Renée made the planning session’s penultimate intersectional proposal: we should sneak socialist vegan brunch fliers into the free weekly alt-papers distributed at the gourmet coffeehouse (which attracts lots of progressive or at least not very reactionary customers, according to what her wife, a barista there, has told her) on the ground floor of the Republican law firm-slash-fossil fuel lobbyists’ skyscraper downtown. Tanya, somewhat facetiously before offering the final proposal, suggested picturing a scantily-clad babe on the fliers to appeal to the Bernie Bros, causing Caroline to wonder whether a scantily-clad Bernie would work better. Laughter ensued. See, we have fun.
Last week, a newbie named Hasker started trying to get us to unionize. He said we deserved a living wage, a voice in the company’s future, all that socialist crap. He got fired the next day—for incompetence, the company said. I’ll bet someone informed them before I could. Anyway, Hasker filed a complaint with the National Labor Relations Board. Trump’s board. Good luck with that. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy my promotion to department director by buying everyone drinks tonight at Wolves Gentlemen’s Club, that great reason for working your ass off. One lap dance would have cured Hasker for sure.
My sister, who’s thirty-eight, thinks I’m jealous of her ’cause she’s never been married or had kids. She’s also never had sex, a fact she brags about as the organizer for her virgins’ group. “You don’t need to have sex to have a worthwhile life,” she says. Maybe, but having sex certainly helps. I think she’s too self-centered to get laid, frankly. And too judgmental—she called me a Nazi ’cause first I called ICE on the illegals next door, then I filmed the arrest and posted it.
Fuck her, so to speak. Everyone should see what happens to lawbreakers.
I’m the organizer for the local V-CARD group. I’m also a thirty-eight-year-old virgin, and I assure you, I lead a fulfilling life; I have friends and a great job and my theater subscription (front-row seats, baby!). Sure, I wish I had an intimate relationship sometimes, but you don’t need a sexual or romantic partner to feel worthwhile. I always tell that to my fellow Carders.
My sister, who’s thirty-five and lost her virginity at fourteen, told me “I wish I had your life, with no asshole ex-husbands or bratty kids.” Her exes are assholes, but her kids are actually individualistic.
“You’re under arrest for possession of marijuana.”
“What? Come on, pot’s virtually legal.”
“That’s not the same as actually legal, now, is it?”
Another rich white boy, looking for cheap drugs in this neighborhood. I could tell he was rich due to his tie-dyed T-shirt—a little too new-looking, like straight from a boutique.
So I arrested him. Later, a couple scumbags almost beat him to death in the holding cell. That bummed me out a little, I’ll admit; I was still a rookie. But the law’s the law. And he’ll have a story to tell. Everyone needs a story.
Near downtown Pittsburgh’s annual furry convention (people who very much enjoy dressing up as anthropomorphic animals), a red Snoopy in a swashbuckler’s costume shouted “I love you, man!” as he approached me on the sidewalk.
I replied “My sixteen-year-old son got arrested for smoking pot yesterday, and I wouldn’t bail him out ’cause I thought a night in jail would teach him a lesson. He’s in the hospital now, ’cause his cellmates beat the shit out of him, apparently just for fun. Do you still love me, man?”
Snoopy leaned in for a hug. “Please, I prefer Scooby-Doo,” I said.