politics – DAVID V. MATTHEWS

The Cheese Grater

The third excerpt from “Our Putative Couple,” a work in progress. For the first two excerpts, please click here and here.

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October 10, 2025:

“We’ve received some concerning reports about you.”

“Concerning reports? Wow, no one has ever written any concerning reports about me before. How many of these concerning reports have you received?”

“More than one.”

“One and a half?”

“Ha ha, sure, okay, one and half. One and three-quarters if it makes you happy.”

Exactly a month earlier, via a series of posts on X (the social media platform that Livin’ la Vida Locher will call the Spot), the United States Department of Education announced it had frozen US $380 million in federal research grants for Garnetville University, due to, first, the school’s “failure to protect students on campus from anti-Semitic discrimination— all while promoting divisive ideologies over free inquiry”; and second, the school’s “Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs” that have fomented “division and hatred based on race, color, national origin, and other protected identity characteristics” and thus worsened “intellectual and civil rights conditions.” To have its funding restored, the school needed to “enter into discussions” with the government “regarding institutional reforms” the school “should implement as soon as possible to ensure a safe learning environment for all students while safeguarding viewpoint diversity.”

Olivia thought Garnetville University, her employer, should sue the Trump administration on First Amendment grounds. Instead, the school capitulated, which didn’t surprise her, considering its reliance on sweet, sweet military contracts. So bye-bye DEI. And helloooo to the school’s latest employee, on the job for a little over a week: Zoey Jennings, white, cisgender, twenty-eight, bias monitor (a new position), sitting behind a desk, with Olivia sitting across from her, in a cavernous office in the Administrative Annex, a gray two-story slab with a pebbly façade.

“You know what everyone on campus calls this building?” Olivia asks.

No response.

“The cheese grater. It looks like one?”

“Ha ha, yeah, it does,” Zoey says. “According to—”

“I created that nickname.”

“Congratulations. According to the reports I’ve received, you showed a certain film in class a couple days ago.” Zoey, reading aloud from the laptop on her desk: “Doctor Farnsworth [a 1987 British and American coproduction]?”

“Yes, I did show that,” Olivia responds.

“And you discussed the radical gender ideology it promotes?”

“Ah, yes, radical gender ideology. A fair and balanced term.”

“Did you discuss the ideology?”

“If your concerning reports say I did, then yes, I did.”

“You discussed it favorably.”

“Again, if your concerning reports say I did—I trust their veracity.”

The film opens in 1867, when a white, presumably cisgender, eighteen-year-old, orphaned, homeless London resident named Henrietta Farnsworth, who’s always had an interest in what she calls “doctorin’—sorry, doctoring,” wants to improve her socioeconomic status by earning a degree from “the most pres-tee-gee-ous educational institution in good old London town,” the Dillingham University School of Medicine, where “the cram de la crop” gets admitted “grattees—uh, gratis, yes, you drink grat teas at tea time, from the grat bush in Southern Grattonia.” However, the school does not admit women. But she applies anyway, in person, disguised as a man named Henry Farnsworth (short hair, long trousers, waistcoat, bowler hat, a smudge of dirt smeared onto her face), and she gets into the school. Over the next two decades, Henry Farnsworth graduates with honors from that school; rises to lofty heights in the medical profession, successfully performing complicated operations that adhere to the film’s PG rating by featuring not much blood and no visible viscera; adopts proper English (“The Queen could take elocution lessons from me, gratis, of course”); moves into a country manor (with loyal country servants who now provide the film’s mispronunciation-and-malaprop-related comic relief); falls in love for the first time, with the white, cisgender, much younger, much wealthier Lady Florence “Flossie” Hargreaves and vice-versa; and tells her (as forboding, somewhat loud, piano-and-synth instrumental music plays on the soundtrack) about a secret he’s never told anyone before, namely—

“Do you think taxpayer dollars should pay for spreading transgenderism at school?” Zoey asks.

Olivia chuckles.

“Do you?”

“Sure, sure, whatever.”

“You’ve certainly praised in class what you call ‘gender-affirming care for young people.’ ”

“That I have.”

“So you don’t mind child genital mutilation?”

“You mean gender-affirming surgery? Trans kids rarely have that type of surgery.”

Zoey chuckles. “Sure, whatever.”

“Do you think they should have cosmetic surgery instead? Lots and lots and lots of cosmetic surgery?”

“Onto a different topic.”

“You don’t mind if twelve-year-old girls—”

“What do you think about Israel?”

“What do I think about Israel.” Olivia, scratching her right temple with her right forefinger: “Hmm.” She stops scratching. “Well, speaking as a Jew—and you do know about my Jewishness, right? Of course you do. The government knows everything. Well, Republican governments do. Anyway, speaking as a Jew, I have to say”—pause—“ohhhh, Israel, I love ya, but”—shorter pause—“I think we need some time apart.”

“Ha ha ha, yeah, you love Israel, sure.”

“But I do.” Olivia, languidly pumping her fist: “Go, go, Israel. Go, go, Israel. Yaaaay, Israel.”

Flash Fiction #130 (Exactly 130 Words): Ghostposter

For previous installments of the ALWAYS WITH LOVE saga, please click (in this order) here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. These two sentences don’t count toward the 130-word limit.

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In 2025, I was Senior Advisor on Gender Policy for the Trump administration. I worked in a fancy-schmancy office in DC, writing papers on how our country could promote the biological reality of two and only two sexes. I’ve always opposed gender extremism, before “gender extremism” was even a thing.

Anywho, Stewart Pringle, the White House Social-Media Director, he visited me at work one day. He told me the President had lots to do, what with fighting the migrant invasion and wokeness and DEI, so—would I like to help out by writing the President’s posts on Truth Social? “It’s like you two share a brain,” Stewart said. “I can’t imagine anyone else who’d make a better ghostposter, so to speak. Plus you’d have personal access to him.”

Personal access.

Flash Fiction #129 (Exactly 129 Words): No Other Teeth

For previous installments of the ALWAYS WITH LOVE saga, please click (in this order) here, here, here, here, here, and here. These two sentences don’t count toward the 129-word limit.

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Reading Mom’s text today in which she related the news that Trump had turned my sister Bethany into “a Washington bigshot” by naming her “senior advisor for combatting radical gender ideology” didn’t enrage me as much as seeing the emoji Mom had attached: an ecstatic smiley-face, three-fourths mouth, a gargantuan buck-toothed overbite, a somewhat smaller buck-toothed underbite, and no other teeth. Usually, as a survivor of childhood orthodontic treatment, I would find such an image amusing. But not now. I almost texted Mom back that her news had deserved “a poop emoji,” and that she should “TRY not to revel in deranged anti-trans cruelty.” Instead, I blocked her number; I’ve blocked scores of people (including longtime friends) since Trump’s victory last year, regardless of the blockees’ dental status.

A Tough Love Kind of Way

November 6, 2024:

“Y’wanna know the main reason Trump won yesterday?”

“Sure.”

“It’s ’cause he loves us so much.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.”

“I’m serious. He loves us but not unthinkingly. He loves us in a tough love kind of way, so we’ll improve ourselves, so we’ll succeed just like him.”

“Tough love. Yeah.”

“And judging from yesterday’s results, the majority of us crave that love.”

“Yeah. Including blacks and Latinos. And the poor.”

“And me, apparently, heh heh.”

“You voted for him?”

“I would have, if I’d bothered voting. I don’t really need too much tough love, though, just enough to make me even more perfect.”

“Riiiight. I would have voted for Kamala, if I’d bothered voting.”

“What a surprise.”

“I thought she would have appreciated at least one vote from a guy.”

“You and Kamala, sittin’ in a tree—”

“A coconut tree.”

“Coocoonuts.”

“Plus I don’t sit in trees. No back support.”

That Cute Little Button Nose

An excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Photorealistic Raccoons.

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Sitting on an old white bedspread under a tree, Gerry looked through his stack of comic books, wondering what he should read next. Perhaps Mekka Lords? Nah, he’d grown bored with the current plotline; Dr. Harmer has taken control of Mekka City’s protektors again? Shouldn’t the chief protektors have gotten fired after the second time at least? Or how about the new Silverquake? Maybe, but leafing through the issue, Gerry could see the story took place in the ghetto. He saw enough blacks in real life, thank you. Or The Mighty Victors? Pretty good art by Dick Dobbins, especially during that quantum matter battle in the Zordonian space station, but Gerry had already read that issue twice. He should have taken the time to choose better comics instead of waiting till the last second then grabbing whatever he could find at home. But even the worst comics were better than this sorry place, Presque Isle, that peninsula jutting out into Lake Erie, near the city of Erie.

His parents sat behind him in folding chairs, his mother reading Newsweek (THE NIXON TAPES), his father reading U.S. News & World Report (BUGGING INSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE). Gerry had always had an interest in current events, not as much as his parents, but enough to make him feel more sophisticated than his classmates, whose favorite pastime involved placing ketchup packets on the street, watching vehicles drive over the packets, and—

“Excuse me?”

Two people had walked up: a man carrying a folded folding chair, and a girl carrying an oversized tote bag.

“Excuse me?” the man repeated, addressing Gerry’s parents. “Do you mind if my daughter and I plop down next to you, here in the shade? If I spend more than five minutes out in the sun, I turn into beef jerky.”

“I know what you mean,” Gerry’s mother replied. “I burn pretty easily myself.”

“So you don’t mind if we plop down here?”

“I don’t mind. Do you mind, Roy?”

“Nope,” Roy answered.

“Thanks,” the man said. He unfolded his chair: green mesh fabric on a gray aluminum frame. “What a coincidence we have the same chairs, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” Gerry’s mother said.

“Great minds think alike.”

“They certainly do.”

The man sat down in his chair. The girl sat down next to Gerry on the bedspread and placed the bag between them.

“So, I guess we should introduce ourselves,” her father said. “We’re the Seahorse family. And yes, really, that’s our last name, Seahorse. It’s been in our family for generations. Along with”—he pointed at his face—“my cute little button nose.”

Gerry’s parents laughed. In reality, that guy had a nose like a bloated cantaloupe, like the Screaming Ghost’s nose in Hatchetman, not one of Gerry’s favorite comics, one he’d stopped reading months ago after that boring Battle Renewed plot where the characters spent far more time whining about their lives instead of, you know, battling.

“Anyway, you can call me Jake,” he continued. “And this here’s my perfect peach, my daughter Margot. Margot with a silent T at the end—a T for ‘terrific.’ ” He turned to face her. “Say ‘hi,’ Margot.”

“Hi,” she muttered.

“Tell them how old you are, Margot.”

She didn’t respond.

“Margot?”

No response.

“She’s thirteen. You know how moody teenagers can get.”

“No I didn’t. Thank you for sharing that with me,” she said, staring at something in the distance.

The adults laughed.

Jake and Margot looked alike. They each had light red hair, pasty skin, and a lanky physique. And—ahem—that cute little button nose.

“I’m Roy Blanchard, my wife Helen, our son Gerry-with-a-G,” Gerry’s father said.

“G for ‘Gee, our son’s great,’ right?’ Jake asked.

“Right.”

“How old are you, Gerry?”

“Twelve,” he said.

“He’s growing up fast,” Helen said. “He starts junior high in a couple weeks.”

“Hell on Earth, trust me,” Margot said.

“Trust you? Maybe next time,” Jake said.

Flash Fiction #128 (Exactly 128 Words): Imperfect Vessels

For previous installments of the ALWAYS WITH LOVE saga, please click here, here, here, here, and here. These two sentences don’t count toward the 128-word limit.

I’d heard rumors for years about Pastor Blake Summers, the ex-rock star. I’d heard he hadn’t quite renounced his sinful ways, that he cheated on his wife, that he liked getting handsy with his female parishioners. Even if those rumors were true, I didn’t care, ’cause we need imperfect vessels to spread God’s word. Donald Trump, the most imperfect vessel of all, he gave us three Supreme Court justices that helped overturn Roe, preventing millions of future preborn babies from getting murdered. And Pastor Summers, he wants to stop transgenderism, same as me. So of course I appeared on his podcast, though I did bring my husband Brandon along. Anyone who bothers me, Brandon gets hansdy with them, in his own way.

The pastor was a perfect gentleman.

July 15, 2023

DVM’s 2000s Essays, One of Which Mentions Insane Clown Posse (Sound of 82,304,177 Readers Orgasming)

P.J. O’Rourke’s Idea of Sanity, March 25-26, 2001 (revised August 2, 2001)

I Hate Gates: My Futile Month-and-a-Half of Hypergraphia, December 2-3, 2002

We’re All F___ed, April 8-10, 2003

My 1990s-2000s Output, with an Incongruous 1920s Postcard

Oh Sheila, December 6-8, 1998

(She’s) Barely Legal, July 3-5, 1999/September 21, 2000/June 2-3, 2023

Government Propaganda (Rated PG), March 12-13, 2001 (revised March 17, 2001)

The Cosby Show and the Obvious Truism, June 24, 2002 (slightly revised June 2, 2023)

Goofy Ban? Mickey-Mouse Baer?, July 2-3, 2002

Flash Fiction #122 (Exactly 122 Words): That’s My Brand

“Y’know, the GOP could kill everyone who votes Democrat. And the Dems in charge, they’d do nothin’ but yawn and continue playing Candy Crush on their phones.”

“What have you got against Candy Crush?”

“Nothin’.”

“Then why—”

“Any game. The Oregon Trail, whatever. Y’wanna know why the Dems in charge wouldn’t care if their base got wiped out?”

“Sure.”

“Because they don’t care about nothin’ except keeping the rich happy.”

“Just like the Republicans, yeah yeah, I get it.”

“No you don’t. The Republicans don’t even pretend to like you. The Democrats, they gotta pretend, ’cause that’s their brand.”

“Then that makes you a super-Republican, ’cause you hate everyone.”

“No. I hate everyone ’cause I have a brain. That’s my brand.”

March 9, 2023 (revised a little March 10, 2023)

Tag: politics