Letters to the Editor:
Bravo. You have published what is — without doubt — the artsiest dropping of atrocious shit-lit. Reprinted in its entirety from your Spring Quarterly:
The results were in. The idiot boy had been elected President. The smallish boy with a peach-on-the-pavement face, a tremendous lisp, and a violent self-hatred was the most powerful man in the free world. “How the Hell did he win?” wondered Jack Kemp, the seventeen-term Senator from Bucks County. Kemp sat under a pile of his opponent’s confetti and aggressively thumbed through his collection of Golden Lab postcards. Why was Kemp even at the bowling alley ice-cream social that the idiot boy had idiotically chosen for his election watching party? “The g-damn Marvelettes, ” Kemp cursed, “That idiot is playing the Marvelettes to celebrate.”
The truth was that the idiot boy had won as a sort of prank. All of the pretty girls had giggled and agreed it would be funny if the idiot boy with half a head of coarse black hair, a glass eye and a characteristically sclerotic walk were to be elected president. The jocks, of course, agreed. None of them had played football in forty years but they were all in their prime. They chased the fecund, mellow mothers — now burdened with toddlers who were themselves burdened with small crystal crowns and sashes and peep-toe pumps — around the supermarket. They figured it would help them win the Winnie Coopers over if they voted for the idiot boy that all the girls thought was such a laugh riot.
The idiot boy wasn’t even running for President but the local paper heard about the poodle-skirt initiative to get him elected. The paper read a sort of humanist undertone into the story. The gap-toothed little girls had just wanted to give the idiot boy a chance at the celebrity he could only dream of in his violent dreams of self-flagellation, cheese puffs, and Super Mario Hentai. The local blogs told the big blogs who, in turn, told the shirtless, flop-sweaters on the message boards who told each other. Luckily, a “cowboy” aggregator media specialist had picked up the scent and told the big paper, the iPad-only gab-mags, the 90’s throwback alt-weeklies and one or two mailing lists. Long story short, the idiot boy with a perennially furrowed brow, spit-crusted lips and a subscription to “Limbs ‘n’ Shit Magazine” became a generational icon and, now, the President of the United States.
A month into the idiot boy’s Presidency, Jack Kemp was dead. ‘Your liver couldn’t take the bleach, kid’, the doctor had quipped to his body. (The comment had been in poor taste. Kemp’s widowed Black Lab was present and howled in protest of the line). The pretty girls and their fat, ancient quarterbacks had also all died. It turns out the idiot boy without ears, knees, or chest hair felt nothing but disdain for biceps and large-chests. He summarily ordered the execution of anyone who looked like Rock Hudson or Jayne Mansfield. The idiot boy was also dead and the nation was in mourning. No one really missed him but the mourning coverage caused the ratings to spike. Hits were through the roof! He died of natural causes. He was frail after all.
Oh, what’s that you ask? What happened to the cowboy? Well friends … that … man … is … me.
After reading this turd, I almost broke my ankles, I was so upset. How dare The Moustache Quarterly run this? I thought you stood for something. It looks, though, like you are just big government stooges with an axe to grind. It’s clear that this piece is a parody of the Wingers’ rise to power in politics. You even — uncleverly I might add — nipped their slogan “humanist undertones.” Well, clap clap clap. I didn’t understand a word of it and it just makes neoliberals like you look even dumber.
Micah, MA, Ph.D. Candidate (ABD)
Teaching Fellow, University of School
[Ed’s note: Maybe we are all that idiot boy, dying for a chance to run the country.]