I got an email yesterday: “Time for more ‘Mr. Booker’ shirts.” Hmm. Odd, I never ordered any “Mr. Booker” shirts. I also didn’t email this address, which is just a bunch of numbers and lowercase letters and something that’s either Cyrillic or Sanskrit. Oh, bother. That stupid little bear would say that all the time, “Oh, bother.” Why? When was Winnie the Pooh ever bothered in his goddamn life? He had it easy: be a bear, wear shirt with no pants, eat honey, go on adventures, and lie. Bears that look like him are mascots of toilet paper and soda brands. When have I ever been asked to walk the runway? Never. There are still problems in this world, problems that are not discussed enough!
But back to those shirts: “Mr. Booker?” I don’t know him. I’ve heard of his Twitter site, which is smutty and full of plenty of foul language—foul, foul, foul language—but he seems nice. His Twitter site is full of good advice and funny stories for educators and just plain ole citizens like me. You know, I used to fancy myself a “straw hat” kind of girl. Every hen must distinguish herself, my mother once told me, because for every hen, there’s a chicken.
My mother—Philomena McLagen Wensyll—was something of a bitch. A class snob, yes—but she had no station. From what I understand, she was born on royal grounds in 1500s England. She always said she was “an inside bird—much like a dog or a lizard you would see today.” But I’ve recently found evidence that my mother was nowhere near the Royal Palace. She was a common “chicken,” raised for slaughter but wily enough to escape and find magical rabbits and flamboyant cats waiting for at night in the forest.
Perhaps I’ll get my husband, Rooster, some shirts. He could use a break today. He’s been so wound up by the debate. “You don’t understand, Mon,” he tells me, “No matter who wins here, I lose.” I told him that was because he bet against himself five times with six separate bookies, but no matter. “I’m just an unlucky son of a bitch.” I spur-claw him and remind him never to talk of his mother that way. He sulks and slinks up back to his room. I can hear the two old idiots yelling at each other…Donald Trump and Joe Biden, the oldest candidates in history… I really don’t care at all about this election. It’s more boring than a two-step rodeo (I think).
American politics were more fun when the people had less of a say, less of an idea of what was really going on. Would you have voted for FDR if you knew he couldn’t walk? What about Ronald Reagan in 1984, already sleeping through his intelligence briefings? Did Bill Clinton’s behavior with my beloved-name-sister make the Moral Majority turn from Tipper’s man to Bush’s body? Was anyone swayed by Trump bragging about grabbing women “by the pussy”? I don’t think so… sadly, I don’t think so. I think these decisions are made well in advance, and we never really have any say. Why watch in that case? Well, I’d say it’s fun to see two old idiots yelling at each other while competing for the most powerful position in the world. It’s funny to me.
People say that about me all the time… “She’s funny that way”… what way? In what way am I funny? Am I funny because I care about my work? Because I care about my husband? Because I care about my country? Because I worked as a mercenary in a paramilitary outfit in a classified operation in North Africa a couple of years ago? Because I am LOUD and FEMALE? Honestly this world has me sent to Heaven and Hell too much and I need a break. No rest for the weary in the Quibbits household: Rooster has already barricaded himself in his study, wrapped only in a sheet clutching his bottle of tonic, bitters, and laudanum—I’m allowing him a break so that he may “find inspiration.” Perhaps he will find it at the bottom of one of his many bottles.
Eric Trump referred to himself as “part of that [LGBTQIA+] community.” He said he was “proud,” and that his father loves those people. Who knew he was intersex? No matter—or, as Bum Winnie would say, “oh bother.” God I’m sooo fucking happy that Winnie the Pooh hasn’t been heard from in years. That piece of shit ruined so many lives and you humans want nothing of it. NOTHING! Did you know Winnie carries a Mossberg and volunteered during the development of the Bofors gun? You read that right: Winnie the Pooh is a war criminal. He has blood on his paws.
Me? I’m still fodder for fast food companies. They’ll never get me. NEVER. I’ll sooner blow my house up with my entire family inside than ever enter the white vans of the McDonald’s murderers. I will not be tricked like my cousin Carl. He was big, dumb, and fat—the scouts loved him. Back in 1960, he was probably murdered, prepared, and eaten efficiently. Hell, my cousin Carl might’ve accounted for two, maybe three “chicken” sandwiches. These are the monsters we live with, this is the horror we endorse, and this is just one of the fairy tales we tell children to prepare them for the changes of life unto death. Goodbye, for now. I’m going upstairs and gaslight my husband, tell him he stole my pain medication (I don’t have any). See you tomorrow. Good morning. Sunday morning.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits