So there we were, hunkered down in Hallandale last night, like one of those bands of early Christians hiding out in the catacombs and staring into the darkness, hoping against hope not to see torchlight coming through the gloom because that kind of change was just simply not good for children, atheists, and other living things. Luckily, within our blacked-out lair in Lanskyland, all was silent, if not calm.
“They’re not coming,” said my father, the sainted “Che” Kahane. “They wouldn’t dare.”
“They’re feeling pretty bold these days,” demurred my Uncle Joe. “Fresh, even.”
“You’ve been watching too much Fox News lately, Uncle Joe,” I said. “You’re starting to sound like Bill O’Reilly.”
Uncle Joe recoiled like a vampire from a crucifix. “Shame on you!” he shouted. “You should know better than ever to utter that name in my presence. Ted Baxter, now that’s okay. But the world’s worst worstest person — never.”
“Quiet,” ordered Che. “You’ll wake the dead or, even worse, Glenn Beck.” He turned to me. “David, peek out the window and see what you can see.”
“Sure, Pop,” I said, and began prising some of the nails out of the board my uncle had nailed across the picture window to prevent the assault he was sure was heading our way before the coming of the new dawn.
“Nothing yet, Pop,” I said with as much cheer in my voice as I could muster. Wait a minute — was that . . . ? No, it couldn’t be. . . . I decided to keep my mouth shut.
My eyes traveled to the sacred portraits above the mantel, flickering by the light of a lone votive candle: Lenin, Dzerzhinsky, Armand Hammer, and the upturned visage of the Emperor Barack Hussein Obama II, Lord of the Flies and Protector of the Holy Cities of Honolulu and Chicago. For a brief moment I felt better about life. Then I remembered where I was, and what night this was.
Uncle Joe’s plangent voice — a fine if somewhat wobbly baritone; you should hear him sing “Joe Hill” – once again broke the silence. “Was it only two short years ago that the oceans stopped advancing and the earth began to heal? When we finally defeated Bushiburton & Co., restored honor to Amerikkka, sent the deficit soaring into the compassionate trillions, devalued the currency to egalitarian banana-republic levels, humbly bowed to various princes and potentates, and mooched expensive vacations and trips abroad from the taxpaying suckers? When BO2 had ascended to Woodrow Wilson’s throne and admonished his subjects to become worthy of him? And now look at us — holed up here like the original cast of Night of the Living Dead. Why do they hate us? Why? Why?”
I hated to see a grown man cry. “Look on the bright side, Uncle Joe,” I said. “BHO the Second is still going to be president for another two years. Just think of all the progressive mischief we can get up to. Hell’s bells, imagine what our lame-duck Congress can perpetrate from Wednesday to January if only we can keep our spirits up!”
At the word “spirits,” my dad trembled a little. “This is how I felt the night before Reagan-Carter,” he whispered softly, dredging up old memories. “Before Reagan-Mondale. Before the Carnera–Max Baer fight. And I had them all, plus points!”
“Dad,” I said, “you weren’t even born in 1934.”
“Yeah, but with my luck I would have laid a bundle on Carnera,” he said. “I’m telling you, David, as they say in one of your crappy movies, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Look out the window again.”
I peeked out once more. This time there was no mistake: Something was moving out there in the night. Something wicked, this way coming. Now I knew how Macbeth felt watching Birnam Wood approach him like a red-bearded Grim Reaper. But I chose to remain silent.
“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].