November 8

At 6AM we mobilize in Kruftman Hall, shaking our heart spears, faces painted blue, dancing the Good Dance. Then out into the neighborhoods of West Eastwood to roust sleepyheads out to the polls. Hillary! Hillary! Hillary! Our chant rings like choir bells, like grapeshot fired over the treetops. Then it weakens, drifts into silence as we come together, huddled in fear, trembling, one or two of us racing off to the Rite-Aid to vomit in the bathroom.

Outside the Voting Center you can hear the crack of quasitrooper whips. Heads held high, cortex-manacles jangling, tattooed children dragging behind them, the Trumpsters parade forth, too many of them, identifiable by the steamjets discharging sporadically from their ears, by their red-white-and-blue intestinal gas clouds, their fisted hands. No matter. We prod our liberals past the steely gazes of the quasitroopers standing guard on the lookout for illegals. A red-faced bludgerman shouts at my friend Constanze,

“Hey you! I remember you from Baghdad! Your hair is on fire now, but you can’t fool me!”

“You’re mistaken, senor,” Constanze counters. “I snuck over the border from Taos just this morning.”

The bludgerman raises his hackle and tries to pull off a shot, but he’s left the safety on and he slams it to the ground, where it bubbles redly. We all fall to the pavement convulsed in laughter, heads held high. I feel that clenching in my anus subside just a little.

“Where’s Professor Kravitz?” Megan Fauntleroy shouts. “He hasn’t voted yet!” It’s around mid-afternoon by then.

Megan and I race across the street to the Kravitz residence and bang on the door with our hard sense of moral outrage. Nothing. We try my calipers of history. There is a shuffling sound.

“What is it,” Kravitz whispers through the keyhole.

“Remember the pussy video!” I murmur huskily through the hole.

“What are you, with the NSA? My private time is my own!”

“No not those, the one with the Big Shmuck and Baby Bush – you know, on the bus.”

“You’re right. That was nauseating. I’m coming out. Wait a second.”

Five minutes later Kravitz comes out in his Hermann Goering costume. He strides like a tank across the street to the polling place as the quasitroopers shrink back in awe, then burst into cheers. When he comes back out he begins running in circles in the middle of the street shouting “Hillary! Hillary! and Don’t you realize for every job lost to China we’re losing 8 to automation? Hell, 47% of our jobs – 70% of Chinese jobs – are going to disappear. Meanwhile production skyrockets? The whole human race has to rethink things.”  

How do we know all this? How does anyone know anything these days? It could be fake news. But the part about the Goering suit is true. Trust me.

When Professor Kravitz makes it back safely, we feel the earth move under our feet, we feel the sky come tumbling down, a tumbling down. And then we are actually levitating, all of us, just a few inches off the ground. Our job is finished. You can feel it. Michigan accomplished, Pennsylvania a done deal, Wisconsin our home turf, is a state reborn spiritually in every way.

Back at the dorm, we float into the dining room, where Montana Mike is rustling up dinner. Just some quick chow before the good news from Florida comes in.

“What’s this?” we ask.

“I guess you could call it blackbird soup, ladies,” he drawls.

“What are these dark brown potatoes?”

“Them’s ain’t potatoes.”

He sees me gag. “Sometimes, he smiles, “you just got to eat that stuff.”

That’s when Bismarcke Blondelle and her cheerleaders crash into the cafeteria dressed up as bag ladies. They jump up on the tables doing the shug-a-lug.

Fear trumps hope!

War trumps peace!

Donald’s in the White House

With a brand new lease.

Hate trumps love

Lies trump truth

Dumb trumps brains

In the voting booths!

 

We decide to skip dinner. Outside, the fraternity boys – the Cravens and the Ravens and the Missouri Mavens – are honking horns and waving flags. The stench is indescribable.

I look up at the stars, thinking about the poet Robert Bly. The stars are same as they were 8,000 years ago, he said. So this is just another little moment in history. Just a medium sized meteor, not an extinction-level event. I’m only 19,

We’ll kick his ass in 2020. I’ll spit on his grave someday….

And so the strong man comes again, the ubermensch, the hurdy gurdy man singing songs of war. The 80-year cycle is complete. We men are ready again. Herr Putin says Donald does not have in his lexicon words like democracy and human rights. So yes, maybe Herr Trump can solve our problems without them. Maybe things are not so complicated. Let’s stop barking in the wrong forest and we take the horns by the bull, yes?  In the mind of the Fueher, things are really quite simple.

 

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