DAVID V. MATTHEWS

Seeing that Jeff’s blog featured Le Hoppy Merchant, in which that black-and-white drawing of the yarmulked, hook-nosed, black-bearded Jew gleefully rubbing his hands together, a drawing the alt-right called Le Happy Merchant, had turned into a purple Easter bunny, with even the yarmulke and beard purple, reminded Taylor once more that the alt-right sucked. As head of REAL (Republicans Everywhere Are Lit), an organization aimed at Millennials, she knew that reclaiming wokeness from the Democrats required an avoidance of stupidity and an embrace of inclusiveness toward everyone, even Muslims and Latinx. (Plus that creep Jeff had kept hitting on her.)

Matthews on Music

Hometown Wasn’t Always Kind to Christina Aguilera

Video Killed the Radio Star

Everyone Loves Newspaper Artists, No Matter the Era

Some collegiate DVM art from the Everyone Will Love Our Crummy Pop Culture Three Decades from Now Decade:

A Few Objections to the Trendy Chronoscope, 1988

It’s a Meeting!, 1987

Mystery Matinee, 1986

This Page’s First Official Monty Python Reference

Sacré Blew!: Édition DVM

Francophobia Does NOT Mean You Hate Sinatra

Sacré Blew!

I Made Love to Elvis on the Front Lines

Uh-oh–Where’s God’s Other Hand?

Zorro, Elko, and Jeffy

What Fresh Shell Is This?

Egg-zactly!

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #60: Losers

“Men and women—both are losers. Women adapt themselves to fill the needs of men, and men adapt themselves to fill the needs of women.”

So wrote Bernie Sanders in a 1972 essay about sex and gender. He’s since repudiated the essay, and I can understand why; voters can’t take too much honesty. Everyone’s a fake—well, everyone who wants society to operate smoothly. Mutual phoniness preserves order. Pretending I care about my husband’s fantasy baseball league, and his pretending to despise Trump—yeah, not quite equal, but since women live longer than men, I’ll cut my man a break.

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #59: Azaleas

Every now and then, I enjoy confounding reader expectations by posting an incongruous image with my latest story–thus, the above photo of the Australian author Ethel Florence Lindesay Richardson, a.k.a. Henry Handel Richardson (1870-1946).

Vomiting prodigiously into the azaleas before the appalled guests that sweltering June night, in the backyard of Eric and Caroline McCafferty’s Cape Cod-style mansion, during the Joe Biden fundraising dinner (five thousand a plate, a hundred grand raised), Wayne Pellis (Caroline’s younger brother, thirty-one, unemployed, uninvited, unsober) wondered if raccoons or wolves or other animals from the overlooking hills would lap up the regurgitation, or if Caroline would have one of the Latino (or Latinx?) servants hose off the flowers, which had appeared last year in some magazine called Manor Illustrated (no doubt a purveyor of socialist propaganda, Wayne thought).