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.”
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.
“Is it? Yes or no.”
“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 says. “Which means we have to let you go, effective immediately.”
“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.” She removes something from inside a manila folder. “And this is your 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 the non-Jewi$h lawyer he plans to hire 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 you mentioned der Führer, so—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.”
“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, and February 1, 2019