by M Pauchet


We probably should have been warned, or at least alerted, when they changed the lyrics of that popular jingle to, “all I want for Christmas is Meeee.” Truth is, I think we were more bemused—if that’s the right word—by the new cover. Still, it was better than having another holiday cancelled.

I was grousing to my neighbor on the next stool down at the Dew Drop Inn about the state of our holidays.

“You realize we’ve already lost Columbus Day, Valentine’s Day, Veterans Day, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day, right? The next thing you know, they’ll cancel Thanksgiving. Hell, maybe even the 4th of July.”

He blearily nodded in agreement and swilled some more of the beer I was buying. “Damn shame. Whole country’s gone down the crapper,” he added, punctuating his remark with a belch.

And that was the problem right there. Our side couldn’t be roused out of their recliners or pried from their pop tops to fight back. Apathy and fatalism had gutted the American dream, leaving it to the nefarious plots of social media influencers with their legions of automated bot followers created in the basement of a penthouse in the Wall Street Financial District. I know this because we have a dossier on the brains of the operation.

Mortimer Stuyvesant VI was severely bullied as a student at Horace Mann Elementary. While his classmates went on to become Ivy League lawyers, doctors, and hedge fund managers, Mortimer never forgot. Still nursing his grudges, he began using his bots to warp everything from social media to political policy. Some of his biggest wins included the Ugg-boots craze and the adoption of delulu slang.

Sometimes I think the commies stole the moral high ground, and all we have left are cults of personality. Face it: some pigs are always going to be more equal than other pigs, no matter what label they stick on their politics.

“So what’re we going to do about it?” I asked rhetorically in a blue miasma of smoke, piss, vomit, and stale beer.

My companion cocked an eyebrow. “Buy another round?”

Sounded like a plan.

Adjusting my holster, I picked up my rant again. “It’s like the earth’s poles have flipped, and what was up is now down. We’ve spent billions—probably trillions—bombing democracy into the world, and here in the ‘land of the free,’ you can’t even speak your mind without cancel culture making you a Randy Andy.”

“Yup.” He was down to one-syllable responses. Probably thinking about that perky redhead amateur model pushing micro-bikinis on YouTube. Great guy, but he’s always letting the wrong head do his thinking for him.

I turned my attention to our barman. “You know what’s wrong with the world today?”

“Yep. Nobody’s putting anything in my tip jar.”

“That’s because bartenders are supposed to be all worldly-wise, friendly, and dispense profound insights. The only thing I’ve seen you dispense comes out of a tap.”

Seeing I wasn’t ordering, he drifted down to the end of the bar and polished glasses with a dirty cloth. I returned to my contemplations on the state of human affairs.

A barfly was anchoring the stool just down from mine. She was a regular in here, I knew, because I saw her every night.

“Give me your honest opinion, sweetheart. You think the world today is inclusive for people like you and me?”

“Oh yeah, as long as you don’t offend nobody. Now shut the fuck up and buy a lady a drink.”

Well, damn.

Turning back to my buddy, I said, “You know, this place gets less friendly by the night. What we need is organization, but instead, we’re all torn up about what’s politically correct or distracted by what some bobblehead out in Hollyweird is saying. You feel me?”

My partner was staring into his wallet like he had a Salvation Army bell-ringer in there. Looking up, he asked, “Didn’t I buy that last round?”

“Uhh, no? That was me. And the one before that. You saving for extra scratch-offs or something there, big spender?”

Looking wounded, he pulled out a bill and flagged the bartender.

Our barkeep pocketed the money faster than a Girl Scout at a cookie sale.

Settling back with a new bottle, I tried to reignite the flames of righteous indignation. “We need to put off procrastinating and take our grievances to the streets like the other side.”

The barfly winked at me. My partner grunted and took another swig. It’s times like these I wish I hadn’t caved to peer pressure and quit smoking.

“Hey, I’m grateful for you guys keeping the riffraff out and making people behave, but I think you’re lowering the tone of the joint,” the barkeep randomly offered.

“Well, if that’s the way it is, we’ll take our business elsewhere,” I shot back.

It was almost two anyway—last call for alcohol. I helped my co-conspirator off his stool. While I made sure he wasn’t going to collapse into a semiconscious pile on the floor, I glanced at the barfly. Nope, not that drunk.

We stumbled and bumbled our way to the car by the curb. As I was buckling him in, he grinned and asked, “Can we turn on the lights this time?”

I gave him a reproving look. “You know what the chief said. We do that again, and he’s putting us back on beat patrol.”

But he didn’t say anything about the siren. Who says we’re lowering the tone of this joint?

“Here—hold my beer and watch this.”

•••

M Pauchet lives and writes in the hinterland of the United State of Texas.