Thursday, April 21, 2011

Aloha, My Lovely, Part 2: The Big Brainwash

from the case files of Sam Stain, Private Eye, who's been hired by Donald Trump to go to Honolulu to bring back the President's placenta

Two-and-a-half hours after Trump left my office I was sitting in a first-class seat on a Hawaiian Air jet, a portable DVD player in my lap. It was one of those fancy, new, high-tech jobs that weigh about as much as a feather. They were all the rage and would be for about two weeks, until the R&D boys came out with one that was even smaller.

Trump had the dingus sent over before I left, along with a manila envelope full of DVDs. Of Fox News. “Background, Stain,” he’d told me, “on Obama’s birth certificate. I want you to watch these on the plane. All of them, or you’re fired. I want you to hit the ground running when you land. I want to nail this guy.”

Fifteen hours of Fox News? I wanted to tell him to stick the feather up his pink, puckered taint, that way we’d both be tickled to death, but I needed this job. I needed it bad. So I put a disk in the dingus, and I watched. God help me, I watched them all.

Fifteen hours and seven bourbons later we touched down in Honolulu. I staggered off the plane and onto the tarmac with the sun beating down hard, the air as hot and heavy as Limbaugh’s breath. My head felt like the King Kamehamehas – all five of them – had taken turns sitting on it. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and I was drunk, but not on bourbon. I was looped up on Fox.

All the nuttiness, all the lies, fifteen hours worth, had been pounded into my skull. My brain was spinning like Bill O’Reilly on crack. A parade of wingnuts marching to some crazy, mixed-up tune only they could hear. Steve Doocy, Megyn Kelly, Britt Hume, Karl Rove…. After an hour I filled up the airsick bag. But they kept on coming, as relentless as the tides. Ann Coulter. Dick Morris. Bill Kristol. David Brooks. And oh, yes, Glenn Beck with his crazy, teabagger conspiracy theories. Obama’s a muslim. A socialist, a communist, a nazi. He’s the antichrist. He wants to redistribute our wealth. He should have gone into Libya. He needs to get out of Libya. We need to lower taxes on the rich so they can create jobs. Supply-side economics, trickling down to the rest of us. It just kept on coming, like rain in the tropics. It was a typhoon of batshit, an endless downpour of drivel, and it soaked me to the bone. But then somewhere over the great Midwest – Iowa, maybe – a funny thing happened. The batshit turned to guano, and, like any good fertilizer, it fed nutrients into the parched, gray soil of my braincrops. Something was happening to my think tank. It was all starting to make sense. The drivel was seeping in, saturating my mind with a new truth. I could feel it easing into my bloodstream, filling me with warmth. My worries lifted like helium balloons at a little rich girl’s birthday. Bozo the clown was there, with his giant feet, honking his big, red nose. It was all so … easy. For the first time, everything became clear. A dark veil had lifted. All those things I’d spent my life niggling over, global warming, the poor and the downtrodden, world peace, a woman's right to choose, minority rights, worker’s rights, all of it, slipping away, like traitors in the night to join the enemies of America, freedom and the marketplace. For the first time, I had someone to blame. For everything. The illegals and the unions. Old people on medicare and social security. Environmentalists. The Gays. Liberals. Hippies. Planned Parenthood. Acorn! It was like Ayn Rand wrote. They were parasites, sucking the lifeblood out of honest, hard-working Americans like me.

And of course, there was the Big Kahuna, the reason I was here. The birther conspiracy. Orly Taitz, wearing that ridiculous wig, but speaking the truth. Obama was born in Kenya, of that there was no denying. If he wasn’t, where was the birth certificate? What were they hiding with this phony baloney certificate of live birth? It was up to me to find out. The placenta. I had to get the placenta.

Reeling, I made my way up the tarmac. A hula girl in a grass skirt came wiggling towards me, hips shaking. She was holding a flowery wreath in her hands. She came at me, lifting the noose. She was trying to strangle me with it. I grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back. “Hold it right there, Tokyo Rose. What are you, an illegal? You don’t look American to me. What are you trying to do to me with that thing?”

She cried out in pain, her double mocha brown eyes suddenly big with fear. “Ow!” she screamed. “You’re hurting me! It’s just a lei. A traditional Hawaiian greeting…”

I sneered, hissed in her ear. “Nice try, senorita. A lei. Ha! Buncha fruity colored flowers. It looks gay to me. Are you trying to make me gay?” I pushed her away. “Take a hike, kewpie doll. Save it for the NAMBLA parade! Go peddle your commie filth somewhere else.”

A couple of half-naked hula boys came at me, brown, SPAM-fed muscles rippling in the sun. They were nothing to me. The dark-skinned minions of the gay, liberal nanny state. I laid them out on the tarmac. They could sleep it off. Maybe I’d knocked some sense into them. Then again, maybe not. They were wearing skirts, after all. They’d probably wake up, head down to the courthouse and get married. Hawaii was one of those states. Like Vermont. I shuddered, heading for the rental car lot. I would have to watch my back here in the Aloha state. It was clear these tax-and-spend, bleeding-heart liberal gay bastards would stop at nothing to keep me from finding the President's placenta.


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