Humor

Fever Dream #45

In his delirium, he could not trust the color of the sun.

He wanted to do so, of course, because one should be pleased with the hue of things that float in the sky. Otherwise, there is unhappiness and despondent status updates are made on social media. Still, there was a disturbance in the atmosphere, a discernible taint of malevolence. Like the woman over there, standing outside the Melodrama Café, the one who looked like Joan Crawford. She was berating the lowly waiter about the effusiveness of her cream puff (okay, that seems normal) but then she hugged him and gave him a generous tip. (Don’t trust her! She is never nice without an ulterior motive, just like people who work for the Salvation Army. Or suppositories.)

Just then, a limousine pulled up in front of the Melodrama.

Someone who looked like Donald Trump stepped out of the car. Okay, it must be him, because who else would want to look like that, with the wispy Medusa tendrils and the unchanging grimace of constipation. He groped himself and three passersby before slithering up to Joan. “It’s raining and I can’t play golf so my schedule just opened up. How about you do the same?”

Joan glanced around, possibly looking for paparazzi, certainly not looking for morality, then returned her gaze to Trump-Dusa. “But what about Melania?”

A small wind suddenly arose, gently lifting the tendrils atop Mount WhackJob, until it suddenly realized what it was touching, and then the innocent breeze raced away, forever ashamed at its association with such an outrage, unlike most Republican leaders. Donald did not notice, as he doesn’t notice most things, nor care.

He groped himself again. “Don’t worry about Melania. I’ll just say that she’s fake news from the liberal media and she was born in Kenya. My sheeple will believe me. They have to believe me. Because if they start to doubt any one of my lies, the whole House of Cards tumbles. But I’m not worried. The intolerant and the ignorant are too self-consumed to do what’s right for our country. I wanted to make that our campaign slogan, but it didn’t fit on the signs we handed out at KKK rallies. So, I just went with Make America Hate Again.”

Joan, swatting away a correspondent from CNN who was questioning the wisdom of potentially sleeping with someone who had no moral values: “Don’t you mean make America great again?”

Donald, swatting away the various indictments that are eventually going to take down his Administration: “Don’t get lippy with me, underling. You need to understand your place as a woman and do what you’re told.”

Joan, instantly adjusting her thoughts and beliefs to coincide with the edicts of the Tea Party and the NRA, as any good fascist should: “Oh, I would never dream of questioning your fallacies. Just call me Sarah Huckabee Sanders.”

Donald: “Good answer. I’ll continue using you until I don’t need you anymore. Let’s hop in the limo and go find some place to bang.”

They did so, with the hopping, and the ego-elongated vehicle drove away, rumbling and belching fumes from the tainted gasoline produced with oil extracted in countries that Dick Cheney conquered when he was President. (Sorry, George W. Shrub. Those of us with any modicum of intelligence know who really ruled the roost when you were in the White House.)

Interestingly enough, the rumbling continued long after the Did-Not-Win-the-Popular-Vote Presidential motorcade vanished in the distance under the wrongly-colored sun. In fact, the rumbling seemed to be coming from the ground, a sensation that some people who live near oil-fracking sites didn’t fully grasp until after they elected Republicans who ignored the ignominious badness of allowing oil-fracking to happen in the first place. (“Don’t worry,” says laughably-appointed Energy Secretary Rick Perry, he who wanted to eliminate the Department of Energy when he served as Governor of Texas and willingly bent over as Big Oil used him like a rag doll. “Just because your homes are sinking into the ground doesn’t mean I won’t get appointed to another office I don’t deserve.”)

Wait, the rumbling and the sinking in the ground. That really is happening. The ground is ringing, or it seems to be. How can I stop that ringing? Where is it coming from? I weakly battle with the comforter and the twisted sheets, seeking an end to the cacophony. I find a flat object, one that seems to be vibrating. In desperation, I bang and prod on it, seeking resolution.

Oh, there appears to be a screen on this thing. And it wants me to “answer” or “ignore”. Of course I should answer. What if my latest prescription is somehow in jeopardy? We can’t have that.

It seems that I am now connected to some form of aural correspondence. “Hello?”

Terry: “Hey.”

Me: “Who is this?”

Terry: “Your partner. I live with you. I’m just checking in to see if you’re feeling better. When I left town, you were a little bit delusional with the flu.”

Me: “Oh. Are you nice to me?”

Terry: “Usually. You can be a bit bitchy at times.”

Me: “Am I being bitchy now? I’m not sure. I’ve been coughing a lot. And there’s been phlegm. That makes me cranky and I sometimes make poor decisions.”

Terry: “Like the blog post you’re about to launch? Joan called me about that. Maybe you should let this one marinate a little bit before you whack a bottle of champagne on the hull.”

Me: “You’re right. I won’t click on the ‘submit’ button until I’ve thought about it.”

Terry: “Good idea. Try and get some rest and I’ll be leaving Las Vegas in a few days. Don’t push the button.”

Me: “I won’t.”

We disconnect.

Click.

 

38 replies »

  1. Delirium brought on by fever is as effective as opiates or absinthe and though perhaps not so pleasant to endure, the resultant scenes playing out in your heated head are not just clever but downright stunning. Fortunately, I chose to read this BEFORE raising my cup to my mouth but this did not protect my neighbours from a full-throttle snortathon and me from their resultant expressions of stiff alarm. On form, maestro, even on your sickbed!

    Liked by 3 people

    • I really had fun doing this one, and though it would be interesting to find out which one of the meds (or combinations thereof) led to this piece, the vanity composite of my personality hopes that it was my true artistic spirit battling AGAINST those meds, triumphing weakly. Perhaps we will never know…

      Liked by 1 person

      • I am perfectly confident that this was your voice speaking and indeed triumphing, given extra turbo boosted wings by the fever. It was not any sort of prescribed narcotic at play. I have special powers, remember? Therefore, I am right 😉

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Cold compresses. A tepid bath. Aspirin. Hydration. All of these things will put an end to fever or at least make it manageable. Lord. And now I’m off to hurl at the description given by Lynette…I did not need to “see” that….*urp* Feel finer than frog’s hair soon…

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I should have read this before……I would get myself off the hook of the constipation discussion simply explaining it through trump’s look😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
    An other great read😍😍😍😍

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Your fevered dreams are both entertaining and disturbing, a dangerous combination.
    Also, why no explanation for the photo of the iguana on the fencepost? Was it the fever that kept you from providing a editor’s comment, or did Terry nix it? If the fever, then my thoughts and prayers are, you know, with you. If Terry, well, I’m saddened, but in the end, I’ve come to trust him. Perhaps it’s better this way. 🦎

    Liked by 1 person

    • Well, I meant for the iguana to represent one of the characters, and it certainly wasn’t Joan. As for my world-famous footnotes (at least in my own mind) I felt that in this case it would intrude with the ending, preferring the finality of “Click”. It’s nice that you’ve come to trust dear Terry, but I should mention that he’s from West Texas, and they can be a shady lot… 😉

      Liked by 1 person

  5. I’m envious that you can be so productive (all phlegm aside) under fever’s spell. And thanks for allowing us to share in the fun of roasting he who is most vile. The man is so alarming and pathetic that it’s getting a bit tedious to mock him. And yet…verbal or written spewing can be a cleansing until the daze of the Stump shall pass, like a kidney stone. The other day my sister said the WH will have to be fumigated after he’s gone.

    Liked by 1 person

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