“We’re going to have to do certain things that were frankly unthinkable a year ago.” – Donald Trump
In the aftermath of this hellection, I spent weeks frantically writing 21 fractured fairytales to cope with the feeling that this is not normal.. (A strange coping mechanism, I know.) I collected them into a book, currently on Amazon. A stocking stuffer for Trump haters. Bedtime stories for a long dark night.
So here, for your enjoyment (and with Booman’s permission), are the first few:
The Ant and the Grasshopper
One fine summer afternoon, Grasshopper danced along a sunny path, past raspberry bushes heavy with fruit. He sang and chirped, and gobbled the warm, sweet berries. Then he laughed, watching a row of ants trudge past, carrying kernels of corn toward their colony.
“You are good, hard workers!” Grasshopper said. “Look at you, doing jobs that grasshoppers won’t!”
“We have to fill our larder for the winter,” one Ant told him. “So when the snow covers the ground we’ll still have food to eat.”
“The winter’s a long way off!” Grasshopper popped another raspberry into his mouth. “There’s no reason to worry. I’ve got plenty.”
“We must plan ahead, just in case.”
“That’s fine for you,” Grasshopper chuckled. “But the beauty of me is that I’m rich in berries.”
“You should save for the winter, too,” the Ant scolded. “For yourself and all the other grasshoppers.”
“Why bother?” chirped the Grasshopper. “You’ve got more than enough.”
“You’re not going to contribute?” the Ant asked, slightly shocked.
“That makes me smart,” Grasshopper announced, and hopped merrily away.
Over the next few weeks, the raspberry bushes gave fewer and fewer berries, until they finally gave none at all. Flurries of snow covered the field, and Grasshopper went knocking on the door of the ant colony.
“Give me some corn,” he said.
The Ant tsked. “You should have saved your–“
“I’ll protect your jobs!” Grasshopper shouted into the ant colony. “You’re losing! Your Ant Queen is so stupid. Everyone in the field is laughing at you. You’re living hand-to-mandible, struggling just to get by. You’re losing. So, so stupid! Working all summer just to stock your larder.”
“We need to stock the larder!” the Ant said. “Now that winter is here–“
“The whole concept of winter,” Grasshopper scoffed, “was created by Aardvark. What the hell do you have to lose? Give me your corn, and I’ll pay you in berries.”
So a group of ants led Grasshopper to the larder, where he stuffed himself until his abdomen bulged and only a few kernels remained.
“Now where are our berries?” the ants asked.
“I’m not paying you.”
“But you promised–“
“Wrong!” Grasshopper told them. “You did a job that’s not good. Very not good. I don’t pay for shoddy work. That’s what your whole colony should do.”
“All of our corn is gone!” the ants wailed.
“Didn’t I say that your Ant Queen is stupid? After all your hard work, you’re still losing. Losing all the time.”
“We’re going to starve,” the ants moaned. “Oh, think of the poor pupae.”
“You want food? The honeybees are taking your food. They’re taking your corn. I love the honeybees, but they’re killing you.”
“The–the honeybees?” the ants said. “They’re just like us, hard workers who raise large broods. Except, instead of saving corn in a larder for winter, they save honey in a comb.”
“`Corn, winter, larder,'” Grasshopper scoffed. “You’ve got to get rid of all these rules. These rules are destroying you. You can’t breathe. You cannot breathe.”
“We can’t eat,” the first Ant grumbled. “Because you hogged all our food.”
“You want to eat? Put me in charge, and you are going to start eating again. You’ll have so much eating you’ll get bored of food. Look at me, how my abdomen bulges. I’ll get you so much food. So, so much.”
Now, the ants prided them on one thing above all else: they were a shining city upon an anthill, where every ant was created equal.
So they held a vote.
The ants who supported Grasshopper marched into a warm and spacious chamber nearby. The ants who supported the Ant Queen marched into a cold and cramped one across the colony.
When the votes were counted, sixty-two ants supported Grasshopper.
Only sixty-five ants supported the Queen, though, so Grasshopper won!
“Wait a second,” the first Ant said. “Isn’t sixty-five more than sixty-two?”
“Not how we do math,” said the other ants.
“Isn’t that a problem?” the first Ant asked. “For a shining city on an anthill?”
“It’s a huge problem,” said the ants whose votes counted more than anyone else’s. “We’re sick of feeling powerless.”
The Emperor’s New Clothes
In a fine city on a craggy coast, lofty towers rose overhead and grassy parks spread wide between the avenues. At all hours of day and night, the city rang with music and trade, art and sport. And in the commercial district, bustling boulevards echoed with the cries of fishmongers, costermongers, and ironmongers.
Except one peddler didn’t shout in the boulevards.
One peddler wasn’t allowed.
He woke early every morning to secure a good spot for his stall, and every morning the other vendors chased him into an alley, between a heap of refuse and a tannery wall.
“Unfair!” he muttered. “I’m the real victim here …”
He glowered at the other peddlers. Selling fish, apples, and iron was easy! But he was a hatemonger, and peddling hate took real effort. Even people who enjoyed a good, bracing hate in private still shied away from buying his wares in bulk–or in public.
The hatemonger scraped together a meager living from a small-but-fervent following, until one day his best customer pulled him aside. This customer was a clever man named Bartholomew, and he suggested a plan.
“The Emperor,” Bright Bart said, “is a shallow, vain man. He loves nothing except himself, and is loved by nobody except himself.”
“How can a man like that help our cause?” the hatemonger asked. “We are men of principle and purpose, not self-regard.”
“We’ll use his vanity to make him our puppet.”
So they bought two looms and began to weave a web. Not of cloth, but of lies. They spread word that they were super-classy weavers, the most popular and high-energy weavers in the city. Soon the palace buzzed with the news, and the Emperor summoned the `weavers’ to meet him in the throne room.
“We weave the most amazing clothes, Your Magnificence,” Bright Bart told him. “The colors will make your head spin, believe me. And the patterns? Huge. Huge patterns. Beautiful. “
“Tremendous,” the hatemonger said, then lowered his voice. “And that’s not all, Your Worship.”
“What?” the Emperor asked, absently stroking his daughter, who was sitting on his knee. “What else is there?”
“We only use the rarest fabric, Your Supremacy,” Bright Bart said. “Fabric so very, very great that it’s invisible to anyone who isn’t great.”
The courtiers gasped in amazement, but the Emperor merely said, “I’ve heard of that fabric. I know all about it. I have so much knowledge, I know more than anyone.”
“Of course, Your Perfection.” Bright Bart bowed, and then addressed the courtiers. “You lesser lights may not understand exactly how useful this material is. Our fabric is utterly solid and impeccably sourced … yet absolutely invisible to anyone who is disgusting or low-energy.”
“It cannot be seen by losers or clowns,” the hatemonger added, “nor by anyone who is third-rate.”
“What we weave on our loom is the truth,” Bright Bart told the courtiers. “For those of superior blood and unfettered sight, we embroider everything except the facts.”
“You will see the world as it truly is,” the hatemonger promised. “For we never cut our cloth on the bias.”
The Emperor rubbed his stubby hands together. Using this wondrous fabric, he could easily check if any of his people were losers or dum-dums.
“Make me your finest outfit!” he declared, and told his treasurer to give the weavers a chest overflowing with gold.
“Yes, Your Magnificence,” the treasurer said, though knowing his Emperor well, he only gave the weavers a promissory note.
The so-called weavers didn’t care: men of principle don’t work for a payment, but for a cause. They were hatemongers, and hate does not mong itself. So they set up the two looms and pretended to weave, though they used no thread save that of their curdled imaginations. They danced around the empty looms, making minute adjustments and sweeping generalizations.
For weeks they wefted and wove. Word of their unstinting drudgery spread through the palace to the city, until every one of the Emperor’s subjects knew about the wonderful properties of their cloth.
After a time, the Emperor wondered how his new garments were coming along. Did he feel a faint sense of unease, that perhaps he wouldn’t see the new clothes? A niggling worry that he would prove to be a loser or a clown?
No.
Not even for the tiniest fraction of an underfed second.
Still, he was curious. Not just for himself, but because he enjoyed a spectacle–and he knew that his subjects were impatient to discover which of their so-called friends were disgusting pigs and low-energy losers.
“I’ll send my old guard to have a look,” the Emperor decided. “I can trust him, for he grovels better than anyone in the palace, even the Scribe.”
“You called, Your Highness?” the Scribe simpered, stepping forward.
The Emperor scowled at the smug, ink-stained wretch. “Go with my old guard to inspect the weavers’ work. I can’t stand the sight of your ugly face.”
So the old guard knocked on the workroom door while the Scribe stood beside him, quill hovering over parchment.
“Before you come in,” called the hatemonger, “promise us one thing.”
“What’s that?” the old guard asked.
“Don’t be too kind,” the hatemonger told him through the door. “If you spot a single flaw, you must tell us immediately.”
“Of course,” the old guard said, relieved at this trivial request. After all, he prided himself on his hard-won ability to never spot a serious flaw in any respectable party.
Bright Bart ushered him and the Scribe inside. “The pattern is amazing,” Bart said. “The very, very best. And the colors are beautiful, believe me. So beautiful.”
The old guard stared at the empty looms, a brittle smile covering the breaking of his heart. He’d always suspected the truth, but he’d never known before: he truly was a loser, a third-rate clown. Without the Emperor, he was worth nothing at all.
Still, before he said anything, he glanced nervously at the Scribe. Maybe–he barely dared hope–maybe the looms truly were empty?
“What do you think?” the Scribe asked him.
“Oh!” The old guard swallowed. “Um. It’s tremendous? So, so amazing?”
“How very true!” the hatemonger said.
The old guard took comfort from the scratching of the Scribe’s quill, as the ink-stained functionary recorded his words. After all, if the Scribe saw empty looms, he wouldn’t simply transcribe the quote, would he?
Of course not. The very idea was laughable.
Bright Bart told the old guard about the `clothes’ in lurid detail, mentioning every imaginary seam and non-existent button. The old guard memorized his words, while the Scribe recorded every boast and brag. And when they returned to the throne room and repeated the breathless description to the Emperor, the courtiers fluttered with excitement.
The Emperor decided he’d wait no longer. With his court at his heels, he rushed to the workroom to see for himself.
“So beautiful!” the old guard cried, throwing the doors wide. “Amazing! Terrific!”
For a terrible moment, the courtiers stared in dismay–then they broke into a chorus of praise, each one seeking to prove that they, at least, were high energy and first rate.
The Emperor approached the empty looms, his brow furrowed. The courtiers quieted. Even the hatemonger held his breath as the Emperor circled the workroom.
“At long last,” the Emperor thought, “a set of clothes that truly reflects the inner me. An outfit that encapsulates my very soul.” For the Emperor could see clothes on the looms, where no thread existed. His self-regard was so mighty that it painted a breathtaking picture for him, shimmering with his favorite colors: red, white, and blue … but mostly white.
“Huge,” he uttered, and the room erupted in cheers.
“Your Superlativeness,” said his old guard. “Perhaps you’ll grace the city by wearing your new clothes during the procession tomorrow?”
The Emperor agreed, and the `weavers’ worked through the night, inventing a few last challenges for themselves, then proposing a few final solutions. And as dawn broke, they finally announced, “The Emperor’s new clothes are ready!”
When the Emperor entered, the `weavers’ bowed low and gestured to the empty racks. “Here are the trousers, Your Magnificence,” Bright Bart said. “Here is the shirt and the belt, here the hood and here the robe.”
“All of them together as light as a spider web,” the hatemonger added.
“Look how it sways,” one courtier gasped. “So delicate, so airy.”
“And the colors!” another gushed. “Like an autumn sunset over a lavender field.”
“Like the fresh fall of snow,” Bright Bart murmured, “over a wintry field.”
With a steady stream of flattery, the `weavers’ pretended to dress the Emperor. When they finally stepped away, the Emperor surveyed his naked self in the long mirror … and gasped in delight. And after a scant hour enjoying his court’s groveling praise, the Emperor marched from the palace, leading the procession through the streets.
Nobody in the city wished to be proven a loser or clown, of course. So the gathered throngs cried, “The Emperor’s new clothes are beautiful! They fit him so great! The best!”
“Look at his long train!” called the people leaning from the windows. “That’s the longest train. Nobody’s ever had a longer train!”
Praise and exultation sounded all around … except from the costermonger. “He’s naked!” she blurted. “He’s not wearing anything!”
The courtiers sneered and the guardsmen snorted, but whispers spread like wildfire: “Someone says the Emperor is naked! He’s not wearing anything at all!”
“There isn’t a single stitch on his flabby bum!” the ironmonger agreed.
“And small hands or no,” the fishmonger tittered, “apparently there is a problem. I guarantee it.”
Neighbors turned to neighbors. Friends turned to friends. Was it true? Were they not lightweight losers and disgusting pigs? Could they trust what they saw with their own eyes? In a moment, half of the crowd started shouting, “The Emperor has no clothes! The Emperor has no clothes!”
Laughter rippled through the streets … until the rest of the crowd jeered, “Liars! Crooked liars! He is wearing clothes! The best clothes!”
“You losers just can’t see his clothes,” the hatemonger called, pushing forward. “Because you’re terrible, disgusting people.”
“Look at him!” the fishmonger said. “He’s naked.”
“Treason!” cried Bright Bart. “Who dares mock the Emperor?”
“Ask anyone!” the ironmonger shouted. “Ask … ask the Scribe!”
The crowd turned to the Scribe, who puffed out his chest and stroked his chin. He looked to the costermonger, then to the hatemonger. He consulted his parchment for a thoughtful moment then gazed at the Emperor, standing naked in front of the parade.
“Tell us!” the costermonger demanded. “Is the Emperor wearing clothes?”
“Some claim he is,” the Scribe informed her. “And some claim he’s not.”
“I’d like to punch them in the face!” the Emperor bellowed, his jowls wobbling. “So obnoxious! So loud! Treat them very, very rough. They ought to be carried out on stretchers!”
“Your wish is our command!” the hatemonger cried, and he and Bright Bart beat the costermonger with cudgels until her bones snapped.
“I hate to intrude, Emperor,” the Scribe said, with a trace of alarm. “But perhaps you should stop them?”
“My followers have tremendous love for their country,” the Emperor explained. “They’re very passionate, and they’re sick of losing.”
While the costermonger bled to death, Bright Bart took the old guard’s place at the Emperor’s side. He bowed his head in perfect deference, whispering assurances of loyalty into his puppet’s ear. Meanwhile, the hatemonger glared at the frightened crowd. Why weren’t they cheering louder? Why did they still resent him, after everything he’d done?
“I’m the real victim here,” he muttered.
And the Emperor led the procession away, his new clothes resplendent in the sunshine.
Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
Once upon a time, a cheerful fat man married a cheerful fat woman, while his sour skinny brother took a sour skinny wife.
The fat brother was named Ali Baba, and he and his wife spent their money as soon as they earned it. They invited dozens of guests to lavish, all-night feasts, they hosted costume balls and poetry readings, they attended dockside concerts and supported religious festivals.
“He wastes all his money,” his brother Kasim gloated to his wife, in their cold, bare house. “While we hoard all of ours.”
“Your brother is foolish,” his wife said, skinnily. “And deserves whatever happens to him.”
“I hope he doesn’t expect me to help,” Kasim said, though he dreamed every night of Ali Baba begging for a handout, just so he’d have the opportunity to refuse.
But Ali Baba didn’t expect help. Every day he’d cheerfully take his three donkeys into the forest to collect brush to sell at the market. And every evening, he and his wife would cheerfully spend what he earned on guest and neighbors, on sweets and song.
Then one day, as Ali Baby was wandering the forest looking for dropwood, he heard the clipclop of hooves.
“Bandits!” he gasped, and pulled his donkeys into the underbrush.
The horses trotted closer and
[DISCONTINUED IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE `EXTREME VETTING’ GUIDELINES OF THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE]
