Some children have
imaginary friends. I have imaginary wives. With
them, I can travel the length and breadth of the
complex number dream-time continuum, leading many
lives at once (maybe every life at once, but
that's another story), gracious and suave.
With one of them, I went
on a wonderful sight-seeing driving-tour of
Massachusetts. For years our friends told us,
"Massachusetts is the weirdest place in the
world. You have to go see it. It's like something
from a comic book, or a cartoon," and we
finally decided to take the plunge. My wife was
all a-titter, she loved the green Lamborghinni,
but we rarely took it out. Those 180 mph
straight-aways really guzzled the gas. I
preferred the smaller, sedate Jaguar sedan, but
we were out to make a dazzling impression.
Massachusetts has always
been an enigma to me. What kind of people could
possibly elect the monsters, morons, and
criminals who represent them in the Federal
Government? I mean, when you see the likes of
Gerry Studds (feared by congressional pages
everywhere), Joe Moakley and Marty Meehan (both
Catholics who swing their fists and spew more
anti-Christian bigotry and bile in every
direction than a volcano spews lava), and Ed
Markey (another Catholic who poots on his own
faith by supporting abortion, promiscuity,
perjury and a hundred other sins committed daily
by Liberals), what kind of nose-drooling,
knuckle-dragging voting public comes to mind? And
when you add the next layer to the cake, looking
at the incredible team of Barney Frank (widely
regarded and applauded as a homosexual pimp, with
horrid, slimy, unspeakable fluids bubbling
through his foul, sputtering, lisping lips and
running down his chin), and Ted Kennedy (his
brain and mind besotted with earth-booze and
alien drugs, his psyche ruined and shattered,
drenched in the blood and guilty ichor oozing
from the bloated remains of a thousand vile
crimes, only a few of which we know), it becomes
impossible to picture what kind of hateful social
order can create voters who actually like these
grotesqueries, electing them time and again to
make (and re-make) the laws by which this country
is run. But, to tell the truth, I'd always been
too afraid to go there and find out. However, my
beautiful wife teased and dared me until it
seemed like a brave idea of my own.
We rumbled up to the toll
booth in a car from another world. The attendant
looked odd, vaguely like some lizard-man, with
vertical pupils in his yellow eyes. After we
paid, he gave us a pair of Rose-colored glasses
and said, "You must wear these all the time,
it's the law." We put them on and drove
across the quaint old bridge into Massachusetts,
leaving our good ol' America behind.
At first everything
seemed fine. Beautiful rolling meadows,
picturesque cows and horses, green hills and blue
sky, white cottony clouds. Now and then we'd pass
a happy work collective, harvesting food for the
proletariat. We smiled at the strategically
placed, armed reptilian blue-helmeted
brownshirts, and they nodded back. After all, we
expected a Socialist Paradise, and that's what it
appeared to be. But the glasses began to itch,
and we took them off. Everything was remarkably
different.
The sky was red, the
clouds were gray and black, like from a fire, or
many fires. The grass was gone, empty dirt in its
place. Farmhouses were actually mysterious
smoke-belching buildings. We assumed Christians
and babies were being disposed in them. All the
upper class men seemed to look like serpentine
Kennedies, aristocrats somehow crossed with
reptiles. All their women looked like Jackie-O
(Jackie's secret name), or like Ann Lewis (Barney
Frank's twin sister). It was eerie, really eerie.
We stopped at an obvious
tourist trap, the "Louise Woodward
Pre-School Nursery and Child Care Emporium."
The sign in the front yard displayed the motto:
"They Were Hurt When They Got Here!"
Inside, we walked past room after room in which
restrained children were being horribly beaten
and pummeled by chubby, piggishly ugly, sadistic
au-pairs. There was screaming and spattered blood
everywhere, except for one room where the
children were very quiet, sleeping in orderly
rows on the floor, their sheets pulled up over
their heads. That, at least, was comforting.
We snuck back to the car
and sped off further into the interior. Ten or
fifteen miles later we slowed then stopped to
view a most amazing sight. There was a long line
of young women dressed like Catholic schoolgirls,
and one at a time, they were put in a car body
(which was chopped down so only the middle,
interior section remained) then hauled high into
the air by a construction crane and dangled over
a huge pool of water. As a fat, white-haired
drunken man grappled with them, the car was
loosed and fell to the water, where it sank. Each
girl was able to free herself from the man and
get out of the car. She'd swim to the side of the
pool where another fat, white-haired drunkard
tried again and again to force her head under the
surface. She'd pull a paintball pistol out of her
blouse and hit him every time. Then a bell would
ring, everybody applauded, and the car was hauled
up out of the water and maneuvered back to the
long line of schoolgirls. The whole cycle took
about ten minutes. It was fascinating. The quaint
YeOldeSign read, "The Mary Jo Kopechne
Swimming School And Survival Academy For Young
Ladies". "What a great idea!" we
thought.
Once again we drove down
the road for five or ten minutes and what do you
think we saw? In the middle of a broken-down
shanty-town, we found "The Barney Frank
Memorial Sperm Bank." What a giggle.
Curious, we went around the back. There was the
Great Fag Himself. He was hand-trucking what
appeared to be a keg of beer toward his snazzy
car. But instead of beer, a strange sticky white
fluid dripped from the tap-pump-nozzle. We might
have been born at night, but it wasn't
last-night. The cuteness of this scene dried up
in a second, and we sped off toward what appeared
to be the capital.
For a lark, we put our
Rose glasses back on. Sure enough, we saw a
happy, quaint little New England Third-Way
Neo-Victorian Fascist Socialist Multi-Cultural
Numerical Parliamentary Collective, a perfect
Politically Corrected Commune-State, just the way
it should be. But that was boring, so we took 'em
off again.
In the heart of town
stood a great golden pyramid. At its four corners
there were horrid greasy bonfires of human
corpses, and in the middle of each triangular
side there was a giant letter K. Set against the
red sky, it was a golden fortress of Liberalism,
Liberalism Central. There were lines of naked
women, from hookers to housewives, from all over
the country, winding their way into the temple.
There were no lines of women going out. When I
looked (squinted actually) at the top, I thought
I saw John F. Kennedy himself! He was eating
female private parts, prepared in a gourmet
fashion, surrounded by a warm and loving ghostly
light. Always unsure of my delusions, I gave my
beautiful wife a powerful pair of binoculars. She
looked, then said, "Yep, it's JFK. I think
we're in big trouble. Let's just
go......now!"
And so it was that we
sped at almost 200 mph out of Massachusetts.
There was no mystery any more.
Let this be a warning to
you all. Massachusetts is the most horrible place
on Earth. The people are mad-folk, not at all the
sweet Socialists they seem. Evil alien magic
holds sway, demons stalk the land, and real human beings are
consumed like fried chicken. Decency does not
exist there.
