Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words Exactly) #74: Drama

Kacy’s left-wing radical sister Kerrie told her three months ago “Trump doesn’t give a shit if you die from coronavirus.”  Things went south from there.  The sisters haven’t spoken to each other since, not that Kacy minds.  She has enough drama in her life, starting with her eight-year-old son Austin’s pathetic performance in school.  The teachers think he has a learning disability, though he’s certainly learned how to avoid work, and how to hit people up (including even his father, her asshole ex-husband number two) for money.  Perhaps Austin has a bright future with the Democrat Party.  Suck it, Kerrie.

Copyright © 2020 by David V. Matthews

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #69: Christmas in April

Jenkins Winthrop, from Caldune Petroleum, joined other fossil-fuel company CEOs for a meeting with the president in the Oval Office. That night, over dinner at his mansion, Winthrop told his lover—the Energy Department’s social-media representative, Stewart “Stewie” Pringle—that under Trump, the coronavirus pandemic means “fuckin’ Christmas in April” for Big Oil: gigantic tax breaks, gigantic grants, suspended EPA rules, and nothing for renewables. “What a surprise, ha ha,” Winthrop said.

“Did you practice social distancing at that meeting, ha ha?” Pringle asked.

“Yeah, and I hoarded fuckin’ toilet paper too, ha ha.”

Face masks. Sanitizer. Endless days off.

Copyright © 2020 by David V. Matthews

No Mo’ MoDo (I Mean It This Time)

Considering I have several Everests of unread books to tackle (someday, Christina Stead), perhaps I shouldn’t spend time hate-ish reading Maureen Dowd’s column every week.  By “hate-ish,” I mean perhaps I revere MoDo for the success she’s enjoyed despite—or more likely because of—her snarky insubstantiality.

And if you want snarky insubstantiality to the extreme, dudes and dudettes, check out her latest, Dowdier-than-usual column, “A Meme Girl Mash-Up,” in today’s New York Times.  The very first sentence, which mentions Tina Fey and Mean Girls, gives us Dowd’s trademark celebrity name-dropping and pop-cultural referencing.  Two sentences later, Dowd opines “Politics has never been filled with so many mean girls[,]” thus displaying her misogyny; she always depicts non-masculine traits as unfavorable.  However, her “bitchyyy lunch table” comprising Mitch McConnell, Rudy Guiliani, and other nasty, male and female Republicans who worship Trump the “Queen Bee” did surprise me, since she almost always disparagingly feminizes Democrats, including Hillary Clinton, who behaves either unwomanly or too womanly.  Not to worry, though—Dowd soon enough designates the Democrat Mike Bloomberg as a wanna-bee.

And also not to worry, Dowd then hates on Hillary, criticizing her for, during that presidential debate, not calling out the Donald for his stalking-esque behavior (though if Hillary had called him out, do you think Dowd would have reacted favorably?).  By the time Dowd notes that “Trump…is now scratching Bloomy’s eyes out[,]” the retrograde gender attitudes will make you feel like chasing a blonde, busty secretary around a desk.

Copyright © 2020 by David V. Matthews

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #52: AOC XXX

My favorite website, Pornhole, posted a video today called AOC XXX, featuring a woman identified only as AOC, an Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez lookalike with a huge rack and a thick Puerto Rican accent: “I have a Brrrown Nude Deal for jou!”  Wanting to discover if the human race has justified its existence, I paid $14.99 for the privilege of watching the lookalike fuck lookalikes of Bernie Sanders, Nancy Pelosi, and Donald Trump, all three played by much younger thespians.  Sorry, human race, don’t mean to sound reverse-ageist, but you still suck.  At least I have new material for my nonexistent memoirs.

Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews

February 16, 2019 (revised February 21, 2019)

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.”


“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.”

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.”  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.”

“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, and February 1, 2019

Crisis Actors

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


The Whole Cake

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette promised me it would print the following letter but never did.

October 7, 2018

To the Editor:

Despite controlling all three branches of government, the majority of governorships and statehouses, and the mass media, right-wing Republicans (as if any other kind exists) never tire of depicting themselves as powerless victims of a vast left-wing Democratic conspiracy.  Brett Kavanaugh, for instance, complained about the “calculated and orchestrated political hit” directed against him, a hit involving “revenge on behalf of the Clintons and millions of dollars in money from outside left-wing opposition groups.”

Those unnamed, pro-Bill and Hillary opposition groups must not have spent wisely.  Or maybe they had no serious intention of stopping him.

The Democrats—a centrist-right, neoliberal party since the Bill Clinton era, but Marxists when compared to the GOP then and now—have much in common with the anti-worker, anti-abortion Kavanaugh.  If Hillary had truly cared about supporting the non-rich, she would have done so running in 2016 instead of accepting tens of millions of dollars in corporate campaign donations.  Of course, if she had won in the Electoral College, she might have ended up giving the non-rich a few crumbs but the rich the whole cake; major donors usually expect something major in return from candidates they help elect.

Also note how little, if any, support she and almost every other mainstream Democrat have offered for reproductive rights, civil rights, voting rights, demilitarization, drug legalization, and other progressive causes.  The upper class, which controls both main parties, has zero interest in changing the status quo, considering how well the military-industrial and prison-industrial complexes have done over the past few decades.  Plus that class could afford the best in illegal abortions post-Roe v. Wade.

In short, Justice Kavanaugh and his right-wing buddies on the Supreme Court will help the #Resistance grow even wealthier, but at least the Resisters, unlike the Republicans, drive hybrids and never publicly trash racial minorities.

David V. Matthews


Times x 3: Three Articles from The New York Times, Sunday, April 1, 2018

Devorah Blachor, “Gen-X Activism: An Oral History,” p. SR-2

As a Generation-Xer (born in 1965, one year after the baby boom had ended), I can chuckle at my demographic cohort’s foibles and obsessions.  (Marcia Brady hit in the nose with a football!  Ha ha ha ha!)  However, this essay’s supposedly-humorous promulgation of the apolitical, socially-apathetic X-men and -women stereotype, as a way to remember “what came before” today’s Millennial/Generation Z/whatever activists, irritates me.  During the Eighties and Nineties, many Xers involved themselves in fighting racism, sexism, militarism, economic inequality, and other societal ills, though you wouldn’t have known that from the corporate-owned, establishment-friendly news media, including the Times, which has always found the status quo profitable.  (I myself wrote myriad letters to newspapers—published letters—during my younger days.)

Anyway, allegedly quoting members of my generation (“Patrick Bateman wasn’t available”), Blachor disses the heck out of us—well, the more well-off members; one guy contends that Xers eschewed voting because “we were all very busy going to law school and trying to get through ‘Infinite Jest.’ ”  Another guy had a different educational experience: “Sometimes I’d skip school to show how much I rejected, like, completely everything.”  (No mature, serious, politically-minded person would want to skip school for any reason.  School’s always an enlightened place.)  A woman says “Girl power!” and nothing else.  Yet another guy, when asked about social change, replies “Social what, now?”  Oh, and let us not forget Donkey Kong Jr., flannel shirts, Carrie Bradshaw shoes, and Starbucks.  What would a satirical Xer retrospective look like from the viewpoint of African-Americans (the Eighties-Nineties wars on crime and drugs decimated the black population) or gays (ditto with AIDS for their population during that period; even Mike Brady himself was HIV-positive) or radical feminists (bye-bye, reproductive rights, starting with Reagan)?

I did like this line: “In those day [sic], there were no red pills or blue pills. There were just chill pills.”


Frank Bruni, “Beware the Former Trumpers,” p. SR-3

The Times, which epitomizes liberal bias according to right-wing critics, rarely interviews any left-wingers or progressives or even left-of-center centrists.  Instead, no matter which political party occupies the White House, we see endless column space devoted to red (not as in Communist) personages sharing their deepest thoughts on why Caucasians, the wealthy, and turning certain countries into radioactive parking lots freakin’ rule, man.  Times columnist Frank Bruni thus interviews the extremely non-blue political commentator Ann Coulter, one of the most prominent of disillusioned Trump supporters.  A yuge influence on his anti-(brown)-immigrant proposals, she praises that “coarse vulgarian” for ignoring “the opinions of Manhattan socialites” by depicting Mexico as the source of all crime and degeneracy during the campaign, then laments that “something switched Nov. 8. Suddenly it was: ‘Please like me, Goldman Sachs.’ ”  However, she thinks Trump can save his presidency by fulfilling his biggest campaign promise: building The Wall®, never mind that Mexico will never pay for it: “His voters absolutely do not care. It was just a fun chant.”  Anyway, “In 10 years, if we just stopped giving Mexico foreign aid, we’d pay for it.”  Of course Coulter, who considers racist sentiment “fun”, doesn’t mind slamming Mexico’s economy and harming its citizens; respectable American pundits always show blithe disregard for non-white foreign lives if those lives interfere with military and corporate objectives.

By the way, I recommend reading the expanded on-line version of this interview, where she contends she’d advised Trump not to let Jared and Ivanka advise him: “[W]hen J.F.K. made Bobby his attorney general, the press pulled its nose out of J.F.K.’s butt just long enough to criticize him for that.  We don’t like nepotism.  We’re Americans.  This is third-world behavior.”  Ah, the butt-slash-Third-World reference—talk about shithole countries, right?  Coulter and her (former?) hero, Trump, always return to that golden oldie, racism.


Claire Almand, “It’s Now or Never for a 30-Year-Old Virgin,” p. ST-5

The Times’s Styles section occasionally prints somewhat grim essays from twentysomething and thirtysomething women bemoaning their prolonged virginity; examples of this genre include “Does My Virginity Have a Shelf Life?” and “My Virginity Went from Choice to Burden.”  Not every gal has enjoyed the privilege of sexual healing, the Times apparently wants to remind its well-adjusted (as in schtupping) readers as a public service laced with but-for-the-grace-of-that-pimp-daddy-God flattery.

Claire Almand herself lost her virginity at age thirty to “a middle school teacher” she “didn’t even particularly like”, because she thought she would die.  “Born with congenital heart disease, I had five major heart operations before I was 10 and have five minor heart operations since.”  Now a mysterious condition has sapped her of energy and caused her to lose “12 pounds”, making her look “awful”; fortunately, the teacher who would de-hymenize her thought she “looked thin and hot.”  All right, that line’s sort of amusing, in an ironic way.  Unlike the other virginity chronicles, Almand’s contains intentional, self-deprecatory humor, something welcome to alleviate the mental and emotional pain, at least for the reader; e.g., after telling us how she’s fallen for so many unattainable guys, Almand drily writes “So what I’m saying is I have impeccable taste in men.”  Also, during her first date with the teacher, it turned out “he didn’t know what a poached egg was.”  (“Poached,” ha ha ha ha, sincerely.)  And the essay sports one of the greatest concluding sentences in Times history (SPOILER ALERT): “And now I’m just like every other woman who’s had a penis inside her.”  Butt and penis, yes, in the same issue.

Also, the essay features a drawing of a woman with a giant circular hole in her chest, from the shoulders to the navel, providing a clear view right though to the other side.  I assume the drawing refers to (ANOTHER SPOILER ALERT) Almand’s condition, “a significant hole” in her heart, though the idea of a significant hole, in this instance, takes on sexual connotations.  (Ask Courtney Love—another Gen-X reference.)

Copyright © 2018 by David V. Mattthews

April 1, 2018 (revised April 2, 2018)



Sluggerz Sports Bar:

“You wanna know why I didn’t come to work today?” Jeff asked.

“Sure,” Denton said.

Jeff took a swig from his beer bottle.  “My grandma died last night.”

“Damn.  I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.  She was admitted to the hospital just a few hours earlier.  She died before I could visit her.”

“That sucks.”


“So what did she die of?”

“Pneumonia, allegedly.”


“The doctor they gave her was named Marla Rosenberg.


“Guess I shouldn’t’ve posted that JQ stuff, huh?”  (JQ meant Jewish Question in alt-right argot.)

“Yeah, ha ha.”

No response.

“You serious?”

No response.

“Come on, Jeff.  Old people die of pneumonia all the time.  And your grandma was old as hell, no offense.”

“Thanks, rabbi.”

“The Jews aren’t behind everything.”

Shalom, rabbi.”

“That paranoid crap hurts our cause.”


Neither man said anything for a few moments.


“At least it wasn’t Dr. Apu for a change, in the hospital,” Denton said.

Jeff smiled.

“There we go.  Your grandma would have wanted you to smile.”

“I guess.”

“To her.”

“To her.  And to paranoia.”

Denton hesitated a moment.

“What the hell—to paranoia,” he said.

They clinked their beer bottles together.

Copyright © 2017 by David V. Matthews
July 8-9, 2017 (revised July 16, 2017)