“And after all we’ve done for these bastards,” said Che. “After we put our bodies on the line with Mario Savio in Berkeley, battled the pigs to a standstill in Chicago when Hussein was still in Indonesia, learning to recite the Koran — ”
“That would be the Holy Koran,” interjected Uncle Joe.
“ — when we were throwing rocks at pigs with guns at Kent State, when the Church Commission eviscerated the evil CIA — ”
“Now, thankfully, on our side,” said Uncle Joe.
“ — when we transformed Mr. Sixteen Weeks into John F. Kerry, War Hero — ”
“A real patriot, that Winter Soldier,” mused Uncle Joe.
“ — and this is the thanks we get?” Che was practically shouting now, and for one brief shining moment, I could see him as he must have been back in the day, chanting “Hey, hey, Tricky Dick, how many kids did you kill today?” or some such.
At that moment there came a pounding on the door, as if the Commendatore had just shown up, hungry for Don Giovanni’s soul. I didn’t have to glance out the window because I already knew who was at the door. “Um, guys,” I said, “I think you’d better steel yourselves.” I’m telling you, it was nightmare right here on South Federal Highway, and I found myself wishing I was at our country house on Sunny Isles Beach.
Suddenly, Uncle Joe began to laugh maniacally. “Blessed Gaia!” he screamed. “What fools we are! It’s not the end of the world. It’s not the jackbooted thugs of the Tea Party coming to slash our Medicare and terminate our Social Security. No!! It’s . . . it’s . . .”
Bravely, Che strode boldly to the front door. In one hand he held his draft card; in the other, the old Zippo lighter he still used to light his doobies. “Stand back!” he shouted at the enemies just beyond the pale. “Or I won’t serve!!” I was so proud of him.
The door swung open . . . and there stood an army. Not of, you know, real red-blooded all-American men. Even worse — real, red-blooded all-American women. Yes, friends, it was a sea of Sarah Palins, Michele Bachmanns, Sharron Angles, Christine O’Donnells, Linda McMahons, and a host of others even I didn’t recognize, trailing from our front door, down the stoop, into the driveway, and out into the road. As far as the eye could see, female after wingnut female, each one more gorgeous and sexually threatening than the next. An army of succubi, assembled to drain our precious bodily fluids, our purity of essence, our . . . heck, you’ve seen the movie and I didn’t even write it.
“Trick or treat!” shouted the lead Palin.
Uncle Joe fell to his knees. “Zinoviev be praised!” he shouted. “It’s only Halloween!”
The army of patriotically malevolent fembots surged forward, and now I could see what they were holding in their hands — copies of the most evil, racist, sexist, bigoted, and homophobic document ever devised by the mind of man: the U.S. Constitution.
“Er, Uncle Joe,” I ventured, “Halloween was Sunday night.”
The Bachmann clone dragged Uncle Joe into that good night. Che fell back, but then he too was grabbed by an Angle avatar and disappeared from view.
I knew it was no use; like a good dhimmi, I decided to submit to the superhot O’Donnell witch that reached out to me. So imagine my surprise when my succubus turned out to be . . .
Joy Behar. “How do you like me now, bitch?” she screamed as she sank her teeth into my neck . . . and then I woke up.
Thank Geraldine Ferraro, it was only a dream. Right? Right?
— David Kahane continues to believe in himself and in his talent, even if nobody else does. To prove they’re all wrong, he’s written a new book, Rules for Radical Conservatives. You can tell Dave he’s right, as usual, by friending him on Facebook or by writing to him at [email protected].