That Golden Oldie from Nine Years Ago

Please note that I do not share the ultra-right-wing views depicted in this story.  However, I do like grapefruit.

To the Left, to the Left 

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To the Left, to the Left

As Jeff walks toward his cubicle that morning at Vanderblock Performance Management, ready to start another goddamn day reviewing hundreds of hundred-page ergonomics reports till he wants to gouge his eyes (or preferably someone else’s eyes) out with a grapefruit knife, he notices the cucks and snowflakes giving him nastier looks than usual.  “You might want to check your e-mail,” that fat slut two cubicles down tells him, a sneer on her pale blobby face.

It turns out his second-least-favorite coworker, Mara Greenberg, sent all seventy-eight employees in the company, including him, the same e-mail.  RACIST, ANTI-SEMITIC BLOG FROM VPM EMPLOYEE, the subject line reads, all in caps.  “I’ve stumbled upon Sivell War, a blog from VPM employee Jeff Sivell.  After you read it, you might wish I hadn’t,” the Jewgirl writes, followed by a Web address that links to Jeff’s greatest literary-slash-sociopolitical achievement: his ongoing attempt to red-pill the sheeple about the lies that keep them poor, powerless, and pathetic.

Jeff stares at the e-mail.

“Eh,” he says, clicking on the link.  For the eight-zillionth time, he reads his latest Sivell War posting, which calls the Tree of Life synagogue shootings a hoax perpetrated by the Jews—or, as he put it, Jew$—to brainwash Americans into supporting gun control, if not the complete repeal of the Second Amendment.  And without any guns, true patriots will have a much more difficult time fighting their globalist banker pro-immigrant oppressors.

“Nice work, buddy, signing your real name to that crap,” Denton Breyers says, looking over Jeff’s shoulder.

“Fuck you,” Jeff says.

“You didn’t think anyone who worked here would read it?”

“I don’t care who reads it.  I’m not ashamed of what I write.”

“Of course not.”  Denton used to be the only person he could stand there, a true friend even, until Denton pussied out, softening his alt-right views to gain lamestream respectability.  “Though if the synagogue did stage a fake massacre, at least they could have hired better-known crisis actors, like, I dunno, the guy who played Screech on Saved by the Bell.   He could have stopped the evil gunman.  We Millennials would have loved that.”

“Yeah, well—”

Oh great.  Here comes their supervisor, Ms. Birch, a white woman they’d called Ms. Bitch even before finding out a dindu had knocked her up; she’d later married him and had a half-dindu daughter, hooray.  (Dindu: black, after what the alt-right considers that race’s favorite expression, Dindu nuffin’.)

“Hi,” Denton says sociably.

“Hi,” Ms. Bitch says more sociably.

“See you later, Jeff,” he says, walking away.  Yeah, a true friend, offering support.

“So, Chelsea, what’s up?” Jeff asks.

Ms. Bitch, somewhat less sociably: “May I have a word with you in my office?”

No wonder she’s his least-favorite coworker.  Since childhood, Jeff has hated having words with teachers, bosses, mental-health professionals, and other assholes who have made his life miserable.

#

Ms. Bitch sits at her desk.  Jeff sits across from her.  A giant blue die-cut dolphin, facing to the right, hangs on the wall behind her, above a couple framed full-color photos of her riding an actual dolphin in Cancún—yes, in that glorious wonderland of rapists and drug kingpins, Mexico.

“Is this your blog?” Ms. Bitch asks, her laptop screen facing Jeff.

No response.

“Is it?  Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“And these are your opinions posted here?”

“It looks that way.”

“Uh-huh.”  She turns the laptop back around.  Her eyes widen and laser-focus on him.  “We have a diverse workplace here.  And because of that, all employees must abide by our Code of Conduct, which forbids language or behavior that—”

Jeff wonders if she’s read his blog entry from two months ago, where he posted a meme that showed a photo of an alligator, jaws open, with the caption BLACK LIVES MATTER…WHEN YOU NEED GATOR BAIT.  Among ten zillion other dindu-related postings of his.

“—particularly about the Tree of Life shootings,” Ms. Bitch said.  “Which means we have to let you go, effective immediately.”

No response.

“Did you hear me, Jeff?”

“Yeah.  You’re really firing me?”

“Letting you go, yes.”

“Well, then fine—I’ll just sue you and your company for violating my free-speech rights.”

“That’s your prerogative.  Here’s a formal letter of termination.  Please read it carefully and sign it.”

Jeff does both.  Knocking out her teeth, what he really wants to do, wouldn’t go over well at trial, when he does sue her.  If his lawyer doesn’t fuck up, Jeff could win a seven- or eight-figure settlement and pay off those student loans well before turning sixty.

#

Chelsea Birch, breastfeeding her baby that night: “So as I was watching der Führer carry out his stuff in a box, that Beyoncé song ‘Irreplaceable’ started running through my head.  You know, when she kicks her guy out of the house and says ‘To the left, to the left / everything you own in the box to the left.’ ”

Kevin Dale, her husband: “Yeah, Jeff seems like a Beyoncé fan.”  Five seconds later: “I almost hate to bring this up, but—it’s about Auschwitz.”

“What about Auschwitz?”

“Well, when the new prisoners would arrive, if the Nazi official in charge pointed to the left, they went to the showers.  And if he pointed to the right, they went to work as slaves.  So you could say the Nazis invented that swipe left, swipe right business.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Sorry if I depressed you.”

“No, no, that’s okay.”

“I don’t mean to imply Tinder has any connection to Nazis.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“And I definitely don’t mean to imply Beyoncé’s a Nazi, either.”

“Again, I didn’t think so.”

Kevin is left-handed.  He met Chelsea on OkCupid.

 

Copyright © 2018 by David V. Matthews

revised December 23, 2018

Crisis Actors

SIVELL WAR
A Blog by Jeff Sivell

Monday, October 29, 2018
The Tree of Life shootings in Mr. Roger’s [sic] town on Saturday were as real as the Neighborhood of Make Believe, no doubt about it.  President Ku$hner must really want gun control.  The 11 crisis actors playing the ventilated Jew$ did such a good job, they’ll probably appear in the next $pielberg flick.  Then—

“I read your post today,” Denton said.

“And?” Jeff asked.  They stood outside their office building, vaping.

“Congratulations, dude.  You’ve officially gone insane.”

“Why, because I told the truth?”

“That’s what you call it?”

“Yeah.  Sorry it’s not all pretty and comforting.  Sometimes the optics have to look bad.  In fact, screw your optics, ha ha ha.  Then go screw your buddies in the alt-lite”—what some far-rightists derisively call the alt-right.

“At least people take me seriously.  You believe in that Nazi shit.  In case you didn’t know, the Nazis lost World War Two.  I like winners.”

“They are winners, Rabbi.  Their philosophy has reshaped American political culture for the better.  Now the cucks and snowflakes have to—”

Zoning out, Denton puffed on his e-cig.  Mmm, menthol blast, his favorite flavor.

Copyright © 2018 by David V. Matthews

 

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #49: Spooktacular

October 1975:

Mr. and Mrs. Dow liked doing two things: namedropping their distant cousin, Tony Dow, who’d played Wally on Leave It to Beaver; and hosting parties, including their upcoming Hallowe’en (as Mrs. Dow preferred to call it) spooktacular, their first since 1972, right before Nixon got reelected.  (They’d cheered when the bastard had announced his resignation on TV two years later.)

As usual, the Dows mailed Cousin Tony an invitation; he’d never attended any of their previous parties or even replied, but this time, his career had hit a hiatus, and he might like a little costumed fan support.

 

Copyright © 2018 by David V. Matthews

Standard Procedure

October 1975, Conference Number Two:

Principal: “Mrs. Kazakis?”

Milo’s Mother: “That’s Ms. Henningsen.”

Milo: “My mom and dad got divorced.”

Principal: “All right, Milo.  Please have a seat, both of you.”  [Both of them sit down.]  “So, I’ve spoken with Tommy regarding the incident.  He says you did something to him, Milo.”

Milo’s Mother: “Did something?  What did he allegedly do?”

Principal: “Maybe Milo could tell us.  Did you do something to him, Milo?”

Milo: [No response.]

Milo’s Mother: “Cut the crap, Mrs. Goggins.  What did Milo allegedly do to deserve getting beat up?”

Principal: “Well, Tommy says Milo grabbed him.”

Milo’s Mother: “Grabbed him?”

Principal: “Grabbed his—butt.”

Milo’s Mother: “Oh for Christ’s sake.”

Principal: “Did you grab his butt, Milo?”

Milo: “No.  Why would I do that?  He has a fat butt.”

[Tense pause.]

Milo’s Mother: “Milo!”

Principal: “And if he didn’t have a fat butt, would you grab it?”

Milo: [No response.]

Milo’s Mother: “I hope you don’t go around grabbing boys’ butts, Milo.”

Milo: “No!”

Milo’s Mother: “Or girls’ butts, for that matter.”

Milo: “I don’t grab any butts!  I was just kidding!”

Principal: “You shouldn’t kid around about certain topics, Milo.”

Milo: “I didn’t grab his butt.”

Milo’s Mother: “All right, calm down.”

Principal: “I didn’t think he grabbed it.  I talked with the eyewitnesses, his classmates, and they all said they hadn’t seen Milo do anything like that.”

Milo’s Mother: “They why the hell’d you call me here?  I had to quit work early, and I need the money.”

Principal: “Standard procedure, Mrs.—I mean Ms. Henningsen.”

Milo: “My mom and dad got divorced.”

Principal: “You’ve said that already, Milo.”

Milo’s Mother: “He could say it a million times.  I couldn’t stand being married to his father.”

Principal: “Well, I’m sure your dad has some good qualities, Milo.”

Milo: “Yes.  He watches Spider-Man with me.”

Copyright © 2018 by David V. Matthews

The Child in Question

October 1975:

Principal: “Let’s get to the point.  Your son beat up one of his classmates during recess yesterday.”

Tommy’s Father: “He did?”

Principal: “Yes.  The child in question, Milo Kazakis, got not one but two black eyes.”

Tommy’s Father: “Is this true, Tommy?  Did you really beat him up?”

Tommy: “Yes sir.”

Tommy’s Father: “Why’d you do it?”

Tommy: “ ’Cause he grabbed my butt.”

Principal: “You sure that’s what happened, Tommy?”

Tommy: [No response.]

Principal: “If I asked the other students there—”

Tommy: “He did it when no one was lookin’.  He’s a fag.”

Principal: “Watch your language, Tommy.”

Tommy: “Sorry, ma’am.”

Tommy’s Father: “Now, now, wait, what if this Milo kid actually is a, you know?”

Principal: “We have no proof of that.  And even if he is—”

Tommy’s Father: “Tommy doesn’t lie.  If he says this kid grabbed his butt, then that’s what really happened.  Isn’t that right, son?”

Tommy: “Yes sir.”

Tommy’s Father: “Tommy’s was just defending himself.”

Principal: “A little too much, it seems.”

Tommy’s Father: “He’s an energetic boy.”

Principal: “Right.  As for Milo—”

Tommy’s Father: “Send him to a girls’ school, ha ha.”

Tommy’s Mother: “Ha ha.”

 

Copyright © 2018 by David V. Matthews