he has an encounter with the Prince of Peace that sets George W. Bush on a path to become the greatest War President in history.
To help craft this lasting account of his life and leadership, George W. Bush turned to two writers who have earned not only his trust but his deep friendship: Scott Dikkers, editor-in-chief of The Onion and coauthor of the #1 bestseller Our Dumb Century, and Peter Hilleren, former producer for public radio and some of the nation's finest public-access cable-television stations. Dikkers and Hilleren call on their finely honed journalism expertise every week to write and record the President's weekly radio address on WeeklyRadioAddress.com. Their work on such stirring addresses as "June Terror Update" and "The Pope Is Dead" made them the ideal choice to meet the challenge of chronicling the visionary mark left on history by its shining light, President George W. Bush.
* * *
Free from all the filters, handlers, and facts . . .
I tell the untold story of my inspirational life. You will struggle with me in my strugglesome youth. During the Vietnam War, you will be right there at my side as I face down the terrible enemy of my sinful partying. Together, we will meet and fall head over heels for the love of my life -- Jesus. And through me you will become a beloved, terror-fighting hero in the greatest hour of my presidency, September 11, 2001.
I embarked upon this important and historical work against the advice of my advisors. Come what may, I wanted you to hear my story from me, in my own talking.
George W. Bush
It’s Scandal meets Seinfeld. A political comedy set in Washington, D.C.
It’s a book for people who like TV. A serial novel structured like a television show, with individual complete episodes that each also contribute to the ongoing story.
In 2011, the Obama Administration embarrassed itself by mistaking Colorado for Wyoming on the map of a speaking tour in western states. Voila, the Fifty States Program!--fifty new federal patronage jobs, one for each state, all housed in cubicles at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building adjacent to the White House.
The millennials in these jobs call each other by the name of their states, and none of them are exactly what you’d call on the ball. Wyoming--that’s our man Elliot Vance-- could qualify for the slacker Olympics. He’s the grand-nephew of former Secretary of State Cyrus Vance, but prior to being given a States job by his wealthy father he got kicked out of an English lit Ph.D. program for insisting on doing his dissertation on 1950s pulp author F. Bob Goddard. Elliot dates a WASP-American princess who’s pushing for marriage, and his two best friends are Delaware and Nebraska. His nemesis is Tara Travis, the slinky blonde Republican aide to Wyoming congressman Bull Wheeler.
In Episode 1 Elliot is blackmailed by Tara into flying to Laramie to do some actual work. It’s the first time he’s ever been to The State of Wyoming.
Roger is stuck in detention forever and the only way to escape is by uncovering a deep dark secret about himself and the people around him. From drawing his teacher naked on the blackboard to sabotaging the school’s science fair, Roger finds himself spending more time in the school’s detention closet than he does at home. Before he knows it, his once “Ivy League” world becomes relegated to a small dark space, where the only human interaction he has is with the voice of a mysterious woman who talks to him from behind the wall. Steeped in humor and suspense, this psychological thriller takes the reader on a journey through the mind of a disturbed teen genius who struggles to fit in at school and at home. Can Roger escape the shackles of his mind or will the lady behind the wall remain a mystery? This is Detention Land.
My Favorite Christmas Tree
Originally appeared in Ellipsis: An Anthology of Humorous Short Stories, August 2016
The names in this story are true.
Only the facts have been changed.
None are innocent.
We called ourselves the Scurvy Bastards. To us, drinking was science; the weekend our laboratory; our bodies, test tubes; and our minds, the experiment.
Every Friday and Saturday, each of us would absorb three to four times the lethal dose of alcohol, and have others report back on our actions. Needless to say, this was fascinating research.
One night, whilst sitting on the Scurvy Benches, as was our wont, the Electrician (a man permanently wired) had just dismissed the whole of Kant’s epistemology with the words, “That faggot didn’t even drink.”
The air was crisp as lettuce and miniature fogs arose whenever someone used the Pissing Tree. The Electrician’s irrefutable logic set Feeney thinking. Feeney did a great deal of thinking. He had to. No one could be that disturbed or disturbing without having put a great deal of thought into it. He was something of an enigma wrapped in legend. None knew from whence he came; he would appear like some mythical being, gym bag filled with books, Jameson, and Stout, dressed like Sherlock Holmes. He had a great red beard, and spoke in parables. One night he passed out and we found the only identification he bore was a membership card to the Dudley Do-Right fan club in the name of Little Bobby Feeney.
At present, Feeney was engaged in what he termed, “The Great Experiment.” The premise was as simple as it was ingenious: How long can a human being subsist on Guinness Stout and Cheese Doodles?
Muzhduk stepped into the path of the flying boulder. It was the size and shape of a small woman curled up in a ball, but much heavier, and it came at him like a canon shot.
Muzhduk leaned forward to meet the boulder, knees bent, hoping to absorb the impact with his legs. He staggered backward with the force of the blow, but did not drop the big rock.
The audience erupted with cheering, and a cloud of yellow butterflies scattered from the noise. His opponent was Hulagu, arguably the strongest Slovak in the tribe, and all six villages were present for the Dull-Boulder Throw. All the Slovaks who lived in the mountains of northeastern Siberia were there, lined up along the edges of the saddle-shaped ridge. Even those so old or sick they knew the trip would kill them. Two had died on the way.
The audience watched Muzhduk. He knew some of them wondered whether he would disqualify himself. He hadn’t moved out of the way, of course, but no one had ever tried to absorb the shock with his legs before. Arms and chest were normal, but bending the legs was almost like ducking and he could see Hulagu bite his fat lips, wanting to make a charge of dishonor, which would itself be dishonorable.
Muzhduk decided not to disqualify himself. Honor was about avoiding cowardice, not change. At only three hundred pounds, he was much smaller than his father, who was smaller than his father.The blood of the Uglis was becoming diluted, as they took women from the Mongols, Yakuts, and Russians, but Hulagu was inbred, huge, and dumb. If Hulagu won, the entire tribe would suffer.
It was Muzhduk’s turn. He picked up the boulder, lifted it over his head, and launched with both arms. It flew straight, and Hulagu jumped forward to meet it. The boulder hit him high on the shoul- der, ripped his bearskin pelt, and bobbled as he tried to keep it from falling. It fell anyway. He hadn’t flinched, so the contest wasn’t over, but Muzhduk would get to throw again. They traded places on the ridge and Muzhduk picked up the boulder. Hulagu leaned forward in anticipation, but his right arm hung limp at his side.
“Your arm is hurt,” Muzhduk said. “We’ll finish tomorrow.”
“I can see past the end of my nose.Throw the rock, little Muzh.” The audience roared its approval, but Muzhduk didn’t have the stomach to throw a boulder at a man with one good arm. Not even
Hulagu. “Tomorrow is better.”
“You give up?” Hulagu asked, grinning. If he won, he would climb the highest mountain right away, not wait for years as Muzhduk had done. Then he’d have both eyes and be chief. The first thing he’d do would be to exile the Ugli men and rape the Ugli women. As for Muzhduk, him he’d drag over sharp rocks until he was flayed alive. Then he’d stake him to the ground and spray him with urine. It would be the end of three generations of Ugli rule.
Muzhduk threw the boulder. Hulagu couldn’t catch it with one arm, but he still managed to get his chest in front of it. The big rock broke his sternum, pushed his ribs into his lungs, and he collapsed.The contest was over. Bells rang to announce the end. Everyone cheered and came to congratulate Muzhduk for holding onto his title. He had gained another year to find and climb a mountain higher than the one climbed by his father or by any other Slovak chief before him. Then he would have two eyes—two claims to the chieftainship, one objective and one subjective.Then the chieftainship could pass to him undisputed.
Muzhduk found his father, Muzhduk the Ugli the Third. “You won,” his father said. “And that is good. But I don’t know
about your method.”
“Mind if I take Hulagu to Fred the Political Officer?”Muzhduk answered. “It’s better if he’s healthy. For when the Reds come.”
Ugli the Third shrugged and turned to watch the start of the long, slow procession of men, women, and animals back to their villages. Most were dressed in furs, though some of the younger women wore traditional red-and-white lace collars. From a distance, the line of waddling shapes had a self-protective, huddled look.
It was a terrible day to climb a mountain. The air was grey and wet—not quite rain, but damp and miserable. Still, it was the day after the Dull-Boulder Throw, and Muzhduk wanted to climb Mount Baldhead. It was the highest mountain in the Verkhoyansk Range, much of it covered in knee-high Arctic pine. He followed the river past the giant rock with the overturned Red tank, up through the first pass where the real trees ended, and then the second where the dwarf- trees turned to lichen, past where the lichen turned to scree, and on to the broken wall. It was only this last part that was difficult, where the mountain folded into sharp cliffs and jagged chasms. Muzhduk had climbed it many times, probably more than any other Slovak in the six villages. He did it for practice and in the hope that from the vantage of his grandfather he’d be able to see something higher. Baldhead had been the second eye of Muzhduk the Ugli the Second. What a simple test it now seemed.
But Muzhduk also climbed Baldhead because mountaintops were the place for introspection. And though it wasn’t the actual top of the mountain, Muzhduk had a special spot that he preferred. It was a boulder about twice the size of a man, wedged between two cliffs, a few minutes from the summit. Under the boulder, the sheer cliffs continued down for half a mile, parallel, less than ten feet apart the whole way. He reached it by inching along a foot-wide ledge that dropped off just before the boulder. Crossing the gap required a little jump that always terrified him. He sometimes tried to imagine where the boulder had come from, but the only possible answer was that it had fallen from the sky.
He’d started coming here because he was scared of heights. As a child, he thought that if he made the jump often enough, the fear would go away. Every time his head spun, his stomach rose, and his chest constricted until he couldn’t breathe. The fear never went away. Instead, it got worse. He became convinced that he’d been born with a given store of luck, and each time he came to the rock he used up a little more. One day it would be done and he would slip and fall between those endless parallel cliffs.The fear never went away, and so he kept coming until the boulder from the sky became his favorite place. He needed to find his second eye soon, to stop these annual challenges. His father had faced a similar problem at his age. Back then no one had known of a mountain higher than Baldhead; every- one wondered how Third would surpass Second. Third wandered up and down the northern coast of Siberia, staying with the Chukchi and Sakha tribes or spending months alone, with no luck. And then, like the boulder where Muzhduk now sat, like the Chukchi shamans in their sixty-pound coats whom the Reds sometimes threw out of helicopters, his father’s answer fell out of the sky. During a winter so cold that the plum brandy turned to syrup and you could eat it on toast, so cold that logs gave off blue sparks when you chopped them and healthy trees exploded with cracks like tank-cannon, the Red Army dropped Spetsnaz paratroops into the valley of the Slovaks. Confused by their own maps, the Reds couldn’t get out. They froze. Only one man survived, and when he reached the river Lena, the Uglis caught him. He was Frederick Vladimirovich Ekatin, the platoon’s Political Officer. Born in an observation station on Wrangel Island in the Arctic Ocean, the son of two doctors, he’d spent decades as a spy before becoming a Political Officer. He knew the world.The Uglis kept him in the basement, and, as a child, it was little Muzhduk’s job to clean and feed him. Fred’s cot hung from two chains attached to the basement wall and it could be flipped up when there wasn’t enough room. Muzhduk usually sat on a mound of potatoes that he could shape into a chair, or on the pile of loose grain that sometimes forced Fred to sleep on a slant. Neither of them could stand upright, because the permafrost ground had made digging difficult.
Fred said that he’d once stayed in a room even smaller than the Ugli basement at harvest. It was in Japan, and his body had touched all six walls at the same time.The higher the capsule-room, Fred said, the more expensive, because fewer people climbed the ladder past your head. Fred knew more languages than the Uglis, who read every book they could steal, and he told Muzhduk wonderful stories about the world beyond Verkhoyansk: America, Africa, Europe, and other odd places. He even knew the answer to Muzhduk’s childhood question about the shamans that fell out of the sky—proof that he knew more than the big library in Yakutsk that his father and uncles had raided in the hope of getting Muzhduk an answer.
Fred said they fell out of the sky because of their coats. Everyone knew shaman coats were covered with metal antlers, iron bars, and chains hanging down the back—that’s what made them jangle—but they also had bird-shaped pendants that, when dipped in reindeer pee, gave the shamans the ability to fly. The Reds were embarrassed by their lack of Progress, so they threw them out of helicopters and said, “Use the coat.”
That’s what Fred said, and Fred knew, because he’d thrown some out himself.
Muzhduk absorbed all the lessons, but when his father climbed down into the cold, shallow basement, lit by empty knotholes and gaps in the floor above, he asked Fred about only one thing—whether there was anything higher in this world than Mount Baldhead. Now, sitting on the wedged-in boulder and searching for an even higher point, Muzhduk understood why his father was so obsessed.
Fred told Muzhduk’s father about Mount Communism, the greatest mountain on the planet, compared to which Baldhead was only a foothill. Immediately, Muzhduk the Ugli the Third set out for the Tadzhik Soviet Socialist Republic to climb Mount Communism, 7700 meters, 24,590 feet, the highest mountain on the planet.
When his father returned seven years later, he brought wondrous tales of Communism and of a beautiful country to the south called Afghanistan, where he’d stayed for a year to rest and fight some Reds. Having climbed the highest peak, he could now be objectively proud. He could use his spittle to paste money onto the broad foreheads of Slovaks he passed in the valley. His valley. This forehead-pasting was the weakness of the Ugli line and it impoverished the family, but it was the custom for one who had earned the right to be objectively proud. Upon seeing this, the original Ugli, Muzhduk the First, was satisfied. He died. Muzhduk the Second became old, Muzhduk the Third became chief, and young Muzhduk began planning his own quest. This was the way the generations cycled in Verkhoyansk on the river Lena.
But Muzhduk had been planning now for well over a decade, and he doubted that an answer would fall out of the sky the way it had for his father. There was only one top to the world. So long as he kept winning the annual Dull-Boulder Throw he would be the rightful heir. But the village would always say that he was a man with one eye leading a village of the blind. It could be done, but there was no pride in it. He would be challenged every year, until one day Hulagu or some other muscular dummy would defeat him and lead the tribe to ruin.
Enough thinking, he decided. He stood up carefully, unable to fully straighten his knees as the vertigo hit him. From the rounded top of the boulder he extended one leg onto the foot-wide path carved by nature into the cliff. For a second he straddled a thousand-meter drop. He fought off the nausea, a lifting-gut feeling like he’d leaned too far back in a chair, and pushed off with his other leg. On the path, he pressed himself up against the cliff with the irrational fear that his ass would pull him over the edge, or that he’d lose his mind for a moment and jump. He slid along the cliff until the path wound out and he was safe. He thanked the boulder and the path with a sigh of relief.
The true summit of Baldhead was around the corner. As he walked up for a quick look, for the formality of it, he heard a helicopter. It wasn’t military; it was the sound of the new helicopters that had been circling the six villages for several months. They didn’t shoot, didn’t drop bombs or shamans, and only landed when there were no people nearby. No one knew why they circled. Muzhduk ran to the top of the enormous rounded rock that formed the summit and arrived just as the helicopter was landing.
Two women and three beardless men stepped out.They all, even the men, wore shiny pastel clothes made of cloth, not skins or the wool greatcoats of the Russians. All five were small and thin, the heaviest couldn’t have been more than a hundred kilos—light enough for the wind to blow them away.Two of the men were obviously guards, despite their flimsy outfits, and the third was in charge, though he wore a red noose around his neck by which anyone could hang him.They all had clean, mild faces unlike any he’d ever seen.
Muzhduk picked up a boulder and said, in Russian, “Are you Reds?”
All five turned. They stared at Muzhduk and he stared back, until one of the women said,“Hello.” She spoke Russian with a strange accent. Then she repeated the greeting in Slovak.
“You’re not Slovak.” Muzhduk knew everyone in the six villages, of course.
“I’m an anthropologist. From America.”
“America?” Muzhduk said, wary. Fred the Political Officer had told him about the evil wizards of technology and the alienated factors of production and consumption, about the cities that scraped the clouds. And his father had met Americans in Afghanistan. He said they all sold shoulder-fired missiles.
“Jesus,”said the man in the noose to the other woman, in English. “It’s André the Giant.”
“I speak English,” Muzhduk said, and all of them started in surprise. It would have been fun to pretend he didn’t understand them while they spoke to each other, but they already seemed a little helpless. “Fred the Political Officer taught me. Who is André the Giant?”
“My name is John.” The man held his hand out. It looked like a woman’s hand.
Muzhduk dropped his boulder.“Here in Verkhoyansk, it is rare to meet a stranger on a mountaintop,” he said.“Normally there is only space for one.This means no empty greetings are required. So long as the mountain is high enough. Usually, that means above the clouds, but today is a bad day. We can’t go by the clouds. Is this okay for you?” But he wondered whether the mountaintop rule applied to people who sat in a helicopter instead of climbing all day.
The man looked confused as well.
“Yes,” the first woman, the one who’d called herself an anthro- pologist, said for him. She squeezed a closed green notebook, and that seemed to calm her. “Yes. That’s okay.”
“Good. Why are you here?”
The noose-man said, “We’re surveying our property.” “Baldhead is your property?”
“Everything you see,” the man gestured in a circle.“This whole part of the Verkhoyansk range. We bought it six months ago from the Russian government.”
Muzhduk laughed. “The Reds tricked you. I hope you didn’t pay very much.”
“What do you mean,” the man scowled, “they tricked us?” “My father is the chief, and he didn’t sell anything.”
The man nodded. “We were told that there was an insurgency. When the Wall fell they released the old files and corrected their maps.”
“Which wall fell?”
“Communism fell?” Muzhduk couldn’t hide his amazement. Communism was his father’s second eye. If it fell, did his father’s chieftainship fall as well?
“Look,” the man said,“we’re fully aware that your people fought off the Soviet Army. But this is our land now, so we want to make an arrangement. We have no problem with your people living here.”
“Thank you,” Muzhduk said, picking up his boulder again. “Wait,” the man said, waving his hands in front of him. “We
can work this out. All I want is to run some tours. Nothing intrusive. I don’t want to mine or build cities or anything like that. Quite the opposite. You have a very rare breed of butterfly that lives only here. I want to set up a conservation area and fly in wealthy tourists. One hotel, that’s it. Butterfly lovers who’d spend money and do no harm to the environment.”
“Butterflies?” Muzhduk nodded at one that had landed not far from them. It had a stubby, juicy body, shaggy like a sheep dog, with long sleek wings that were transparent in the center but trimmed on all sides with thick yellow velvet. “We eat them.”
“Eat them?”gasped the woman who was not the anthropologist, eyes wide. “They’re endangered!”
“We eat them when they’re still worms.” “For God’s sakes, why?”
Muzhduk smiled. “They taste good.”
The five Americans objected. Muzhduk told them they were wasting their time talking to him, since he only had one eye. They should object to Ugli the Third.
After checking with their Russian pilot on how much the helicopter could lift, the Americans offered Muzhduk a ride down to his village. On the way, they asked how Slovaks had ended up in this hidden valley in far northeastern Siberia. The Americans had read about the Czechoslovak Legion of 50,000 men who broke through Russian lines during World War I and refused to turn back despite cowardly orders to do so. They said that historians knew about the Great March East, when the entire Legion walked from Central Europe to the Sea of Japan, but they thought the Legion had stayed in Siberia for only three years.The history books said they had captured eight train cars of gold bullion and bought passage on Europe-bound ships in Vladivostok, making it back to Czechoslovakia after a full circumnavigation of the planet, proud that they’d never had to retreat.
Muzhduk explained that while most of the Legion had continued east, his great-grandfather Muzhduk the Ugli the First had stopped here on the edge of the Verkhoyansk Range, on the banks of the river Lena, and shouted, “Big people do not walk so much!” He was a huge man with a forehead like a promontory and a neck like an amphitheater, and when he shouted the echo set off three avalanches. There had been a quarrel. General Stefanik, the leader of the Czechoslovak Legion, insisted that the world was round, and that eventually they would come home to their beloved Tatra Mountains, to villages nestled in cleft valley passes and their women warm within. He said that it was too cold in Siberia, that the Reds were winning the Russian civil war and Reds believed that all men were equal, regardless of how much they could lift. He said that Czechs were not mountain people and that the Czech philosopher Masaryk was waiting for them all in Prague, capital of a new Czech and Slovak Federated Republic. Muzhduk’s great-grandfather and six thousand men said no.The Verkhoyansk Mountains were similar enough to the Tatras, their feet were tired, they no longer remembered their wives. The six thousand
stayed while the rest marched on.
The Reds defeated the Whites, but many years passed before they turned to face their Slovak problem. Mostly, they were occupied with other business. But by the late 1950s, they had established a worker’s paradise, secured world peace, and were well on their way to the Moon. It was then that they decided it was finally time to clean out Verkhoyansk.
They invaded the valley every five years, but, needless to say, they failed. The Slovaks are strong and brave, a people who’d stopped the Roman Empire two thousand years earlier, holding off phalanx technology, onagers, and civilization with little more than large boulders. From the time they can stand unsupported, Slovak children are taught to throw oak logs and large rocks at each other. They have honor. In the end, the Red Army finally solved its Slovak problem by printing maps that didn’t show the valley. And so, everyone lived in peace.
Muzhduk explained all this, and as much more as he could manage during the short flight. In exchange, the Americans told him about Mount Everest, K2, Kanchenjunga, Lhotse, Nuptse, Makalu, Dhaulagiri, Nanga Parbat, and Cho Oyu.
“Those are all higher than Mount Communism?” Muzhduk asked, shocked and delighted. After more than a decade of trying to find a higher mountain, here was a whole pile of them.
The anthropologist crouched around her notebook and wrote furiously, mumbling about lost tribes and colonial peripheries and her publisher, while Muzhduk talked about how, when he would return from his quest, they’d spot him when he crossed the river Lena. By the time he reached his village there’d be a hundred girls, each with a bottle of slivovica, using every wile known to Verkhoyansk woman in trying to force some down his throat, and the men would crowd at the Ugli home, jumping drunkenly to give Ugli the Third the honor of breaking his top step under the weight of all his guests. Then, after he’d clapped all the women courteously on the ass, after the top step was broken, and after the girl whose bottle was the emptiest was declared the winner—
The anthropologist cursed when they touched down in the center of the village and Muzhduk stopped talking.
Ugli the Third greeted them before the blades had stopped spinning by knocking unhappily on the window.“What do you want,” he said, then grumbled that he didn’t like helicopters. The Americans stared. He had a hundred pounds and six inches on Muzhduk.
Muzhduk’s father led them back to the house, a square cottage with the tallest and widest roof-tree in the six villages. All the guests could fit in the central room, though they had to pause to let their eyes adjust to the weak light coming in through small fret-shuttered windows and their lungs to the sour smell of pine, earth, and lanolin that mixed with faint smoke from an iron wood-fired stove. Flypaper coils hung throughout the room, heavy with dead Siberian bugs, and tapestries covered the log walls.The only other real room in the house was the attic, where they slept, held up by rough branches that wove through the ceiling to the plank, tar, and scavenged-metal roof. Most of it was tank armor. But all the furniture was carved of wood, good wood that did not creak when you sat on it, and every crossbeam was engraved with scenes of men challenging each other to single combat or relaxing in various positions with women and slivovica afterward. And there were great battles against the Reds, as well as the objective-eye exploits of the family, scenes of walking and Baldhead and Afghanistan.
Muzhduk’s mother quickly chased out the smell of earth and smoke with that of strong coffee. She shook bearskins, plumped bol- sters, replaced the short nettle-cloth on the table with a white lace tablecloth from Austria-Hungary, and stacked meat and cabbage onto blue-onion china. Everyone sat, and the man in the noose introduced himself again as John. He added that he was an attorney and introduced the two women as an anthropologist and a biologist.
“How did you get these titles?” the Third asked, shaking a thick bottle toward his guests. They declined, so he poured it into his own coffee. “And why do you throw them around?”
The attorney looked at the anthropologist. She hesitated, then wrote in her notebook one word: “status.” She underlined it for John’s benefit.
“Status,” Muzhduk said. The anthropologist winced.
“You think we cannot read?”the Third asked, incredulous, pointing at the upside-down English word. “When we steal women from the Red camps, we take their books too.”
“I’m sorry,” the attorney said.“I use my anthropologist to avoid offending you.”
“Avoiding is the only thing that will offend me. Talk without help or crawl back into your metal shell and fly home.”
The attorney didn’t know what to say. He straightened his tie. “And take that off. It makes me want to hang you from the ceiling just for fun—and then I can’t concentrate. It’s like if she,” he stuck out his bottom teeth at the anthropologist, “pulled down her
pants during our whole conversation. How could I think?”
The anthropologist stared back at the Third and stopped writing. For a few seconds the only movement was the biologist slapping at a black fly that had found its way through all the flypaper coils.
John took off his tie and jacket and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, you asked about my title. I’m the attorney for, and a partner in, a company called SiberTours—”
“I asked how you got your titles. They mean nothing if I don’t
know how you got them.”
“Well,” he hesitated, “I graduated with a Juris Doctor from Harvard Law School, first in my class, and I’m a member of the New York bar.”
“Those still mean nothing.”
John paused to think before each answer, and this was beginning to annoy the three hosts.
The anthropologist added, “Harvard is the top law school in the world, and—”
“It’s the highest?” “Yes.”
Ugli the Third nodded. “And you graduated. So you climbed to the top of the steps of the highest law school. That is respectable, though it means nothing to us. I know what laws are. Fred the Political Officer has explained the world well.They are for the weak-willed. We don’t believe one person needs to tell another how to live.”
“You don’t have laws?”John asked in disbelief.“What if someone murders your sister?”
Muzhduk’s father made an enormous fist.“Then it’s between my family and his. We don’t bring strangers into such a personal thing.” “There must be something your people look down upon as
a whole,” the anthropologist said. “In the abstract. Otherwise you wouldn’t have a culture. Do you understand what I mean?”
Ugli the Third pursed his lips, though the movement was hardly visible under his beard.“Dishonor. Ducking a boulder instead of trying to catch it. Too much introspection in the valley.” He pointed a thick finger at his son. “Thinking about things instead of acting. But these are not laws. They are honor.”
“Fine,” John said curtly. “But your enemies have laws. Anyway, Harvard Law teaches more than laws. It teaches how to think and use language.”
“Words are toys. You can’t throw words.”
“Of course you can. That is exactly what law school teaches.
How to throw words.”
“How do you weigh them? What’s the most powerful word?
“Harvard. In my life, that has clearly been the most powerful word.” He paused again. “Like Communism was for you.”
“Enough of this,” Ugli the Third slammed his open hand down on the foot-thick table. His hand was as big as the anthropologist’s notebook, and hairy. “What do you want here?”
John the Attorney explained his plan to fly in tourists to look at the butterflies. For the first time since the helicopter landed, Muzhduk’s father smiled. He had big teeth, each as big as John’s thumbnail. “You are a funny man, John the Attorney.Take some slivovica.”
This time John accepted, and Third filled John’s coffee cup so it was half coffee, half 160-proof plum brandy.
“The butterflies are okay,” the Third said. “But you keep the helicopters away from the villages and make the tourists walk the last hour.”
“Great,” John said.
“But you have to stop killing the worms,” the biologist added. “The worms taste good,” Muzhduk the Ugli the Third said.
“And if we don’t eat them, they’ll eat everything else. They never stop eating, especially the mulberry leaves. They make silk for us and then, on the first day in their cocoon, we pick some and have a feast. And after the rest grow, the women use the yellow from the wings for eye paint. This will not change.”
“It must,” she insisted.
“It will not change.” Ugli shook his head somberly.“People who do not eat butterflies will wear their clothes the wrong way, and people who wear their clothes the wrong way are inviting lemmings inside.” “Our company owns this land now,” the biologist said, her face
white. The anthropologist squeezed her arm, but it was too late. “Then I hope you are more powerful than the Reds. I withdraw
my grant. We will kill your tourists and you.”
“Even if we are not armed?” the anthropologist asked.
Ugli the Third frowned. It would make no sense for them to come unarmed to a battle; but if they did, if they were crazy, then what? He couldn’t kill someone who was both crazy and unarmed. “Go away,” he said.
“Wait,” the attorney interrupted.“I can see that you’re an honorable people, with your own sorts of rules. The rule of lore instead of the rule of law.” He smiled and the Uglis stared at his perfectly straight teeth. Like a horse. “I get it. And you’re right, this land is yours and only yours. To give or not to give, as you will. We were naïve to trust the Russians. The, um, Reds. But as a token, I ask that you grant me land the size of…” he looked around, finding the rug under the table, “…of a bearskin. Just one bearskin. To be mine, to not be interfered with no matter what, on your honor.”
Muzhduk the Third laughed, finding John funny again.“What could you do with land the size of a bearskin? Even for a small man like you, that’s barely enough space to lie down.”
Muzhduk the Third winked at his son. He was chief. He had both eyes, objective and subjective. Muzhduk the Fourth hadn’t told him yet about the collapse of Mount Communism. “Fine,” the Third said.“I grant you land the size of a bearskin anywhere in our domain. Now go away, but leave your anthropologist.”
“Can you sign this paper?” John asked, handing Ugli the Third a contract.
“My honor!”the Third boomed. He spat on the paper and stuck it on John’s forehead.
They left, taking the anthropologist with them, loaded down with gifts of plum brandy, mountain wool socks that Muzhduk’s mother had knitted, a newborn goat, and enough apple strudel for a week of desserts. Had they left on warmer terms, there would have been too much for the helicopter to carry.
Two weeks later, Muzhduk saw the helicopter circling the six villages. When it landed in front of the Ugli home, Muzhduk the Ugli the Third was waiting, angry.“I told you not to fly this noisy thing so close.”
“But you gave us this land,” John said. “Where is your bearskin?”
“I cut it into a fine thread. I took the thread and placed it in a big circle that surrounds the six villages. Now this area is all mine.”
The Third’s neck swelled and turned red.
“On your honor,” John the Attorney said, backing up.
Ugli the Third pulled on his ears, rubbed his forehead, and looked dangerously close to indecision. Finally, he said,“If I kill you, then the person I gave my word to no longer exists.”
“That sounds like ducking.”
Ugli the Third growled.“You’ve learned too much.” He stormed into his house, pulled up the trapdoor and climbed down into the dungeon where the family kept Fred the Political Officer. Muzhduk followed him. Fred looked terrible. He was lying on his cot, gaunt and pale and blind. And old. Ugli the Third should have listened to his son, but he’d been too stubborn.
“Fred the Political Officer,” the Third said by way of greeting. “Yes?” Fred answered. His voice was ragged and dry.
“Tell me about words.” “What words?”
“Words and attorneys. How do you fight words?”
“I can’t tell you anything about them. I am almost dead.” “Yes,” Ugli the Third said and went back upstairs. He told
Muzhduk to sit across from him at the large table. Muzhduk’s mother joined them, and the three drank coffee.They drank for hours, until it made them sweat and shake and hallucinate in their peripheral vision. “I was wrong,” the Third finally said. “Words are not just toys.
They are heavy but not straight. You caught Hulagu’s rock by doing strange things with your body, and you used to move the rug to give Fred the Political Officer more light when nobody was here. So maybe you will succeed with these people who want the butterflies to spread until they eat every bush and tree. Go to that place where John the Attorney learned to throw words.To fight Reds, we had to understand metal.To fight Americans, we need words. Pick up the word Harvard and learn it better than John and bring it back. It will be your second eye, more like that of the First, but still objective.”
“Why not just kill John the Attorney? Then the promise dies with him.”
“There will be more like him.”
There would be others on Mount Harvard, surely, thought Muzhduk, other future chiefs of “niches,” as the Americans called their tribes, learning to use words as weapons. Harvard wasn’t really a mountain, but the first Ugli had only walked to Siberia and stopped. He hadn’t climbed anything. And according to John, others had climbed Baldhead and Communism before the Uglis had ever even seen them. The whole family’s second eye was at risk.
And chasing a word to its peak couldn’t be wrong. The Verkhoyansk Slovaks had changed a lot living in the mountains of Siberia, but they were still Slovaks. And the word Slovak literally means people who use words. As opposed to, say, the word for Germans, Nemtsi,
meaning people who don’t speak. For a Slovak, even a Verkhoyansk
Slovak, it couldn’t be wrong to understand words. Could it?
When Muzhduk pressed John for more information, he told them strange things like: “Objective success changes, though you must quickly forget that it does,” and “The top’s always changing.That’s why it’s hard to stay there. Power comes from many tiny micro-interactions, not broad sweeps. You keep your nose to the market, watch fluctuations, ride the wave.That’s the only way to remain the big chief.” And he told them that the name of Mount Communism had changed to Ismoil Somoni Peak.
“Ismoil Somoni Peak!” Muzhduk’s father repeated for days, shaking his head.
The fall of Communism overshadowed everything. The six Slovak villages of Verkhoyansk wondered whether Ugli the Third had lost half—the objective half—of the family’s claim to the chieftainship. Then, on top of everything, Fred actually started to die.
He’d been coughing blood for months, but everyone thought it was just because he lived with the grain and that wheat dust bothered him. And normally when people coughed more than the usual amount of blood, they went to see Fred. Everyone assumed he’d fix himself.
Now he couldn’t even sit up, and his coughing fits sometimes made him pass out. Muzhduk wanted to take him upstairs, give him some sun and air, and his father agreed. But Fred didn’t want to leave. He said he wanted to be comfortable. Muzhduk brought six flashlights to the basement to give Fred some light, but Fred said to turn five off. So Muzhduk spent his last week in Verkhoyansk in the basement, in near darkness, with a wall of grain squeezing him against Fred’s death-cot. “Thank you for moving the rug all these years.” Fred pointed up
to the irregular lines of light filtering through the axe-hewn wood-plank ceiling where the bearskin rug had been.
Muzhduk scratched wheat chaff out of his beard. He’d come to squeeze the last bits of information from Fred the Political Officer, who’d worked in America during his spy days. Instead, he kept thinking of the hours he’d spent down here with Fred. He’d talked more with Fred during his life than with anyone else in the six villages, including women. Finally, he said, “You want to play a game of chess?”
Fred said no. “I want to tell you what I know about America.
Before you go.”
He’d watched the Uglis for twenty years from under the floor, keeping the name Everest secret out of bitterness. It was what remained of his loyalty to Mother Russia. But Fred had heard the talk with John the Attorney and between father and son, and he knew that America would be difficult for Muzhduk. In the six villages even the chief can’t tell another Slovak what to do—if half the village wants to fight Reds and half wants to finish the harvest, each does their own thing and doesn’t question the other.The chief ’s opinion carries weight, but if he ever tried to force someone, the way the generals did before the Great March East, his own family would beat him to death out of shame.
Fred told Muzhduk that in America there’s no single chief, but everyone tells each other what to do. They have fifty million laws, all written down. In Verkhoyansk nobody writes down anything important because human memory is faulty. In America they write everything, for the same reason. There are rules about what kind of plants you can smoke, when and where you can have a drink, and what you must wear on your head when you ride a motorcycle. They have rules against standing around and not doing anything. If you break a rule, they write it down so nobody will ever forget. And there is nobody to fight if the rule is wrong.
Fred tried to sit up, but only managed to turn onto his side. “That’s a rule you must remember: men can’t fight, even if they both want to. If your honor demands a fight, you must remember that honor is different there—”
“But—” Muzhduk started.
Fred gripped Muzhduk’s wrist.“You absolutely can’t hurt anyone physically, not even a dog, because in America pets are people too, and they have an internal army like the Reds, but they’re Blue, and everybody helps them catch someone who breaks a rule. Don’t trust anyone, not even friends, they all collaborate. If you kill someone, your own friend will call the Blues.”
Fred told him things that would help.“The fastest way to learn the laws is to learn about the men who make them. For example: they are rich, unfit, and afraid, so their laws protect property, forbid nudity, and give the Blues a monopoly on violence. But it’s complicated, because hypocrisy is important there. They consider it the first step to virtue.”
“If you ever get in trouble,” he said, coughing with nearly every word,“say that what you’re doing is to increase safety.‘Safety’ is almost like honor there. Another way is to become famous, or the most at something. My handler and I used to laugh . . .”
Fred coughed at the thought of laughing.
“ . . . that if we ever defected we’d call ourselves the world’s tallest midget and the world’s shortest giant and try to become rich on American television.”
On the last day, Fred still tried to talk, but what came out was a ramble of fragments. About looking at the part of the swan beneath the water, how it paddles frantically, about bureaucrats who will insist Muzhduk have a number, and about his own life in the Uglis’ basement. “In places like that,” Fred said at the end, staring at the grain,“if a wall falls on a man and people want to know why, they study the wall. In this basement I’ve learned you have to know why the man sat beside it.”
Fred died. Muzhduk sat with him for a while, then pulled his hand off his wrist.They burned his body as if he were one of the family, and since the smoke was in the shape of a deer, they threw his ashes into the air.Then Muzhduk the Ugli the Fourth left for his long walk to America.
Sparty darted from the corner of the barn, his Dalmatian dots blurring like flurrying snow. He'd been idly nosing a Daddy Long Legs, a passel of sticks that wouldn't play. Steve's head jerked to follow his dog, and because his arm followed the trajectory, Old Bessie mooed "red alert!"
Odd. Sparty seldom left Steve's side for long when he was milking, content to supervise stoically. Outdoors the squirrels scampered in disquieted haste, to beat the winter that always seemed on its way. Sparty could chase them all day.
Odder yet, Sparty's bark was neither rascal-pursuit or guardian-like. Steve deciphered his dog's messages as readily as Jackie understood Brandon's baby whimpers and coos. Sparty sounded like boyhood Christmas.
"Sorry, Old Bess," Steve said with a pat to the cow's haunch, "but I gotta go reconnoiter. Sparty is playing the scout."
Steve lifted his cap to scruff his longish hair and then resettled it. He hoped the S aligned properly, his version of company best. Whoever was out there was new, not a neighbor. He may have heard tires crunch the gravel of the lane moments ago, plausible because the postman and pastor made rounds.
His recently-divorced and near-thirty son, Brandon, might be home from a date, stumbling in soon to do chores. More likely lurching toward his personal suite, their Winnebago parked between the two small yellow barns, to game.
Steve was unalarmed. It was, after all, his property and his dog, both long tethered to his soul. His wife, Jackie, was cooking massive quantities of homogenized, teen-pleasing fare at what she called her lively 'hood, the local high school cafeteria.
Steve strode purposefully to cross the milk barn threshold, yet his curiosity threatened to loft his cap into the breeze. Fall swirled the air with possibility. With winter's frosty temps, folks bought more milk, probably for vast quantities of hot cocoa and holiday baking. "Hurrah" for health benefits sabotaged by season-sanctioned treats and extra cash for the Breeden Dairy.
"Howdy. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Steve said to the figure backlit by midmorning sun, his tone friendly yet authoritarian. Cautious, strangely calm. Sparty's tongue vigorously worked the stranger's extended palm, as if he was lapping up crumbs. His body waggled more than it did for Brandon.
"You owe the pleasure to our awesome mom," the man boomed. He patted Sparty's head, stood, and extended his arm.
"Say what?" Steve took in the Tony Lamas that trumped his functionally forlorn rubber boots, his gut struck with emotion as if kicked.
The refrain of Springsteen's "Born to Run" jangled on Jackie's iPhone as she peeled potatoes at her polished aluminum sink. She frowned at her reflection, tucked a curl behind an ear, and swore, "Porca puttana!"
Daydream interrupted by ringtone. She paused to wonder what her mother might think of Italian, cursing, and ringtones? Mrs. Clayton, now deceased, would have known about interruptions because that's a mother's life. And about daydream's because that's a woman's.
Jackie knew a little Italian because she was a singer and an Internet trawler bored with daily life conscribed, conscripted, and safe. Her new phone brought portable intrigue, Words with Friends, and calls to fling gossip around town. She no longer feared deleting Steve's business data on the desktop computer.
But this wasn't one of her friends calling. They knew not to interrupt supper chores. The song signaled Brandon, only child and light of her life, he of the never-ending energy since his first day on earth, calling to check in.
Jackie loved the song, her son, and the fact that he called her frequently, but not necessarily in that order and not at this time. In her reverie, she had been in Rome, skirt hiked to step into the Trevi Fountain, its cool water swirling her ankles. She wiped one hand on her apron and reached into its pocket for her phone.
"Hi, honey, I love you!" Jackie tried not to sound as perturbed as she felt. Farm ways didn't allow for unwelcome. "How's everything?"
"Mom, it's all turning to shit!" Brandon's stage whisper sounded like a shriek. "We're gonna lose our home. I'm scared to tell Dad. You gotta help me, Mom."
A request for help was expected - history did repeat itself - but her daydream whispered provocatively, "Come back to Rome!"
Jackie didn't speak. If there'd been a cat about, she'd blame it for stealing her tongue. The dog, Sparty, tail wagging to the beat of dairy chores, was in the barn with Steve.
"Mom. Mom. Are you there? I wanna see your face. Why won't you use FaceTime?"
"Brandon, you know your rural Michigan farmwife mom can't always look like the Avon lady. Hold on, will you? I'm fixing your dad's supper. I have a knife in my hand."
"OK. I'll call back in five." Brandon clicked off.
Jackie placed the phone on the new granite counter, gingerly because of the price of both. She dropped the knife into the sink and elbowed the faucet to a tepid blend of water to rinse and wipe it on a fresh dishtowel, then did the same with her hands. She beamed at the lengthy one-piece potato peel in the sink. It was a game she played to break the tedium of having peeled more potatoes than McDonald's.
Then Jackie strode to the fridge for iced tea, poured a tall glass, and took a gulp to further unlace her nerves. The kids' house loss was going to be most unsettling to Steve, her steady-eddy, church deacon, dairy farming man. Was she going to have to play go-between again?
The path was well worn, for they came in numbers.
To many, the journey had taken the form of almost religious homage. But for the majority, the subjugated, it was a feared and tortuous trek into the unknown.
Penance or penalty – who could tell? It mattered not.
Even those forced to accompany their masters on frequent trips were fearful of stumbling upon unexpected terrors. For this was an unforgiving land - a strange, soulless wood land, fraught with dread and trepidation around every turn. A land inhabited by a species of beings, shy by nature, who would gather in small groups but scamper into the darkened recesses when approached by outsiders. For it would seem they too were tormented by the unknown.
Colin had been here before, of course. Most of the village’s menfolk had.
But this particular command to saddle up the iron horse and prepare for a new venture into the living, breathing nightmare took him by surprise. Surely his master had laid sufficient sacrifices at the altar of Ingvar to last until the year end at least? Had their dues not been fully satisfied? What more could be required of them?
Colin’s hands were visibly shaking as he prepared for the journey. A survival pack was hastily replenished with revitalising fluids, spectacles, a mobile communicator and most importantly, cash. The god, Ingvar rewarded the offering of cash. This Colin knew only too well.
The short trip to the edge of the mysterious wood land passed quietly and the iron horse was securely stored in a place that would later become as difficult to find as the end of a rainbow.
Colin’s master led the way towards, and through the rotating gates to the place of nightmares. Colin took a deep breath and closed his eyes as, from somewhere deep within, he found the courage to follow.
Instantly, his heart sank. His knees trembled. His head felt as if it were being squeezed by a contracting band of steel. Experience, however, reassured him.
“Focus on the positive. Always the positive,” he told himself. If his master was in benevolent mood, there may be a reward at the end of the trek. Assuming he made it through unscathed, that was.
Trailing a discreet distance behind his master, Colin joined the sluggard masses. Eye contact with the other subjugates proved difficult, but when by chance glances were exchanged, he could see into the very souls of the others. They were neither dead, nor undead. They were caught in a twilight world where all emotion had been thwarted. Until they made it to the other side (if they made it to the other side) their minds belonged to their masters. Only the naïve or plain stupid would offer up opinions of negativity. Even those who opined what they considered a neutral indecisiveness would be ruthlessly smote down in a volley of retribution.
As they wandered deeper and deeper into the petrifying forest, their masters would casually pick up items for brief inspection, pat them, then cast them aside once again. Colin and the other subjugates, however, would become disorientated and nauseous. Their very existence lay in the hands of the masters. So long as they remained no more than a few steps behind, and didn’t let them slip out of sight, they knew it would all have to end. Eventually.
Focus. Envisage the end. How good will it feel when it’s all over?
And then it was.
Suddenly, the trail opened up. No longer was it a random path meandering throughout the heavily wooded area. It was now a straight, direct walkway through a deep valley, dwarfed on both sides by mountainous blocks erected in temple-like fashion – a place for final worship before leaving the kingdom of Ingvar.
The mood of Colin and the numerous other subjugates visibly brightened. Their pace increased. Their gait lightened. They were nearly home. All that remained was to wade through the wide, but traversable rapids.
It had been done before. This was do-able.
And there, in the near distance, the reward. Colin’s master gave that look. Simply translated, it meant: ‘Yes. Ok. You’ve been good. Go on.’
And Colin ran and Colin skipped over to the reward. Now – ice cream or hot dog? Or maybe some meatballs to take-away? Or some cinnamon rolls?
Weekend visits to Ikea were sometimes worth the grief.
"That's lovely, okay, look this way, marvellous, hold it right there." I look around me to locate the source of the words ringing in my ears as I approach the grand, stately venue of this year's biggest event in the fashion calendar.
It crosses my mind that I might be about to stumble upon a fashion shoot as I enter the piazza, only to discover a group of amateur photographers jostling for pole position to get pictures of anyone among the cluster of people crowding the entrance who might be wearing something vaguely fashionable or different.
I stop and watch with amusement the parasites with their rocket-fuelled egos, posing and posturing for the camera-wielding onlookers and their ever-extending and retracting lenses.
Plotless, senseless, with little or no redeeming social value, Resumes That Work satirizes the seemingly endless stream of “How to get a job” psychobabble foisted on the weary job seeker through books, websites, conferences, and workshops each year.
This irrational little tome turns the basic job-search concept on its head working off the assumption that job hunters would really rather do anything but grovel for work.
That being the case, fictitious author Dave Doolittle outlines strategies to embarrass, infuriate, and alienate human resources, interviewers, and bosses, thereby insuring the reader will both avoid gainful employment and have a great time doing it.
Sections are included on writing resumes and cover letters, how to behave at interviews, what to do if you already have a job, and testimonials from satisfied customers. Both text and absurd illustrations – which are a mix of cartoon and reality – are littered with allusions to literature, film, art, and popular culture, adding a further dimension for those who like to puzzle such things out.
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