Thoughts coming rapid-fire in ALL CAPS, thumbs
thwacking the screen, he pauses to consider his
next bite, chews thoughtfully, hands the half-eaten
cheeseburger to his wife, who wrinkles her nose as
she turns away, because he can’t stand her
insinuating that his bedtime snacks smell nasty,
and she can’t stand to listen to him yelling, ranting,
demanding, spittle flying, night after night after night.
He seems unable to stop thumping out explosions
of text, punctuated by grunts and farts, creased and
folded face purpling whenever some asshole journalist
mocks an all-too-human mistake, or even accuses him
—HIM?—of deliberately spreading false information
(they have even gone so far as to call him a liar).
Never would he have expected to encounter blatant
insubordination now that he’s become so...so exalted!
To be honest, though, he was shocked (and rather
appalled) to find most of his new job so extremely
confusing and complicated. He misses his own bed,
his gold toilet seat’s silken warmth against his skin,
and, most of all, he misses watching the sunrise over the
nation’s REAL capital. But, no. Instead, he’s mired in
this stinking swamp—a true backwater if ever one existed—
with nothing to show for it but a poorly-photoshopped “Man
of the Year” magazine cover someone forgot they’d Xeroxed.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six