Grass Roots

Small town, America:

“There. That’s where I get all my MRE’s,” said the guy in jeans and a sport coat with an American flag pin on the lapel.
The guy with an American flag tie, hanging a few inches above his belt, took the scrap of paper. “Great, I’ve been meaning to stock up. Noting but canned food down there, now.”
“You all set on water?”
“Yeah, I got a purification system, with a hundred gallon reservoir.”
“…ammo?”
“A couple thousand hollow points for my dual Uzis, and a few hundred for my Glock,” said flag tie.
“Nice,” said sport coat in a tone of genuine respect with just a hint of envy.
“Alright,” said the guy in a moderately priced, newish black suit, “do you all have your scripts?”
An older gentleman in the back raised his hand meekly.
“Could you, pass this back to,” black suit searched his memory for the name, “Allen, there?”
Sport coat passed the single sheet of pink paper.
Black suit continued, “Great. In case this is your first time, here’s how it works. A machine at headquarters will place a call, and play a recorded message. When it’s done, the person on the other end will hit a button if they want more information. At that point, the call transfers to a live operator, which will be you when I turn on this switchboard.” Black suit looked down at a yellow piece of paper. “And in case you’re wondering, the calls will be going to… Vermont(?)…”
Flag tie took a swig from a liter bottle of coke.
“Or… possibly… somewhere, in the Midwest. At any rate, when your phone rings, answer it. It’s first come first serve, but it should be busy enough that you’ll all get some action.” He grinned. “Most of the questions a caller might ask are listed and answered right there on your script.”
The first timers looked at each other with doubt.
Black suit: “It’s the pink sheet there, in front of you. If you could take a minute to familiarize yourself with it now, it will come out more naturally when you are asked.”
Less than half the volunteers looked down at the sheet.
Black suit cleared his throat. “If they ask something and you’re not sure how to answer, just do your best. If you’re really stumped, just raise your hand, and me, or Karl, will come over, and try to help you out.”
Black suit looked at each volunteer for signs of discomfort. He seemed satisfied with the crowd. “Okay, let’s begin,” he said, flipping the switch.
Riiiiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiing, Riiiiiiii-iiiiiiing, Riiiiiiiing: three phones sprang to life, as if they’d been waiting patiently for the chance to be heard.
I grabbed the white, corded receiver in front of me. “Hello, you have reached Campaign Headquarters. Are you interested in making a donation today?”

A telegram for Alan K Simpson

Dear Grandpa [STOP]

Dad says I need to apologize so I sent you this telagram [STOP]

I’m sorry I never sent you a thank you note for the cup and ball you got me for Christmas [STOP]

And I’m sorry about wearing my pants to low and not taking my hat off at dinner [STOP]

If your still alive next Christmas I promise to dress better [STOP]

From (Redacted) [STOP]

PS There’s no such thing as snoopy poop dog or enema man [STOP]

Breaking News!

Here’s another 100 word short with 5 random words. Random words in bold.

~~~

Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen’s mattress. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen’s dish. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen cult? Charlie Sheen wine. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen, chair. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Charlie Sheen. Wisconsin, Libya, DOMA, health care, economic depression, abortion, Citizens United – Charlie Sheen.

(u_u)

Cairo, 11:39 PM (local)
She was smiling, a smile that said I’m listening, I care. A smile that conveyed sincerity, despite the fact that she was humoring him.

It took two years of coaching to achieve that smile. Two years to fully retrain her muscle memory. Two tedious, expensive years to fully suppress the undercurrent of smirky condescension that lost her the primary.

He continued expressing his growing concerns with the public unrest.

She nodded, reminding herself that even a simple hand on the shoulder would be disastrous.

She reassured him, he had their full support. Only someone that knew her well could see she was lying. Luckily, neither of them were present.

Samira

Something’s wrong. I’m on the ground, and I can’t move. People run. Chairs fly. Jackets left behind.

The sky flashes. Some try to cover the women, the children.

The able stand. Some carry loved ones, others bodies.

The sky flashes. More fall.

I’m cold. My body’s numb. I think I’ve shit myself.

Perspective shifts. I see Samira. My Samira. She’s looking down at me, clutching the uneaten maaledaa. There is confusion. Tears.

I tell her I love her. I hope she hears me.

a little civility

Dear Sir,

Originally, we attributed Lady Ashton’s gracelessness to her humble origins, but after her latest faux pas, the cycling incident, we suspect it may be more than a matter of breeding. Her heart-felt conviction that all manner of people are equal is, at times, amusing, but her repeated outbursts of emotion while discussing the subject have grown tiresome. As such, we would appreciate if you attended our future social functions alone, until she has been properly cultured.  If you wish to contest our request, a truncated account of her many indiscretions, will be made available.

~The Club

cautious optimism

It was on the fifth day of the revolution that he kissed me. Against a hastily thrown up piece of plywood, he pushed me back and our lips met. While I felt his tongue explore my mouth, everything melted with me. I no longer heard the shouts, the gunfire, or even the great roar of the tank as it lead Mubarak’s thugs to safety. It wasn’t our first kiss, but it was our first in public. Such a minimal victory, amongst the chaos and confusion, stopped my melting. While the day may be won, our revolution has only just begun.

This Week in Politics

AHS Student Council Room/Cafetorium – This week, council member John B. stunned everyone by refusing to participate in any votes or other activities, until it was agreed that his cat, Mrs. Flaubert, was adorable.  In an effort to move things along Barry, the student body president, agreed that the cat was “Pretty darn cute.”  Unappeased, John B. continued to “fill-o-buster” [sic] until funds could be allocated toward the health and well-being of Mrs. Flaubert.

Mrs. Flaubert

Teddy, John B’s cousin, verified that Mrs. Flaubert could really use the candy sale money, and that it would be fiscally irresponsibly not to do so.

The funds in question, approximately $700, were originally allocated to address the growing population of starving dogs, which have been a growing concern since emaciated strays started wandering onto campus.

 

hungry puppy

Tim, an AHS student, had this to say.  “This is total BS.  I had to sell, like, five boxes of chocolate bars to make that money for those dogs.  I mean, it was called the stray dog candy sale for *** sake.  Besides, John’s cat is fat.  It doesn’t need more food, it’s a fat cat.”

When asked for comment, John B’s sister Michele passed me a piece of paper with a prepared statement.  It said, “Bernie S and most of the student council hate cats.”  By lunchtime, everyone was debating whether or not the remarks were true.

That afternoon, Bernie S. responded to the vicious attack.  At the start of the meeting, just after the previous meeting’s minutes had been read, he took the floor and went on an unheard of 8 and a half-minute tirade, where he accused John B. of “slanter” [sic] and being a dog hating, wanna-be-ironic hipster.  At that point, the meeting erupted into childish name calling on both sides, until Barry called for a simple up and down vote.

Bernie S. rebuttal speech

At the end of the day, it was agreed that $200 dollars would go to the Flaubert Fund, and the rest would be given to the ASPCA.  The Flaubert Fund would be given out in two installments; the second installment taking place just after next year’s student council election.  Barry’s ex-girlfriend, who was sitting next to me during the meeting, told me that this was not a coincidence.

After the vote, Bernie S. had this to say.  “I just don’t get this place anymore.  I’m thinking of changing schools.”