by Ernest Hogan
Honest, I’m trying not to overuse the a-word. Apocalyptic. It’s just that 2025 just doesn’t want to wait. The flags are at half-staff. There’s already been a UFO/drone scare, ice storms and blizzards in the East, and Midwest, L.A. is in flames, San Francisco squirrels have gone carnivorous, Texas is infested with screwworms--yes, they real, and also eat flesh--and parts of the Southwest are so cold, frozen iguanas are expected to start dropping out of the trees.
And suddenly there’s a ceasefire in Gaza, and TikTok died and was resurrected.
No rain of two-headed frogs. Yet.
And the Felon couldn’t wait to be inaugurated (or should that be re-inaugurated?) to start spewing mad dreams of conquering Canada, Greenland, and Panama with tax-payer money. Hell, why not buy Mexico and Central America while you're at it? Be the North American Bolivar! Muhuhuhhahaha!
Oddly, what we haven’t seen has been jubilation from the MAGA crowd. Where’s the dancing in the streets, fireworks, AR-15s going off in the suburbs?
I’m still on Twitter to keep in touch with certain contacts and keep track of what the Felon’s voters are thinking and am getting--with the exception of Musk’s bad sci-fi blatherings--nothing. How is it that nobody I follow there has had anything to say about politics for the last few months?
Makes a Chicano scifiista wonder . . .
I had Inauguration Day off, it falling on Martin Luther King Day, and the library where I worked was closed. Didn’t Martin say something about people being judged by the content of their character?
Turns out Emily had the day off, too. It was one of those things we didn’t have to discuss. Road trip! Get out. Get distracted. See what the hell else is happening in this messed up world.
What else can you do with an exploding spaceship in the news?
The night before the Felon danced with the Village People.
That morning some friends invited us to breakfast. A good way to start this day. Conversation. Laughter.
Some news leaked in via phones and social media. There is no escape.
The Earth isn’t enough for the Felon’s imperialist ambitions—he’s promising astronauts on Mars.
Musk was ecstatic, swearing to save “American civilization” and the human race. Was that a Nazi salute?
Er—wasn’t that his spaceship that blew up the other day?
On the I-17, a bumper sticker on an old van said: THE HIPPIES WERE RIGHT.
There were a lot of dead trees and dying saguaros. Emily predicted fires.
We hiked around poisonous Montezuma Well in icy winds.
The Felon got to work right away, signing an onslaught of bizarre, unenforceable executive orders, based on the demented promises he made to his fans. That stench burning your nose is the fallout.
I will report what I encounter.
Meanwhile, it will be raining batshit with a strong chance of chaos.
Ernest Hogan will be teaching Palabras del Pueblo classes and has stories in upcoming anthologies and will be otherwise keeping busy in 2025.
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