Leaked: Donald Trump’s Speech to the RNC

Photo by Gage Skidmore

(Trump ascends to the stage holding up a small plastic aquarium.)

Can you see that? I’m not sure you can get that on camera. If you look real close, you’ll see there’s a thing swimming around in there about the width of my thumb and maybe, what, a foot long? Something like that.

Anyway, me and the family went on vacation a couple of years ago to Bali — beautiful place, by the way, the best service on the planet — and while I was practicing some dives off a rock cliff, the larvae of this little guy wormed its way into a scrape on my knee. I’m told they do that, look for holes.

Turns out that this is the Greater Balinese Brain Fluke, a trematode that laps up cerebrospinal fluid like a deer at a mountain stream. Loves it. Loves it so much that sometimes it makes a comfortable little nest in the brain of a human host. Kind of like that thing from that Star Trek movie. Beautiful movie, by the way. “Khaaannnn!” I love that part.

Anyway, this little fella set up shop near the amygdala on the left hemisphere of my brain and just started pumping away, kind of like a little fist. Like this. Just squeezing away, drinking and growing and secreting like all God’s creatures.

Wait, wait. Don’t get up. I’m getting to the point.

The amygdala, as we all know, is the breaker switch for decision making and emotional reaction, and, well, you might have noticed something a little strange about me these last few years: word salad, vindictiveness, impulsive behavior, all the classic signs. Even then, it wasn’t until I started getting the migraines and those weird sniffles that my doctor ordered a CT scan that found my little friend curled up in my skull like a puppy in a little basket.

Long story short, we had a surgery yesterday and this was pulled from my nasal cavity by a very nice Indian doctor. They’re some of the best in the world, I can’t recommend them highly enough. This guy’s great for all kinds of things, not just brain flukes.

And then my staff showed me the tapes of what I’ve been saying and doing, and holy shit, I owe all of you a huge apology. Huuggge. I wasn’t even supposed to get this job, much less turn it into this shitshow. It’s like that brain fluke made me say the absolute worst thing in every situation to make it even more horrible, like a shit-seeking missile.

That’s on me. But I do have to say that I’m a little worried that nobody noticed the symptoms of a Greater Balinese Brain Fluke splashing around in my brain this whole time. What more would a guy have to do or say before any of you said, “Holy shit, this isn’t Alzheimer’s or syphilis but clearly the ravages of a parasitic trematode”? It’s kinda my brand to be an asshole, I get it, but come on.

Jared? Ivanka? Mike? Nothing? You didn’t notice? Jesus wept.

So tonight, I’m here to ask for another four years because those first four didn’t really count. When you think about it, the brain fluke was really the president and I was just kind of like the suit it was wearing for a long, long Halloween.

What I can promise you is that my next term’s grift and bullshittery will return to the normal thresholds you’ve all come to need and expect from Washington. That’s why these new hats have the slogan, “MAKE AMERICA LESS OBVIOUSLY AWFUL AGAIN,” and you can buy them from any of the merch tables lined up in Melania’s Rose Garden.

We’re also selling the pale-veined satin lapel ribbons for Greater Balinese Brain Fluke Awareness because damn, you people need to learn the difference between politics-crazy and brain-fluke-crazy.

Necronomicon @Home Edition

Thanks to my friend Norman, I attended my first convention for science fiction, fantasy, and horror over thirty years ago: Necronomicon in Tampa. I’ve been going ever since (except for a few years in the early 90s when I was too cool and literary), and it means a lot to me that I’m one of the guests now.

Necronomicon in Tampa is among the last of a dying breed of genre gathering run by and for fans with very little profit motive. The event itself raises money for Kids and Canines, a charity that provides emotional support dogs to children, and one of the things I’ll miss this year is getting to visit with the dogs they bring to show us.

This year it’s going virtual, and if you’ve always wondered what I’m talking about when I mention going to Necronomicon, here’s your chance to go for free from your own home! All you have to do is register through Eventbrite and show up virtually on the weekend of September 25 – September 27.

I’m appearing on a few panels:

  • Saturday at 9pm: What is Your Guilty Pleasure?
  • Sunday at 10am: Laughing in the Face of Danger
  • Sunday at 1pm: The Best (Writing) Advice I Ever Got

You can check the retro-themed site for all of the other great things going on!

When to Say “Enough”

When you do something for years with only marginal success but many more days of painful trudging with no apparent benefit, you start to wonder if it’s time to let it go.

Even if you once loved it.

I’m a 47-year-old man, and it’s hard not to think that if I was going to get any better at this, I would have by now. I don’t even know what “better” means anymore, now that I’ve watched so many of my peers discover that success isn’t that…successful. Certainly not for any length of time, anyway. You grind and grind for a quick flash of glory, and then it’s someone else’s turn in a cycle that’s shortening with every passing year.

If I could plot the dopamine flow, there would be a spike before (in anticipation of a good session) and one after (relief for having survived it), but a long deep trough in the middle. That can’t be good.

As the great philosopher Rogersicus the Elder once wrote, “One must know when to hold them and then also when to fold them,” and I think it’s time.

I’m of course talking about running.

Wait, what did you think I was talking about?

Five years ago, I started running to Mordor by tracking my mileage to Mount Doom. It took me two years and 1,700 miles, but I did it. Since then, I’ve logged enough for a total of 4,030 miles – about the length of the Amazon River. I’ve run 5Ks, 15Ks, and half-marathons. I’ve run through Epcot and along the beach and over a treacherous bridge (four times).

But I haven’t had a run in nearly nine months that ended with me feeling great like they used to, and while nothing worthwhile is joyous 100% of the time, it shouldn’t suck 90% of the time, either.

I bought a bike about a month ago for cross-training, and I’ve enjoyed it like being a kid again. It’s rapidly becoming the thing I want to do, and I’ve learned to follow those instincts.

I’ll still run from time to time; it would horrify me to miss the Gate River Run, and I have a couple of 5Ks that I signed up for months ago that they’re running in socially-distanced waves. And it’s possible that I’ll come back to it again after a rest.

It’s hard to know when grinding is good (building your stamina and ability) and when grinding is bad (exacerbating injuries and making it impossible to fully recover), but I think it does us all good to know we can quit even the things we love.

For a little while, anyway.  

The Laddie Fancies Himself a Poet? Not Really.

I’ve been going through my writing archives and compiling a master document of preferred editions of my work. It feels like we’re all one reckless cough away from death, and I hate to leave a mess to clean up after I’m gone.

Early in my career (like, 1998-early), I sometimes wrote poems with ideas that didn’t quite sustain a whole story. Here’s one that I’m trying to decide if it should go into the omnibus.


Biscuits
Waiting for biscuits, crunchy butcher-sweeping goodness in a box!
If I watch the baby, I’ll get biscuits.
            Don’t let criminals get the baby.
            Don’t lick the baby and wake her up.
Watch the baby until Mama gets home from the supermarket.
She’s bringing home biscuits!

Smoke
Seeping from the laundry chute in a gray, billowy thundercloud.
Keep the baby safe from smoke.
            Smoke comes from fire.
            Fire could hurt the baby.
Get the baby from the crib and run.
Save the baby!

Fire
Sparkling, flickering, melting fur and tail with red-orange fingers.
Keep running down the stairs
            Don’t stop because of your burning tail.
            Don’t stop because of your simmering lungs.
Run outside away from fire.
Save the baby!

Fault
Burning through my fur and
PRIMARY SYSTEMIC FAULT IN LOCATIONS
           0010 0000 0E00 008E
           00E0 08E0 0880 0000

BACKUP SYSTEM ONLINE
Run through the door!

Door
Get through door without hurting baby;
Find Paramedic
If no Paramedic then Fireman Else Policeman
           If WATCH BABY then BISCUITS Else BAD DOG
     ERROR LOCATION 08E0

Stop
Place baby on ground gently, like a puppy.
INITIATE PRIMARY SHUTDOWN
     AUDITORY INPUT SUBSYSTEM
          VALUE = “Good boy! We'll take care of her now.”
BISCUITS? Y
SHUTDOWN.