by FRANCIS GRECOROMACOLLUDEN, Alternate Reality News Service National Politics Writer
At 3:07 in the morning, President Ronald McDruhitmumpf tweeted, “tererrists [sic] kiled [sic] France [sic] Ferdnand [sic]. Sic [sic]. and bad. #mustbeefupmilitary” Political scientists, historians and sock puppet fetishists are confused: assuming that he was actually tweeting about Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand, why was the President referring to events that are soon to be the subject of centennial celebratory stamps, coins and handguns?
When asked about the tweet (with all due respect – the reporter from the Wabash Punctilious and Messenger Pigeon claimed his snickering was caused by a medical condition), President McDruhitmumpf shrugged and answered, “What do I know? I read it in The Multiverse Gazette.” Then, he pointed at a reporter for the William Lyon Mackenzie Collegiate Institute Aardvark, who asked a question about the President’s favourite subject: how he would make Vesampucceri great again.
The Multiverse Gazette, one of the many lesser news organizations feeding off the bottom of the multiverse for stories (and I write that with all due respect for a rival news outlet, even if they are the scuz of the scuz) had run a story about the assassination of Grandz Gerdinand on Earth Prime 3-7-4-2-6-8 dash omicron hours before the President’s tweet. According to the article (I can’t believe I’m citing The Multiverse Gazette, so, uhh, let’s pretend I did some original reporting of my own on this subject), observers believed that the killing would set off a series of international nougies that would make the Three Stooges look like Mother Teresa.
Well, that’s alright, then, the Peanuts gallery concluded. President McDruhitmumpf didn’t tweet about a century-old historical event as if it had just happened. The President tweeted about an event in another universe as if it had happened in the universe in which, however tenuously, he lived. That’s much better.
“How?” snorted token smart person Amy Sheshutshotshitbam. “How is that in any way better, much less much?”
Because…because the President tweeted about something that happened on that actual day, not 100 years earlier.
“Yeah, okay, it was contemporaneous,” token smart person Amy Sheshutshotshitbam dudgeoned highly. “But in a – oh, look the word up! Make an OED editor’s day! – in a universe three doors down…and a continent away! How does it make sense to base government policy on something that happened in a different universe?”
Well, uhh, obviously…duh! …It…it makes perfect sense because…because…because…oh, shazbot!”
“If I may…?” Press Secretary Sean Spirochetericer cut in. His attempt at suavidity was undercut by the fact that he took a thick wad of chewing gum out of his mouth and plastered it on the forehead of the New York Times reporter sitting in the front row. “The President? He has a…an active gut. It is perhaps the most forcefully active part of him, in fact, so, naturally, he follows it wherever it takes him, no matter how seedy…or gentrified. The President’s gut does not discriminate. It has a sixth sense all its own. And, a seventh sense. And, it’s going to night school to develop an eighth sense. His gut is very dedicated to sensation. It is, I think you will agree, a very impressive internal organ. And, what would one do with such a grand gut? The President’s gut trolls the tides of history, looking for clues, discerning patterns, making connections between disparate phenomenon. But, what can a world leader do when his universe doesn’t contain enough history to satisfy the insatiable, voracious information needs of his gut? Obviously, he looks for it in other universes. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Spirochetericer threw his arms in the air like a gymnast who has just landed solidly on his feet and expects high scores from the judges. Or, a burglar who has just been caught by the police, but knows he has friends in high places who will get him off. Arm gestures are all about context.
“Umm, yeah, like, I’m no expert on internal medicine,” token smart person Amy Sheshutshotshitbam allowed, “but how does that make any sense? There is nobody in our idiotocratic world named Franz Ferdinand, Grandz Gerdinand or Emilio Moppet!” Emilio Moppet? “I’m not very good at the whole Rule of Three thing,” token smart person Amy Sheshutshotshitbam admitted.
Spirochetericer tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger, the multiversal sign of somebody in the midst of pulling a fast one. “The gut knows,” he solemnly intoned. “It may have an impish sense of humour and be overfond of obscure metaphors, but it knows.”
Suddenly looking very pale and trembling – not in a 19th century romantic novel kind of way, more in a first symptom of an unpleasant lingering illness kind of way – token smart person Amy Sheshutshotshitbam moaned, “Does anybody have any Rolums? I…I think I’m coming down with something…”