Dianne the Fein Opposes the Empire: All Choked Up

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courtesy of William Bontrager

Dianne Feinstein, or better known as Dianne the Fein, holds a chain attached to an immigrant in a princess Leia slave outfit and sludges towards the podium. The reporters are muttering questions. Cameras are flashing in her wrinkled melting face. She grunts and tries to hold her thick hands to her face, but cannot. In her ear piece, there is a sharp demand.

“Ok Dianne the Fein. You know your role in the empire. You are to express your happiness in the rescue of the last P.O.W in Afghanistan.”

“What is happiness?” Dianne the Fein grunts.

“Start out by smiling.” The voice suggests.

Dianne the Fein shakes her massive sludgy head in confusion. The reporters are waiting to hear from her. She yanks the immigrant girl in anger by her chain. A frustrated voice sounds out in Dianne the Fein’s earpiece.

“Try to raise your cheeks, by curling your lips, and lift your eyebrows to express your friendliness towards the rebel reporters.”

“Impossible.” Dianne the Fein grimaces.

“Might I remind you Dianne, that the Senator, Harry Reid has lauded our rescue of Sergeant Bergdahl. The President Puppet has as well. All of us need to work together to quell the rebel’s claims that this man was a deserter. I would encourage you to play along, or else.”

Dianne the Fein shakes the chain angrily as photographers snap pictures. She bellows in a deep voice under hanging wrinkled flesh.

“YOO DON’T TELL FEIN WHAT TOO DOO! FEIN RULE FOR GENERATIONS! FEIN KNOW WHAT IS IN WIND! FEIN POLITIC FOR FEIN’S SURVIVAL!”

“Don’t you do anything you will regret..!” The voice in the earpiece says hurriedly.

Dianne the Fein smashes the earpiece and throws it off the stage. She roars as she jerks on the chain, and leans forward against the podium threatening to spill her onto the reporters below. Security guards run on the stage and push against her pudding-textured body. Slowly they bring her back to an upright position. Dianne the Fein looks out at the reporters with contempt with pig eyes oozing. Great slimy beads of sweat roll down her forehead.

“I TAKE QUESTIONS NOW,” the Fein grumbles.

A timid reporter speaks up.

“Dianne.  In December, Obama issued a statement that said the executive branch should have the flexibility “to act swiftly in conducting negotiations with foreign countries regarding the circumstances of detainee transfers. Were you aware of this prisoner swap at all? And if not, why not, as you are the Senate Intelligence Committee Chair- creature?”

“NOOO. NO HEAR.” Diane the Fein grumbles. The podium shakes.

A security guard gets a signal in his earpiece.

“OBAMA DO, ME NO CONSENT.” She belches out.

The reporter that asks the question is snatched up by flying drones hovering overhead.

“MORE QUESTIONS. DIANE MAKE CLEAR. NO HEAR! NO HEAR!”

Another reporter speaks up, looking carefully around him.

“Dianne. You look less melty today. Can you give me your opinion on the president’s statement that he had to act fast because they were concerned with his health?”

“HEALTH GOOD OF HIM! HIM WAS EATING STEAK.HIM WAS EATING LOBSTER. HIM WAS HAVING OWN GYM.” Dianne roars. A long bubbling stream of drool drips down from the podium and forms at the slave Leia’s bare feet.

“Are you saying that Sergeant Burgdahl was not malnourished and that his captors had him eating well and exercising? Wow. What else?” The reporter asks.

“HIM WAS GOES TO SCHOOL. HIM WAS LEARNING!” Dianne the Fein bellows. She yanks on the chain angrily. Security all around her is getting antsy. They are receiving instructions in their earpieces now.

“Whoa! Are you saying that the terrorists were giving the young man an education too? How nice of them? Tell us more Dianne the Fein.” A reporter for a small publication presses the issue.

“FATHER OF HIM, TALK CLOSE!”

“And the father of the prisoner had close contact with his son’s captors? Incredible!” The reporter almost shrieks.

Other reporters gain energy from the fiery questioning. The security guards move now. Drones appear from space and blast a few reporters into cinders. Other reporters trying to get more from the self- preserving Senator rush at her with microphones in hand. They are held back by Susan Rice Wheel Droids however. The lasers fly. Dianne knocks over the stand and rushes the security guards. She swats them away and sends them crashing against the American Flag. She wriggles her way on stage seeking escape.

“Act now,” a raspy voice sounds off in the immigrant’s ear.

“Yes, senora Rice.” The immigrant responds in broken English.

The immigrant starts choking Diane the Fein with her very own chain. The immigrant in the princess Leia outfit pulls hard. Diane struggles, grabbing at her bulbous neck, but cannot find the strength to escape it. She is old and weak from the struggle.  The last breaths go out of Diane the Fein and she drops limp to the stage. She lands with a heavy splat and oozes into a pale puddle of bubbling broth.

The security guards mop her away, as the drones are clearing the area for any dissenters. The long standing generations of Diane the Fein, and her era of politicking and rule are over under the New Empire. They do not put up with dissent, even among their own. (cue Darth Vader’s music)

 

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Obama Eats Poodle Droppings at Spielberg Event

obama

courtesy of William Bontrager

  MSNBC NEWSROOM

“Hello. I’m Rachel Maddow, and my face always looks scrunched up like an anus because my views are so powerful, they have permanently twisted my face. Our story brings us to sunny L.A., where the president is about to enter the Holocaust museum courtesy of Mr. Spielberg. We see the president arriving now. Michelle, the first lady is following him. She is fussing at her assistant. Oh! It looks like she has a McGriddle in her hand, and she is unwilling to let it go. Now,…ok. She released it. Whew! That could have been bad.”

“Attending this prestigious and well- deserved event for the president, are media moguls, David Geffen, Rupert Murdoch, Disney Chairman, Alan Horn and Moloch the Owl God..OOPs, I didn’t say that on air did I?”

“No. You must not utter the dark lord’s name!” screams a voice off air.

“We will blame it on the Tea Party. They hijacked the set”, Maddow titters.

 

LOS ANGELES

         “Mr. President. Thank you so much for coming here,” Steven Spielberg approaches.

“Well…I…can’t pass something like this up. There isn’t much happening..in D.C. Joe Biden is having a sleepover.  LOOK!”

“Isn’t that sensational?! I hope you didn’t get offended by the signs out there. They don’t reflect our views.”

“What signs? Oh yes…those offensive signs. Eric Holder is on the job. We can’t have racism like that.  He is taking care of it”.

“Uh..what do you mean Mr. President?”

“Never-mind that. Is that caviar?”

The president takes a finger and swirls it in a black puddle on the table, brings it to his lips, and slurps it up. He chews thoughtfully.

“No…Mr. President! Those are droppings from Barbara Streisand’s toy poodle. The dog is always in her purse and must have went number two on the table. We’ll get someone to clean it up.  Boy!Oh, Boy!” Spielberg calls out.

A fresh faced youth emerges and starts to clean up the mess. Actually it is Kevin Hart, dressed as a sailor, wearing a halter top and a pair of really short shorts. There is a look of quivering fear on his face.

“Kevin. Clean this mess up quickly. And Kevin, please do it on your hands and knees,” Speilberg says with a wolfish grin.

“Mr. Spielberg, sir, uh. It is on the table. It don’t require me to be in that position, uh sir. I would rather..,” Hart begins to mutter and weakly protest.

“You know. I hear that Sinbad is making a comeback. Maybe I will call him up for that cop role with Justin Timberlake.”

“Hands and knees, it is. Thank you sir.”

“Look. I don’t know what you put in that caviar…but ..I want more of it delivered to my table!” Obama cheers.

“Yes. Dog feces delivered to your table, very good. Anyway, thank you Mr. President. We have your instructions here. It simply states that you will  mention that we are not benefiting in any way financially from this event. We in Hollywood, are doing our part to maintain a moral outlook while delivering high quality and original programming and cinema that encourages independent thought.

With that everyone around them laughs uproariously.

“I should go. I think Nancy Pelosi has drowned herself in the punch bowl,” replies Speilberg, and exits hastily.

Soon everyone is in their seating area.  Two armed men are carrying Nancy Pelosi, who staggers, hears the ceremonial  music, and then starts dancing like the lady in Pulp Fiction.

“Come on Travolta,” she slurs.

The object she grabs and tries to embrace is not John Travolta. It is a house plant.

“How many drugs did you give her this time?” an assistant asks Harry Reid.

“Her normal suitcase,”  Harry Reid flippantly responds.

Obama stands up and waves to the crowd from the podium. Valerie Jarrett is in his ear piece and in an underground area and shouting orders to the president. The president gets frightened and a puddle forms around his hips. Kevin Hart is quickly there with a mop. He grins to the audience, and half the directors in the crowd smack their lips and run their tongues across their mouths. A single bead of sweat drips off Hart’s temple and he retreats.

“Distinguished guests, celebrities…ahh …Look…affirmative action…hard working Americans….let me be clear…can’t wait for Congress to act…have to move…Look…Bush did it…thank you,” Obama says, holds his award in his hand, and walks off.

“What an orator!” the crowd exclaims in intoxicated and drugged awe.

“He tells the bare-bones truth!” yells Bruce Springsteen playing the air guitar.

Meanwhile Eric Holder and Al Sharpton are roaming the streets of California  fixing offensive street signs.

“Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Hollywood…all white people names! I aint watching that show Friends!” Al Sharpton bellows, drooling over himself and sniffing incessantly. There is some white powder on his nose.

“For now on, Hollywood will be called Haywood, Santa Monica will be called Church Girl Monique, and Beverly Hills will be called, Black Folks Be UP IN HERE NOW. I enjoy my job!” Eric Holder exclaims.

“And we just getting started!” Sharpton rejoices. The wire he is wearing springs from his suit jacket and he tucks it in again, sniffing…

 

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Splitting Sides Across Party Lines: Chapter 2. Ron Paul or Rabid Raccoons?

Explanation:

I wrote this after studying the GOP race in 2012 and witnessing how both liberal and conservative media was treating Ron Paul when he won the Iowa Caucus. This was the race that everyone in the media, including the Sunday political shows agreed, was a must-win for the GOP front runner. However, when Ron Paul and his ardent supporters celebrated this incredible victory, Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC joined as one great voice of opposition and claimed that Iowa does not hold the weight it once did. That is why I portray the media as robots, or worse in this segment, refusing to accept Ron Paul. 

 

A silly looking women sits behind her highly polished desk as lights flicker in the background. The script is given to her hurriedly. She is wearing too much makeup, so much so that it cakes and clumps over her cheek and is starting to crawl down her neck. A guy with terrible acne dashes across the room with a tissue and collects the light brown goop before it splashes on her. She doesn’t notice.

She has a far away look in her eyes while the man behind the scenes of CNN  announces that they are ready to go on the air. She stares straight ahead, like in a trance, tar-pit eyes, not blinking.

The sludgy looking director man hollers, but has to cut it short. Maureen O’Feller is put on live TV, still in her vegetable state. The world is watching her, and she is watching them, very, very strangely. If she was a cartoon her eyes would be swirling like in a Cinnamon Toast Crunch commercial as the powder hits the milk.

“Emergency,” whispers the pudgy director behind the scenes. “Number 6 has blinked out.”

The male anchor, folding his hands beside her seems to understand. He snaps his fingers, then quickly flashes the devil- horns hand gesture. He then uses those same two protruding fingers to flick the top of her head while whispering the infamous toy company name, “Mattel.”

Just like that, she is shaken out of it.

A big, unintelligent wide smile spreads across her face, and without missing a beat, like she hasn’t been staring straight ahead for the last minute, says in a cheery artificial voice.

“News on the results of the Iowa Caucus has just been announced. And Historically this is the big one, the Super Bowl of politics. Results of this contest launches the winning candidate into future success. Some political pundits say that the winner of Iowa is spring boarded into New Hampshire with enough momentum to land at the oval office,as was the case with Barack Obama in 2008.”

“For more of this, let us go to our new political correspondent Debbie Doll. Debbie what is the good word?”

The scene changes and there are tumultuous shouts in the back ground. College-age voices mingled in celebration, but Debbie Doll, the ditsy reporter in a low cut top, is obviously worried. She furrows her brow, but then gets a signal from her ear piece, getting direction from the high celestial media tower overlords.

“The” good word” is that there has been over fifteen rabid raccoon sightings in the past two weeks in this lovely state of Iowa, Maureen.”

She says this and the scene cuts back to Maureen O Feller, or “Barbie number 6” to her handlers, who also has received some instruction by her silent co-anchor, a block shaped man with an overly ripe face full of strange blushes. He pinches her leg strangely under the desk.

“Raccoon sightings. Incredible news Debbie. Have any of them been harmed by any of the republican candidates?”

“No, not at this moment, but there is a celebration going on…you can hear how loud it is from where I am. There are also..alot of people standing, some howling, raising their hands and shuffling around, so it is impossible to tell if there are any rabid raccoons in the auditorium at the time. Everyone in that room could be getting their ankles nibbled by disease carrying critters.”

“Amazing, Debbie,” the male anchor says, smugly.

The female reporter shakes her head enthusiastically. The male anchor, puts a pencil to his pursed lips, above an overly greasy looking upper lip.

He tilts his head and retorts.

“Debbie, uh, is there some reason for this random, and sporadic celebration?”

“Well, nothing that I can tell. The only thing that has happened in the last ten minutes is Ron Paul winning the Iowa Caucus, but that can’t possibly be the reason. I  also heard reports that Newt Gingrich has a wonderful singing voice. Perhaps he is performing for the crowd in there. Perhaps Newt Gingrich has been bitten by the raccoon.”

“It is disconcerting. Whatever the reason, I know you will get to the bottom of it Debbie,” Maureen adds and the scene at Iowa cuts off.

“Rabid raccoons….”, the male anchor trails off and shakes his head. Then adds..

“they can be some nasty things.”

Maureen looks at the camera with glassy eyes. She twitches when hearing the word, “nasty”, then goes into a transition.

“For more about the recent events let us turn to our distinguished political panel. Dr. Arty Van Phallus, professor of political sciences at Yale, Janice Landry, vice president of the organization, Clinton for Kittens, and Barry Golly, a gay man who works at a Ruby Tuesdays in Sarasota Florida. All experts in the field.Let us start with Dr. Phallus.”

“Doctor, for years we have heard that Iowa is such a powerful representative of the United States voting machine…but…is this truly the case? Isn’t this a matter of culture changing in the last four years, and Iowa not being such a great indicator anymore, and in fact, the candidate that wins Iowa has even less of a chance to win the rest of the country, because of Iowa being so backwards in their progressive thinking?”

The professor, who is wearing a monocle, a black and white checkered bow tie, and a sweater under a swede coat, clears his throat with confidence.

“Good question Maureen, with the implied answer not lying in the question at all. Yes, in my expertise, studying the political situation for over a half an hour each day for a month as I read the Huffington Post, I have to conclude that it is a matter of culture changing in the last four years.”

“Very inciteful,” the male anchor nods. All nod after that like on cue.

“Yes, and in fact, Iowa is not such a great indicator anymore, and in fact, I would go so far as to say, the candidate that wins Iowa has even less of a chance to win the remaining portions of the country.”

“And why is this Doctor Phallus?” Maureen asks.

“I ascertain that it is because of Iowa being so backward in their progressive thinking. ”

“Amazing!” Maureen shouts, extra loud, like she was stung under her seat.

“Indeed”.

“Incredible”, says the male anchor.

“Indeed,” the doctor repeats.

So what do you think about it Barry Golly?”

Barry Golly throws his head quickly to the side, as his back is extra sharp and arched, sitting in his chair with his legs crossed. He flings out his hands in a loose gesture of disapproval. His vest is too tight to his chest, which causes him to lisp apparently.

“Iowa needs to get with it! What an epic fail job! When somebody gets snippy with me at the Ruby Tuesdays, I tell them that maybe they should go to the kitchen and cook their own food.”

“What a great point.” Maureen adds leaning over and resting her hand on Barry’s shoulder.

“And then I tell Iowa that If I were a dog, and you were a flower, I’d lift up my leg and give you a shower…IOWA!!!”, Barry golly yells.

“And did you know that Hillary Clinton has personally breast fed two hundred sickened kittens to health in the last four years,” added Janice Landry.

“Indeed,” the doctor breathed, leaning forward with peaked interest..

“Well this has been very informative, from all of you. What can we conclude then about Ron Paul winning the Iowa Caucus?” questions Maureen. Now that the broadcast is coming to a close, she starts slurring her speech.

“That Iowa should be ashamed of themselves with their backwoods ways, and that it is no longer considered the influence it was in the far away past, four years ago. Thank you for tuning in and lets put this horrible incident behind us. Goodnight.”

The male anchor concludes the broadcast. He utters the word, “mummy” and suddenly Maureen slumps in her seat, eyes shut, make up dripping to her calves.

The pudgy director watches the progress of his broadcast, proud, smug, knowing that he runs a program that practices objective journalism, or at least that is what he tells himself when he curls up to sleep at night.

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