by BRENDA BRUNDTLAND-GOVANNI, Alternate Reality News Service Editrix-in-Chief
Some people should have invested in better self-preservation instincts when they were born.
When she was younger, my mother Barbara Brundtland-Govanni wrote a Farcebook post in which she stated: "President Richard Milhouse Nixwatmondnewon gives jowly weasels a bad name. Or, a worse one, in any case. If paranoid fearmongering was on a wanted poster, it would have his face! Despite this, my name is not on Nixwatmondnewon's enemies list. Why is my name not on Nixwatmondnewon's enemies list?! Have you SEEN who made Nixwatmondnewon's enemies list? Half of those people couldn't get a proper loathing on if it had been specifically designed for them by Coco Chanel herself! Is this any way to run a country into the ground?!"
Dated? Absolutely! Strange period vernacular? Wowza! Personally, I think my mother was born 87 and just kind of...regressed for a few years in her teens. Beyond that, I don't really want to think about my mother's youth, thank you very much. There Be Monsters. (Imagine the kind of person who would write Farcebook posts decades before there was such a thing as Farcebook. TBM)
I would much rather be thinking of ways to justify driving the hovercraft/coffee maker to an Editrix Convention in Vancouver, except some right wingnut on Earth Prime 1-6-7-1-8-2 dash Psi found my mother's Farcebook post and presented it as proof that I come from a long line of socialist anarchists opposed to transnational capitalism and, for some reason, dental floss. Okay, sure, mom didn't push good oral hygiene on me when I was a child, but I just assumed that she was getting kickbacks from the Tooth Fairy. The fact that, as an adult, I have nightmares about being garroted with dental floss just suggests that the Tooth Fairy is in cahoots with the Dream Lord; it's certainly not a political statement!
This seems to be a new front in the battle between supporters of President Ronald McDruhitmumpf and reality: embarrass the messenger. Last week, for example, the Cucbreitdohboybart News web site revealed that Rachel O'Schubermatthow's nephew was a bed wetter. This should have come as no surprise considering that he was only three months old at the time, but this was meant to invalidate O'Schubermatthow's journalistic credentials by implying that she came from a family plagued by weak bladders.
A couple of days before that, Grey House spokes...noun (she doesn't merit anything more specific) KellyAnne Conwaytwittiest had made a point (she had a big, sharp-ended stick that she poked journalists in the ribs with – I would admit that I enjoyed thinking about the spilled blood of all of the reporters I sent to cover her, but I don't want to give the union any more reasons to grieve me this week) of claiming that Eugene Robinsoncrusoe's great-aunt Marigold-Petunia didn't love Raymond.
To be clear: Barbara Brundtland-Govanni can take care of herself. She knows 238 ways to kill a man with chopsticks. Sure, a handful of them require 11 dimensions. And, sure, sure, a couple more appear to have a tenuous grasp of human anatomy. Still, that leaves a lot of ways to bring grief to anybody who threatens her or her family. (Meaning: me.)
Not that the apple falls far from the tree (and lands in a superheroic fighting stance). I have a small (but growing) collection of slapping gloves, and always have a pair ready for any situation. When the leather gloves are being dry cleaned (I'll leave it to your imagination of what was staining them), I can always use the rhinestone gloves. When the rhinestone gloves are in the shop to get replacement stones (your imagination should be getting a good workout by now), I can always go to the pink poodle gloves. Yes, they are delicate. Yes, rips in them sometimes need to be sown up (don't bother exercising your imagination on this one: I don't want to ruin you for fiction). But, the point is that there's plenty more where they came from. Momma's precious little one can take care of herself.
Granted, exposing the personality quirks of relatives of journalists seems like a petty annoyance. Don't fall for it! This is just the poisoned tip of the iceberg lettuce! If these petty attacks are allowed to fester without response, they will be ramped up with stronger and more personal attacks! If I'm right, can you blame me for responding with the full force of my righteous anger, wrath, indignation and troops of fiery angels?
And, if I'm wrong, I have at least reminded my co-workers of the glovely wrath they can expect of they cross me. It's a win either way, really.