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The World According to GOP

Jon Wesick

    Getting our kids to school in the morning is always chaotic. There’s Ayn Alice crying in the bathroom because of her braces and pleading with Shirley to let her stay home. Ayn Barbara bounces her basketball in the hall while Ayn Claire reads Jane Austin by the door. Shirley is always dragging sleepy-headed Rand Andrew out of bed at the last minute. And it seems I have to break up a fight between Rand Bruce and Rand Charlie every other day. Even though Shirley is a stay-at-home mom, I’m always amazed that she manages. It’s a wonder I ever get to work on time.
    The day my life changed started out just like any other work day. After rounding up the kids, Shirley pecked me on the cheek at the door. I hopped in my Porsche, sank into the rich leather seat, and shifted the five-speed transmission into reverse. As I backed down the fifty-foot driveway past Shirley’ silver Bentley, I wished I could have gotten her a Rolls but with the kids in private school and hospital bills for Shirley’s leukemia the Bentley was all I could afford.
    It was a beautiful day in Rancho Santa Fe. A Santa Ana had come raising the winter temperature to the high seventies and the jacarandas were in bloom painting the landscape indigo with their falling blossoms. Before I got on the I-5, I tuned the radio to Rush Limbaugh for a little inspiration. That morning he was mocking the Occupy protestors’ complaints about income inequality. At the on ramp I stopped behind a blue Prius to wait for the light. When it went from red to green, I stomped on the accelerator, cut the wheel to the left, and zoomed past the earth-hugger. Sun on my face, warm wind in my hair I weaved around trucks and minivans. The German-engineered suspension practically glued my Porsche to the road. In fact, the car almost drove itself giving me time to reflect Rush’s deep wisdom. The Occupy whiners didn’t seem to understand that only lazy moochers fail in America. Instead of complaining they needed to start at the bottom, even if all they could find were service-industry jobs, and apply themselves. Then the rewards would come. That’s how I made it and I’ve never been sorry that I left academia for industry after getting my master’s degree.
    Engrossed in these insights I almost missed my exit. At the last minute I jerked the steering wheel to the right and fit my agile sports car in front of a honking SUV with six inches to spare. I pulled into the lot five minutes before my shift, parked in back, and killed the motor. I was a lucky man and I owed all my success to the free enterprise system. After locking my car I entered through the loading bay, passed through the kitchen, and was behind the cash register in time to greet the first customer of the day.
    “Welcome to Wombat Burger! How can I help you?”
    “I’d like an egg-scramble sandwich with coffee and an orange juice.”
    “Would you like hash browns with that?” My fingers danced over the keys with a skill that came from years of practice. I took the customer’s money, made change, and handed him his receipt. “Thanks for choosing Wombat Burger.”
    Morning passed in a rush of sugar, carbohydrates, and saturated fat. Our crew was a well-oiled machine having toiled for years to perfect the delivery of a consistent product within three minutes of a customer’s order. That morning we did not disappoint. The breakfast rush lasted until 10:00 AM. During the lull I mopped the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, and moved frozen burger patties to the refrigerator to defrost. I was back at the register by noon. For some reason the lunch crowd blurred into the dinner crowd without ever thinning out. At 6:30 PM I hung up my apron with pride at doing a good day’s work for a good day’s pay.
    “Steve, you got a minute?” My manager Al led me into his office.
    Al sat behind his desk and sighed. He was only a few years older than me but the strain of running a business had aged him prematurely. His hair was falling out in tufts and he had to wear glasses with thick lenses to compensate for all the government regulations he read. Thankfully he still had the body of an Adonis from eating all that healthy food we cooked at Wombat Burger.
    “I suppose you heard the government is banning trans fats,” he said.
    “Yeah, typical liberal hysteria.’
    “Jim, I don’t know how to deliver the bad news except to come right out and say it.” Al fiddled with the pens on his desk to hide the tears in his eyes. “I’ve run the numbers and with these new regulations I just can’t afford to keep you on.”
    “Damn government!” I pounded my fist on the desk. “I’m not worried about myself. I’m a hard worker who’s sure to quickly find another high-paying job but what about the company? If we want to feed the public trans fats and not tell them, it’s our business not theirs. What’s next? High fructose corn syrup? Sanitation regulations?”
    Al turned away and dried his eyes on a Wombat-Burger napkin. His shoulders shook with grief for a few minutes before he put on a brave face and turned around.
    “I wish it could have been different, Dave.” He stood and shook my hand. “On your way out, would you ask Angie to come in here?”

    I didn’t want to take the exorbitant government handout but Shirley starting talking about how she couldn’t let her kids live in a world without free enterprise. Fearing she’d do something desperate without a distraction, I collected the unemployment insurance and used it to take the family to the south of France for the summer.
    After we returned I began my job search in earnest. Rather than merely mailing resumes to potential employers, I did what the experts recommended and made personal contact. I began by phoning the CEO of MacDougal’s. His assistant answered.
    “Mr. MacDougal’s office.”
    “Is he in?”
    “Who may I say is calling?”
    “I’m a hard-working, food-service-industry worker from California who’s looking for a job.”
    “Mr. MacDougal is meeting with the president and CFO but I’m sure he’ll want to talk with you. I’ll go get him.”
    I waited a few minutes before he came to the phone.
    “Jim MacDougal.”
    “Mr. MacDougal, I’m Walter Fitzgerald Buckley and I just lost my job at Wombat Burger. I’d consider it an honor to work for MacDougal’s because food service is not only my career but my passion. I’m willing to do anything, even entry-level work, as long as I can provide for my wife and six kids.”
    “Thanks for calling, Walter. Even though I was negotiating the billion-dollar acquisition of Buenos Dias Tacos, there’s nothing more important to me that interviewing low-level hires. I know you’re thinking that this deal could net me a twenty-million-dollar bonus but damn it, I didn’t get into food service for the money. I got into this business to provide well-paying jobs to people with limited education like you. You’ve got pluck, son, and I admire that. Ordinarily, I’d hire you on the spot but those damn trans-fat regulations have got me in a bind. Sorry, son.”
    Never one to be easily discouraged, I cold called the CEOs of other fast-food companies such as Abbeys, Burger Bunny, Cupcake Cellar, Drumstick Dungeon, Excellent Enchiladas, Fantastic Fajitas, Great Gumbo, Heavenly Hummus, Incredible Ice Cream, Jake’s Jerky, Kale R Us, Lovely Lasagna, Marvelous Meatballs, Nancy’s Noodles, Oscar’s Octopus, Pretty Good Pizza, Radical Reubens, Stupendous Smoothies, Terrific Tofu, Ultimate Udon, Very Vegetarian, Wonderful Waffles, eXciting Xantham Gum, and Zero-Calorie Ziti. Despite spending hours encouraging me, none of the CEOs could offer me a job. It seemed the job-killing, trans-fat regulations had a more far-reaching effect than I could have ever though.
    I was having a serious discussion with Shirley about changing careers from food service to retail when a Ms. Pelosi called and asked me to report to the unemployment office and review my status so I showed up the next morning at 9:00 AM and reported to the receptionist.
    “Ms. Pelosi is on break. Please take a seat and she’ll see you when she returns.”
    The dingy walls in the waiting room were the color of a Planned Parenthood user’s unclean underwear. I sat on a folding chair and studied the pathetic losers gathered for their government handouts. The guys had tattooed faces and needle marks on their arms while the women had apparently never heard of bras. No wonder they couldn’t get jobs.
    I got tired of waiting and walked around. Past the men’s room I entered a door labeled Employee Lounge and found myself in a crowded bar. Swirling drinks in their hands women in designer gowns and men in tailored suits chatted around brushed-steel tables. The bartender was a shirtless Tom Cruise lookalike in bow tie and silk shorts.
    “What can I get you?” he asked. “I have some fifteen-year-old, single-malt scotch. Might as well drink the good stuff. After all, the government is paying.”
    “It’s a little early for me,” I said. “Have you seen Ms. Pelosi?”
    “Her Pilates gets out at 10:00. Say, if you don’t want scotch, how about some hashish? Opium? Sex with an underage prostitute?”
    Suddenly red lights flashed and a klaxon sounded.
    “Unauthorized personnel in the employee lounge!” a voice said over the loudspeaker. “Unauthorized personnel in the employee lounge!”
    Patrons scattered. A steel barrier descended from the ceiling blocking the bar from view and a woman in yoga pants and a leotard top entered from the hallway.
    “Mr. Buckley, I’m Hillary Pelosi. So nice of you to come in.” She took my hand in her sweaty palms. “Why don’t we go back to my office?”
    She was a well-preserved woman in her forties and judging from the muscle definition in her back and arms, she spent a lot of time at the gym. When we entered her office, she sprawled in the chair and adjusted the framed picture of Ho Chi Minh on her desk.
    “Mr. Buckley, you’re obviously a man who takes initiative, which makes you a perfect candidate for our environmental-engineering training program.” Pelosi searched her desk drawers. “It’s tuition-free, runs for four months, and best of all comes with a cost of living stipend of ten thousand dollars per month. To enroll all you need to do is sign this nondisclosure agreement.” She handed me a document and a pen.
    I hold anything labeled environmental with the same contempt I hold government handouts but I had to look out for my family. Ten thousand dollars a month was almost as much as I had earned in my lucrative, service-industry job. And with new jobs scarce due to onerous, government regulations I had little choice but to sign.
    “Congratulations, Mr. Buckley.” Pelosi shook my hand. “You won’t regret it.”

    I expected the environmental engineering class to be a hotbed of liberals and tree huggers but it was worse than I thought. The women were either lesbians in hiking shorts that exposed their hairy legs or angry feminists in overalls who bragged about their abortions. Several male students carried huge backpacks. One had a kayak paddle and another was accompanied by a Malamute that growled at anyone who got within six feet. Only one student seemed normal, a short-haired man in a three-piece suit whose intelligent, blue eyes gazed at the world through steel-rimmed glasses. I tried to make contact but the teacher began talking.
    “Welcome to environmental engineering. I’m Roosevelt Chavez.” Chavez was over six feet tall, wore a plaid shirt with suspenders, and had a bushy, Karl Marx beard. “The purpose of environmental engineering is to tie up business with needless regulations. Our field began with the Endangered Species Act. Who can forget our early successes with the spotted owl and snail darter? And with the coming regulation of carbon to control global warming, I see a bright future for all of you.”
    I sprung to my feet. “I don’t have one of your fancy Ph.D.s in atmospheric physics. I’m just an unemployed, food-service worker with a master’s degree but I’m calling bullshit, sir. Bullshit! Both the oil and coal industries have said global warming a hoax. Why would they lie? They have nothing to gain. No, sir! I say the scientists are lying. Everyone knows no one holds truth in less regard than a scientist!”
    “Silence!” Karl Marx pointed his finger at me. “How dare you impugn the integrity of the liberal media! If you do not recant at once, I shall have you thrown out of this classroom!”
    “I don’t care if I have to eat grass. I won’t kowtow to your phony liberal agenda!” I stormed out of the classroom. The man in the suit followed and we shook hands in the hall.
    “I like how you stood up to those libtards back there. I’m George Madison.”
    “Yeah.” I ran my hands over my face. “I never wanted to take this class in the first place but I lost my lucrative, service-industry job due to government regulations.”
    “I hear you,” Madison said. “I used to be the best computer guy on Wall Street where I modeled all the credit-default swaps until the Dodd Frank Act cost me my job.”
    “Computers huh?” I stroked my chin. “I have a way to strike back at the parasites sucking the life out of the federal budget. Think you can hack into a government database?”

    Wearing gray coveralls and a false mustache I carried a tool box up the walk and rang the doorbell at 352 Pleasant Avenue. An elderly woman in stretch pants answered. Living on the government dole had clearly stifled her initiative. A spider had built a web in her knotted, gray hair and there were red wine stains on her loose blouse.
    “Mrs. Cuomo, I’m from the alarm company. I’m here to service the faulty window sensor.” I showed her a form on my clipboard. “352 Pleasant Avenue. See. It’s right here. The monitoring center detected a fault at 9:42 last night and generated a service call. They were supposed to call you.”
    “They didn’t.”
    “Mind if I take a look, anyway?” I moved forward and she stepped aside.
    Once inside I busied myself holding a voltmeter to the sensors in her windows. Mrs. Cuomo parked herself behind a large bottle of Chianti in the living room and turned up the sound on the same-sex porn on her big-screen TV.
    “No problem here,” I shouted. “I’ll check the kitchen.”
    I entered the kitchen, looked in the cookie jar, and felt inside the flour bin. I found some amphetamines and heroin but no valuables so I helped myself to a piece of pie before scouting the rest of the house. A large photo of two men kissing decorated the bedroom wall. A frilly bedspread and a half-dozen throw pillows covered the bed. I felt between the mattress and box springs, searched the dresser drawers, and rifled the medicine cabinet. Nothing. Still there had to be some jewelry or gold bullion here. How else would a Social-Security recipient spend her excess cash? I had to focus. How would a liberal think? Of course, she’d hide her loot in the most obvious place! I touched the picture and found swung aside on a hinge to reveal a safe. I took the acoustic sensor module from my tool box, attached its magnetic container to the safe’s door, and twisted the combination dial until the light turned green. A few more turns and the safe opened. Jackpot! I transferred the hundred-dollar bills, Krugerrands, velvet bag of diamonds, and bearer bonds to my toolbox. I had just closed the lid when Mrs. Cuomo interrupted me.
    “What the hell are you doing?” She shook an aluminum cane in her angry fist.
    “Just as I feared. Last night’s fault wasn’t a malfunction. You were burgled.” I handed her the acoustic sensor. “They used this to get in. I have to get back to headquarters and report this immediately. Stay by your phone. The police will call any minute.”
    After I got back to my car, I peeled off the fake mustache and slipped out of the coveralls. Careful to obey all traffic laws I made it to the freeway in five minutes and was gone with a hundred-thousand-dollar haul.

    Using the information supplied by George Madison I continued targeting Social-Security recipients for burglaries and brought in even more money than I’d earned from my lucrative, service-industry job. There was so much surplus that I made substantial contributions to several political action committees and social welfare organizations. It seemed that nothing could go wrong. Then one day while I was relaxing at my Rancho Santa Fe home, there was a knock at the door. My visitor was a six-foot-tall man with Barry Goldwater’s glasses, Clint Eastwood’s pulsing forehead vein, and John Wayne’s swagger..
    “Mr. Buckley, I’m Detective Bush Reagan.” He showed me his badge. “I’m investigating some burglaries in the area. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    I should have been on guard but some instinct made me trust him. I showed him into the living room.
    “Would you care for a drink, Detective? I have coffee, soda, tea, beer, wine, hard cider, gin, vodka, single-malt scotch, bourbon, rye, brandy, schnapps, kirsch, pisco, rum, slivovitz, mescal, tequila, rum, absinthe, and several liqueurs.”
    “I’m not supposed to drink on duty but rules are made to be broken. How about some distilled water and grain alcohol?”
    I went to the wet bar and returned with his glass.
    “That hits the spot.” Detective Reagan finished his drink in one swallow. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah. It seems that someone they call the Entitlement Avenger has been burgling the homes of Social-Security recipients. In my opinion these gray-haired parasites who rob the younger generation to pay for their degenerate lifestyles deserve what they get but I’m required to investigate this hero who is only evening the score with these low-life scum who take advantage of a Social Security system that is nothing more than a Ponzi scheme and don’t seem to realize that if they’d put their Social Security taxes in risk-free stocks that consistently yielded ten to twenty percent dividends, they’d be much better off. So do you know anything about these burglaries?”
    “No.”
    “Didn’t think so.” Detective Reagan set down his empty glass. “Thanks for your time.”

    Wearing a black turtleneck and watch cap I crouched on the hillside overlooking the mansion that held my biggest score yet, peered through the binoculars, and surveyed the grounds. Truman Boomer and his wife were still nude in the outdoor hot tub reenacting what could have been a simultaneous commercial for Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra. They’d been going at it for hours, first her on top, then him from behind. Then Mrs. Boomer dove under the water. For someone her age she could sure hold her breath a long time. I was cold, stiff, and hungry. As president of the AARP Mr. Boomer was the biggest threat to American freedom since Al Qaeda. Taking him down would send a powerful message but I’d have to try another night if his orgy didn’t end soon.
    Just before I was ready to give up and go get a hot meal, Mr. and Mrs. Boomer dragged their saggy flesh out of the water. I lowered my binoculars but was too late. The sight of their full frontals would scar me for life. I wanted nothing more than to go home and down a fifth of bourbon but I had a job to do. They returned minutes later thankfully clothed and drove off in his red Miata. I set off, metal tools in my backpack rattling as a sprinted down the hill and ducked into the shadows outside the wall. I took my grappling hook, tied the free end of the rope to my backpack, tossed the hook over the wall, and pulled. It came loose and fell back. I retrieved it from the bushes and tried again. This time I felt a satisfying resistance when I pulled. The hook had caught. Hand over hand I climbed. It was easy going due to the endurance I’d developed from a decade of healthy lunches at Wombat Burger. Once on top of the wall I hauled the backpack up.
    Two Dobermans with fangs bared waited for me inside the wall. I took a cheeseburger and fries laced with Phenobarbital from my backpack, tossed them to the dogs, and rested atop the wall until they fell into drugged sleep. The guilt I felt about giving chemicals to innocent animals was assuaged somewhat by the knowledge that I’d at least fed them healthy meals. After reversing the grappling hook I lowered the backpack to Mr. Boomer’s back yard and climbed down after it. Now wearing night-vision goggles I scouted the houses’ walls paying close attention to the foundation until I located the cables that connected the alarm to the outside world. Using wire cutters I stripped the insulation. Then I connected the electronic bypass by simultaneously attaching its two alligator clips to the bare wires.
    With the alarm disabled I made my way to the sliding glass door, attached a suction cup, and used a glass cutter to etch a circle near the latch. A slight tap broke the glass circle free. I froze listening in case the noise had alerted the neighbors. No lights came on any nearby windows. I removed the glass circle, reached in, opened the latch, and stepped inside.
    Relieved to be out of sight I took a breath and waited for my pulse to slow. Relying on the night-vision goggles I navigated the Boomer mansion. One room had a pool table and sailfish mounted over the fireplace. The kitchen had a professional stove and the entertainment room had a wet bar and big-screen TV. No doubt, further exploration would have revealed illegal aliens having babies in the guest rooms but I had limited time. I climbed the stairs and paused outside Boomer’s office to study the floor safe inside. I was about to step through the doorway when some sixth sense urged caution. I removed a can of deodorant from my backpack and sprayed it through the doorway. A laser no doubt connected to a secondary alarm illuminated the mist with a sharp, red line.
    “Very clever, Mr. Boomer.” I stepped over the laser beam and entered the office.
    Keeping close to the wall to avoid tripping a pressure plate, I inched toward the safe. I checked my watch. My burglary was taking longer than I’d hoped. The Boomers had been gone for forty-five minutes, not long for a restaurant dinner, but I needed to hurry. When I reached the safe, I set the backpack down and retrieved the acoustic receiver module. I attached it to the door with its internal magnet and reached for the safe’s combination dial.
    Two thousand volts shot through my body. My arm tingled with pain as if I’d grabbed Jane Fonda’s vibrator. I willed my hand to open but could not let go. My vision went black as the current shorted out the night-vision goggles. I tried to catch my breath but the muscles in my chest refused to work. There were spots before my eyes and a roaring in my ears. I grew dizzy and blacked out.
    I woke flat on my back with a pounding headache. When I tried to get up my arms and feet didn’t move. I lifted my head and saw that I’d been manacled spread-eagle atop a table saw with the circular blade between my ankles.
    “So you’re the thief who’s been robbing all the retirees,” a high-pitched voice said from somewhere behind my head. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Truman Carter Boomer.”
    Boomer stepped into my field of vision. He had a thin, cruel mouth and a scar under one sightless eye.
    “When I learned of your activities, I set a trap I knew you could not resist. No use worrying about your friend, Mr. Madison. He died begging for mercy after I forced him to feed you the false information.” Boomer gave a maniacal laugh. “Once you’re out of the way, no one will stop my coconspirators and me. Instead of taking the plentiful, high-paying jobs from employers who are eager to hire people over fifty, we’ll sit on our asses and bankrupt the young. You know what else? We love going to the hospital. Why, sometimes we’ll get two or three colonoscopies a day just to make Medicare pay. Goodbye Mr. Entitlement Avenger.”
    Boomer flipped the switch. The electric motor hummed and the circular saw squealed as it bit into the plywood I lay on.
    “I think you’ve made your point, Boomer. What do you want?”
    “I want you to die, Mr. Entitlement Avenger.”
    The saw moved closer to my groin.
    “Look, I have gold bullion and diamonds I can give you.” My words sped up. “I’ll even do TV commercials for the AARP.”
    “Not interested,” Boomer said. “We already have Betty White.”
    As the blade got within inches of my manhood, I strained against the manacles to move my body as far away as I could. Tensing in preparation for the jagged metal’s bite I realized that what I would regret losing most was the challenge of naming my next child. A shot rang out and Boomer’s head exploded in a spray of blood and gore. The saw stopped when barely touching the fabric of my Banana Republic slacks. Then Bush Reagan was there freeing my hands and feet. After helping me stand, he placed the pistol in Boomer’s cold, dead hand.
    “Another tragic suicide or at least that’s what the police report will say.” Detective Reagan handed me a handkerchief to wipe Boomer’s blood off my face.
    “Thank you,” I said, “but why?”
    “Some well connected people like your style. Let’s just say that they convinced me to watch out for you.” Detective Reagan looked around. “We’d better get out of here before the neighbors get nosy. Can I give you a ride anywhere?”
    “No, I’m parked around the corner.”
    “Okay, but there’s something you need to think about. You can keep doing what you’re doing and rob retirees one at a time or you can go into politics and rob them all at once.” He gave me a business card. “Give me a call when you’re ready.”



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