By Cooter Jackson, editor-in-chief
MUD LAKE, NV–Greetings, dear readers. First of all, I have to apologize for my extended absence from the world of hard-hitting journalism. You see, old Cooter’s been going through some life changes. It all started about six months ago. I knew change was on the wind. I felt it in my bones, a restlessness, a vague longing that kept me awake at night. I knew that soon, I would be cast upon fate’s ocean like a wind-blown leaf, sent like some biblical prophet to wander the trackless wastes of the earth in search of a greater truth.
That, and some hybrid mutant alien clones disguised as federal agents confiscated my hard drive and served me with a bench warrant. I swear to god, the fascists that run this country. If hosting torrents for thirty seven hundred terabytes of hard-core pornography is illegal, then I guess I’m a criminal. If using Dick Cheney’s credit card and social security number to purchase three thousand latex horse dildos and having them shipped to every member of congress is against the law, you’d better slap the cuffs on me.
In any case, I thought it was a good time to see the world. Amazingly, somebody forgot to flag my passport, and I made it through customs and out of the country without incident. And so, I found the country where my soul truly resides, Thailand.
Ah, Thailand. The land of a thousand smiles. The land of Siam. The land of getting shit-faced, blind drunk in a seedy karaoke bar, belting out off-key versions of Eagles songs while groping shopworn transsexual prostitutes at four-thirty on a Tuesday morning.
Not that I had anything to do with ladyboy prostitutes, mind you. And if I did, it was purely for research purposes. As a writer, it is my responsibility to experience as wide a variety of experiences and lifestyles as I possibly can, in order to accurately relay those experiences to you, my reader. If that experience happens to include snorting bath salts off of a turgid Asian penis and getting spit-roasted by two smooth skinned thai ladyboys, so be it. So be it. But just remember, I didn’t enjoy a second of it.
But enough about that. This story isn’t about getting double-stuffed by nubile brown skinned transsexuals, this story is about True Love.
There I was, drunk out of my skull on tequila and cobra blood with a chaser of mushroom tea, wandering the neon soaked alleyways of Pattaya’s walking street. Every conceivable variety of human debauchery was available to me, for a price. Yet, none of it mattered at that moment. Because that’s when I saw Her.
She was a real woman. I knew this immediately, because she was showing me her vagina. In fact, she was shooting ping-pong balls out of the thing.
From her stage, she looked down at me. I looked up at her. Our eyes met. It was pure electricity. I stood like a man possessed.
She fired a ping-pong ball straight at me.
As that slick, muskily-fragranced projectile bounced off of my forehead, I knew with sudden, shocking clarity: this was the woman I would marry.
I sat down and watched the rest of the show, hypnotized by the things she did with those small white balls. Her skill, her coordination, her derring-do. She was an artist of the highest order. The Van Gogh of vaginal performance art. This seedy little girly bar wasn’t good enough for her. She deserved to be firing sporting goods from her pooter at carnegie hall.
She said her name was Banjo. It was a whirlwind courtship, my friends. I pity those of you who have never known the rapture of true and great love. We toured the country. We stayed at the finest hotels, we ate at the most expensive restaurants, we shopped at the most exclusive boutiques. I’ll never forget the adoring look on her face as she gently stroked my credit card.
They were the best months of my life. We made plans to get married. She’d tour the states, bringing the ancient art of vaginal artillery to American audiences. In the off season, she’d live with me in my modest trailer in Mud Lake, improving her act, helping me to expose the vile underbelly of our nation with pure, rock-solid journalism.
I should have known it was too good to Last. I should have known it would all go wrong.
It could be argued that it was my fault. See, in my fog of lust and high-octane jungle-brewed methamphetamines, it never occurred to me that mail order brides weren’t actually meant to be mailed.
She struggled some, sure, but with my superior western logic and a bit of chloroform, I managed to settle her nerves enough to pack her up for the trip. I crated my love up, safely swathed in bubble wrap and packed in styrofoam peanuts, paid the appropriate postage, and sent her off to Mud Lake.
I took an airliner home, myself. Due to some brilliant legal maneuvering that I’m not going to detail at the moment, I was off the hook for the whole horse-dildo credit card fraud thing. I arrived at my little trailer and waited for my love to arrive.
Now, god bless the Thai people. They are a wonderful bunch of folk. But their postal system is not the most efficient in the world. It was a month and a half before my lovely bride arrived in Nevada. I don’t know how customs inspectors didn’t notice the smell.
Like most of my other relationships, this one also ended with a shallow, unmarked grave in the desert. Farewell, Banjo my love. My ping-pong-ball-spewing jungle flower.
Crushed, I threw myself back into my work, trying to decipher the true meaning hidden within the great wheelworks of propaganda and lies that is the United States political system.
Imagine my delight when I turned on the television and discovered that the front runners for the presidency were a lizard clone, an elderly socialist infiltrator, and Hitler’s brain in the ressurected corpse of old, fat Elvis. What a time to be alive.
Which brings me around to the real reason I’m writing this. The time has come for a change in the elections process. Do we need to find better ways to make sure each citizen is represented? Improve access to voting? Eliminate corporate influence? Do away with the electoral college? Hell no. We need trial by combat.
Trial by combat. That ancient and noble method of settling disputes, based on the scientifically verified principle that whoever is capable of beating thier opponents head in with a shovel must be in the right.
My friends, this country needs a thunderdome. A steel cage, a killing ground where two candidates enter and only one candidate leaves.
Picture the primaries: In one corner, Sanders, wielding the hammer and sickle of communism. In the other corner, Clinton, holding the krathax: the axe-like weapon traditionally carried by the warriors of her lizard tribe. These two would likely batter innefectively at each other, in true liberal fashion, the combat ultimately devolving into a slap-fighting, hair-pulling wrestling match.
And then the Republicans, of course. Trump, wearing a suit of powered combat armor made of lamintaed stacks of hundred dollar bills, armed with a cannon capable of firing six-hundred rounds per minute of flaming illegal immigrants.
And Trumps opponents–oh, who am I kidding. Trump’s primary opponents would be cut down within seconds, exploded by heat seeking killer toupes, dismembered by buzzsaws of bigotry and bloated chutzpah, crushed under the iron boots of capitalist fury.
The final showdown will be something to see. A brutal bloodbath, a fight to the death, the ground slick with insane rhetoric, a battle royal fought among drifts of corporate cash handouts, and impossible promises, candidates slinging grenades instead of slinging mud, the eventual winner swearing in not on a bible, but on their opponent’s bloody skull.
I’ve got my popcorn ready. By God, I love an election year.
Stay weird, friends.
Mud Lake, NV