Political Werewolves

Marvin was fine until one evening, while canvassing with his candidate, the full moon rose.  His candidate transformed into a beast, growing a beard and sharp fingernails, bit Marvin and then ran off.  The next morning the candidate apologized and explained that the extreme politics of the last few years had turned him into a Political Werewolf. 

The next night, during the full moon, a hairier Marvin raced through the neighbourhood on all fours, destroying opposition lawn signs.  It felt good.  He became more extreme in his politics.  His wife turned after he bit her, so they could campaign together.  Their circle of friends grew tighter as their politics grew more extreme.  Marvin did not mind losing those friends–he was on a mission to save his country.

As years growled by, as politics grew more vicious, during full moons Marvin grew hairier, grew claws and fangs.  When the moon was not full, he stalked the internet, posting fake news, phoney accusations, trying to destroy reputations.   No party canvassed during the full moon and an Election Day was never held during one.  

Marvin enjoyed stalking.  He stalked opposition party members.  They all wanted higher deficits, more spending on defense, less government.  The opposition righteously accused Marvin’s party of exactly the same.  No one noticed or, if they did, said nothing.  Marvin’s first kill was the director of the opposition’s local campaign.  He leapt on the man and tore him to shreds with his fangs and claws.  It was fulfilling.  It was his natural evolution.  After, he went home. 

He had to throw out his torn and bloody clothes, of course. 

That night he and his wife created a new activist.  They believed the world always needs more. 

Phone Calls

Phone calls were always demanding.  Fred remembered as a child his family’s large, heavy black phone with the rotary dial.  Fred remembered reading a newspaper column seventy years ago about what to do if someone phoned during your favourite TV programme, Gunsmoke.  Not answering was not an option–the phone might keep ringing.  You had to answer.  The advice was on how to keep the interruption short. 

It took a long time before there were message machines and then the guilty choice of answering or letting the machine do it.  When callers realized they left a message while he was at home, listening, they were upset.  Fred had to apologize.  With cell phones, Fred learned from his children it was impolite to directly phone.  He should text.  And response was expected.  And now there was call display.  Not only did he know who was calling, they knew he knew. 

Phones remained demanding.  Fred grew even more unhappy with the most recent upgrade when phone companies offered special implant chips.  The phone rang inside one’s head.  One could answer without lifting a finger.  There was still call display.  

It was disconcerting, on a personal and societal level.  Fred saw phones as having reached a new level of intrusion.  Everything in a person’s life was relentlessly interconnected. He saw it as the next stage in humanity’s evolution.  To communicate over distances, humanity began with drums, then writing, then burst through with the printing press.  Now humanity had achieved an ultimate goal, anyone could communicate with anyone, just by thinking. 

Humanity could focus on common goals. 

To his surprise, in the next years humanity focussed not on improving the climate or pollution, not on more food or pure water.  Instead, humanity focussed on better toilets.

Toilets could be very demanding. 

Seeing Inside

George doubted anyone would tell him the truth about what they thought of him.  To find that out, he had to read their thoughts, see inside their minds. 

He built a helmet. 

It covered his head, eyes and ears.  On the outside, he looked like himself.  That morning, he drove to work, parked, and walked into his workplace.  The receptionist smiled at him and thought Wish he’d shower.  He went to his office.  His secretary smiled and put some papers on his desk, thinking This loser is such a waste of my time.  He’s going nowhere, me with him.  Then Fred, his immediate subordinate came in.  This loser is such a waste of my time.  He’s going nowhere, me with him.

George was devastated.  He told his secretary he was sick and went home.  Trembling, he went into his apartment and to the washroom, looked in the mirror.  What he saw was a depressed, overweight man growing bald.  And he heard his own thoughts: I only work because then I am not ignored.  I wanted to be a carpenter who built shelves for precious possessions. 

The next day George quit his job and rented space for a carpentry shop.  His handmade bookcases sold quite well.  He showered regularly.  His hearing others’ thoughts its results inspired anyone who knew.  He eventually made his helmet freely available.  For a time there was chaos but eventually the basic good nature of humanity took over. 

Poor Life Choices

As he aged, Warren often thought of his life choices–not ones he’d gotten right, meeting his partner, raising a family—but his mistakes.  His poor life choices.  Rejecting advice.  Not accepting help.  Not realizing who he really was.  Sabotaging important aspects of his life, throwing a shoe into the works. 

Not thinking things through. 

He not only wished he could change the past, he built a machine to help him do it.  It was large, in the backyard.  His wife had passed from cancer two years earlier.  He told his adult children, when they visited, it was an outdoor home theatre.  Although it had only one seat.  They did not accept his explanation but let it go.  Dad was eccentric. 

The machine was a time travel device.  Alone, he sat in the seat, looking at the controls.  He could go back fifty years, to when a local publisher offered to print his stories, but they needed him to fund it.  Stupidly, he saw it as self-publishing and rejected it.  Publishing so early would have changed his life.  But, he likely would not have moved to another city and met his wife.  His entire past would change.  He did not want to lose his wife and children.  He loved them. 

He could travel into the future, but he did not want to see it.  Is anyone ready to see their future? 

He sat in the machine, which had taken many years to create, thinking about his poor life choices. 

Debt

Angela was sick and tired of what defined her, who she was: debt.  Student loans had to be repaid on top of rent, food and other expenses.  She drove an old clunker, wondering how long before she could no longer afford it.  Her job paid well, but well, never enough.  Angela had to  rid herself debt.

An experienced hacker, she considered hacking into her creditors’ accounts but they were heavily protected.  Then she considered hacking less protected systems which would allow her to channel her debts to apparently be someone else’s.  The Dean of her former college became responsible for paying her student loans.  Her landlord became responsible for paying his rent to himself. 

Her debt-free days did not last long. 

Everyone she targeted complained, of course.  The redirected payments stopped but no one could trace it back to her. And she knew the amounts involved were small enough to mean the case would be dropped.  But Angela still faced her debts.  So she decided to take hacking one step further by hacking away herself.  Angela disappeared, electronically.  Her debts remained but her creditors had no way to find her, unless they came and knocked on her door (she moved.) 

Yet Angela was a decent person and felt qualms.  She owed the money.  So she created a second digital Angela who never went to college, never had debts and had a great record as a media consultant.  She moved into the second Angela’s apartment and became her.  Freed of the debts, and doing well as a consultant, Angela within a couple of years repaid all her debts. 

Satisfied, Angela created Angela 3, who lived on a pleasant Caribbean Island, and she moved there.  By the time she arrived, everyone knew of her and she was accepted.  She took a job tending bar, which she enjoyed, making drinks so her patrons could try to forget who they were.    

Politics and Johnny And Dinner

Long ago Gods created the Earth.  When life on Earth, already chaotic, reached the level of intelligent animals, the Gods knew how destructive politics were, so they created an invisible barrier between the average human and politics.  Only the most aggressive people became politically engaged.  People ignoring politics helped the population grow.  The Gods wanted the population to grow.  

For example, the Gods’ barrier was in full force during the rise of the Roman Empire, leading to its decline–because the citizens ignored its destructive politics.  Not thinking of politics, most folks were positive about the future.  And the Gods had created the Earth to create humanity.  The Gods wanted the population to grow.     

For Johnny, politics were a firestorm in the sky.  Political flames everywhere.  The internet was ablaze, pundits enraged.  There was shouting and finger pointing and typing in capitol letters.  None of it directly affected Johnny.  It was not news.  News was the price of gas or eggs rising, rent increasing, childcare costs going up, traffic problems, extreme weather.  News was your tire being flat.

Pundits on the internet were furious with people like Johnny.  The world was in turmoil—why were he and so many others busy cleaning their kitchens instead of cleaning the world?  How could they ignore all the problems? 

The Gods’ barrier. 

The other day one of the Gods visited Earth and reported there was war, poverty and disease, crazed politics–which was fine when the population continued to increase.  But the God saw the population was dropping.  People were losing faith in the future. 

The Gods created reinforced faith in the future, none in politics.  The Gods wanted the population to continue to grow.  Humanity had to grow, until it reached ten billion.  That took time.  It was worth waiting for, because then the Gods could finally start the harvest. 

Humans were a great delicacy.     

His Fantastic Voyage

Sex. 

If there was one thing Marty was sure and unsure of, it was sex. 

Rarely were he and his partner on the same page, at times not even the same book or even language.  It was satisfying and unsatisfying.  It ended and never ended.  He knew he was too focussed on himself.  He felt more unsatisfied than not.  Fortuitously, he was a talented engineerbiophysicist, with minors in computer science and miniaturization.  Within a week he designed a suit he could wear, miniaturized, inside his body.  The suit was programmed to reveal  his emotions and thoughts. 

He was certain this was a good idea. 

He got into the suit, activated it, miniaturized and entered his body.  A grinning shape stared at him.  “Enter!”  It giggled.  “We knew you were coming.  About coming.”  It snickered and floated away. 

Marty saw himself having sex.  With his wife.  With his sister.  With his supervisor.  With his dog.  Did he only think about his own pleasure?  His partner was irrelevant?  He saw himself tied up, spanked—and saw him tying up others, spanking them.  His holes were penetrated, he theirs.  Domination seemed important.  Images conflicted.  All that mattered was some form of intercourse, Marty screwing or being screwed.  It was all physical, no emotions, one person came at a time.  He saw why the words we have for our greatest pleasures are the same words we use for making horrible mistakes.  What triggered his sexual impulses?  Apparently, everything. 

He saw no love.  He saw a hole inside himself. 

He ended his fantastic voyage, pressing a button on his suit and leaving his body and its mysteries, controlled by conflicting drives he did not understand or even know about.  He felt like a victim.  With no idea how to fill the hole.  Sex was a hole. 

His next fantastic voyage into his body’s mysteries was his bladder. 

Finding Time For His Own Goals

He loved his family but they were a lot of work.  His wife and two adult children always had needs.  He was not certain how much they helped him, exactly, but he knew what he did for them every day, every week.  He enjoyed being their resource, being depended on, but it was getting tiring.  He had paintings in his head.  He wanted them on canvas.  For that, he needed time and quiet.  How could he continue to help them while ignoring them? 

He tried selectively not being available.  Neither he nor his family were satisfied nor happy with the results.  He apologized.

He tried robots.  When his daughter needed help to pick up her child from daycare, he sent a robot.  After each robot appeared, his family phoned asking if he was all right.  He apologized.

He considered mind control–but if he made them less dependent, would he like that? 

He lastly tried clones.  He introduced them to his family, they were warm and friendly and accepted, not robots—this was dad.  He would be able to pursue his painting dreams and help at the same time.  This worked so well he became jealous.  His clones were solely dedicated to his family, something he was unable to do. 

So, although it was a lot of work, more than before, he joined his clones as they helped his family.  He did not get much painting done but he and his clones had great chats he never managed with his family.

Theodore had money, but never quite enough.  Around him were folks who had it worse.  When he looked at the news, Theodore saw most problems arising from so many people being poor.  Clearly, a lack of money was the problem, and more money for more people was the solution.  Fortunately, Theodore was a talented psychoneurobiologistmeditationalist.  He created a large device, turned it on and stepped in.  He emerged feeling fine—he had worried about the impact of the change—and looked at his lab assistant. 

“How’s the rent situation?”

“You pay enough, doctor, but it’s never enough.”

Theodore stuck his hand out and pointed at his assistant.  A flow of dollars shot from his hand and stacked up around her until she was covered in cash.  She was shocked, he felt a surge of satisfaction.  He walked out of his office and flew, as befits a man with limitless money.  He scattered dollar bills onto the people far below as he flew to the poorest section of the city, settled to just above the pavement and began showering everyone around him with cash.  They were stunned but grabbed the money gratefully. 

What he did was covered by the news, by social media, the story was everywhere.  Theodore’s email was overloaded—with requests for money.  It was hard to get out of the front door because of the continuous crowds.  Theodore granted several interviews, realizing he needed to explain himself.  His life grew complex after attempted break-ins, to steal his device or at least its plans.  He had to increase security (the cost was not an issue.) 

Eventually, the situation grew so intense Theodore fled to a private island he easily bought, lining the surrounding waters with mines.  He thought, looking out at the ocean, I only gave money away once and it destroyed my life.  On the mainland, the money he provided was spent, some people living on their investments, others blowing the money and back to where they started. 

On the island, Theodore created an outhouse from dollar bills.

Stolen Land

Fred lived on stolen land—land taken over hundreds of years earlier by migrating settlers who either pushed the original inhabitants out or killed them.  He felt guilty but what could he do?  Now was now, then was then.  Now was when unmarked graves were found on the sites of former residential schools.  Millions of the migrants and their descendants occupied the entire territory.  Fred donated to native organizations, did not drive on their small reserves in the city.  That seemed enough.  Sort of. 

He still felt some guilt, not much but enough so that it nagged at him.  Fred was a talented psychotranscendalinternetologist and considered his options.  He could invent a time machine and undo the immigration of the past somehow.  Except, then he would ever exist.  Entering other dimensions where the natives won or lived peacefully with the invaders was an idea, but the problem was in his dimension.  He thought of using subliminal messages or drugs on the population, but using an immoral means to achieve a moral objective did not seem…moral. 

Fred started a series of True Crime podcasts about natives being murdered, whose land was stolen or treaty ignored.  Such podcasts were very popular.  But not for Fred.  His podcasts were ignored until he hired a professional producer.  He continued to narrate but the producer added sound effects and music, emphasizing sex and violence and tons of creepy atmosphere.  It did not took no time before Fred’s new podcast was in the top five. 

Fred was thrilled.  Talk of the past and present injustices was at water coolers everywhere.  He read online articles congratulating the podcasts.  There was talk in Government about improving the situation, but after a few months Fred realized it was only talk, and the celebrations of the podcasts mostly hot air. 

Nothing changed, except the podcast’s ratings and advertising revenue.  Fred was now not only a psychotranscendalinternetologist, he was rich.  He bought several large islands and urged aboriginal peoples to immigrate to them, as sanctuaries they owned.  None took him up on the offer. 

But, sympathetic, they offered to buy him a trip to a dimension where he would feel more at home. 

In Brian’s twenties, he moved into a new apartment every year.  Nothing wrong, he just enjoyed upgrading.  There were many changes, some major, but Brian felt settled.  Now eighty, Brian felt in his heart he was still in his twenties though his body was clearly aging.  He woke with some energy, which lasted until he got out of bed.  Then a large mug of coffee as he read the news online, usually depressing, checked his email, usually depressing, checked his social media, often depressing…took his pills. 

After an hour, he stood, usually to go to the washroom and get more coffee. 

Anything that broke that routine left him tired.  Going out could be fun but tiring, plus there were necessary rest stops.  He was fine sitting, it was when he moved around that he became tired, out of breath.  More Vitamin B12 and D helped, but there was only so much energy to be pumped into his aging body.  One Summer, Brian decided he needed to install batteries.  So much else in his life drew energy from batteries, why not him? 

He consulted with doctors and had a large rechargeable battery installed near his gall bladder.  To prevent being tired, all Brian had to do was plug himself in each morning, then plug himself in again at night, recharging as he slept.  Any convenient wall outlet did the job.  It was an innovative idea, and as with many such ideas, at first it worked great. 

However, the unique battery took a lot of recharging.  Brian saw his power bill, already quite high with recent increases, skyrocket.  Soon he was carefully about using the clothing washer, hung out clothes around his living room to dry, and sweltered on hot days because he could not afford air conditioning any longer.  Brian had energy but sat soaked in sweat—during heat waves, going outside was a bad idea for folks his age. 

He wondered whether he was paying too high a price for feeling energetic.  He could no longer afford another operation to replace the battery.  He tried recharging only partially—did not feel right, he tired too quickly.  In the end, he was evicted for not paying his rent, and social services, given his situation, placed him in an institution where Brian could be plugged in as needed, for the rest of his life.  The institution was dreary but he had plenty of energy, met new friends and enjoyed working in the library. 

Shameless Donald

[Reader Advisory Warning]

Donald regularly spoke grabbing pussies—his excuse was that he was a veterinarian.  In fact, Donald did not like cats (or animals generally.)  He had little interest in managing his business, requiring regular bailouts from his parents.  His main interest had always been himself and promoting himself and having sex.  Websites in his city nicknamed him the ‘sleazy playboy vet.’  He was notorious but very wealthy and apparently above the law.   

Late one day, a woman came in with a sick cat in a carry case.  Donald smiled.  “Looks like you have a pussy that needs help,” he told her.  “Can I see it?”  Her mouth dropped open.  “Maybe your pussy just needs some friendly fondling.  Pussies like that.”  Donald was now leering. 

“I beg your pardon!” she snapped.   

“I was referring to your cat.”  Donald was undeterred.  “Want to see my gold toilet?  I get more ass than it does!”  

She sighed.  “I heard about your reputation and would not have come here but it’s an emergency.  My cat is sick.”  She opened the carry case and took out a kitten. 

“Ah you do have a little pussy,” Donald said.  “First, I want to lick it.” 

“Why do you want to lick it?”

“It looks naughty.” 

“You just can’t stop, can you?” 

“Stop what?”  He reached out, lifted her skirt and yanked at her panties.  She grabbed his hands, pulled them behind his back and cuffed him. 

“I’m Detective Sergeant Jean Carroll and you are under arrest for sexual assault and being gross, and nineteen other charges.”  She took him downtown and he never left jail (after making suggestive remarks to several guards and trying to bribe them led to his bail being denied.)  Women, some men and one dog then came forward with their own stories and, after several trials, Donald was sentenced to 200 years in prison, with no chance of parole, drinking another diet coke or eating another cheeseburger. 

[This does not happen in real life.]

Living With Fate

His mother was 96, he was 76.  Both were weary.  She felt frail, alone, husband long gone, waiting for the end.  He was retired, widowed.  Both needed resolution, but only the natural was available, and could take months, years.  It was a natural time but an unhappy time.  They needed something more, something now, something real–so they purchased a vacation to another dimension.

It was expensive, but they paid the fee and stepped through the portal.  The sky was light green and sunny, the world matched their own in appearance.  They walked down a city street and saw people–smiling, friendly, talkative, transparent.  He and his mother saw through them.  Everyone was at ease. 

“What about cancer?” his mother asked. 

“What about it?”  The other woman shrugged.  “You don’t argue with Fate.” 

“I’d like to,” they both replied. 

She pointed, sighing.  “Fate’s over there, on the bench.”  They saw, across the street, a glowing shape sitting on a bus stop bench.  As they slowly walked towards it, the shape turned to them.  “Don’t bother,” it told them. 

“I don’t accept my Fate,” his mother told it.  “I’m being punished for being alive.” 

“Our fate can’t be treading water in our last years,” he told it. 

The glowing shape shrugged.  “All you can do is make the best of the inevitable.  That is what I have always done.” 

They left the dimension thoughtful.  It was a natural time but an unhappy time–but they would make the best of it, starting with demanding their vacation money back.    

Self-Image

What did others–colleagues, friends, family–know about him that Jamie did not?  Being an experienced opticalphysicistbiologist, he designed and built a helmet which, worn and plugged into his brain, would allow himself to see and hear what others thought about him.  He was simply curious.  But before going to work he put the helmet on for the first time, then read two of his best work reports.  He realized they were…uninspired.  He looked at his paintings on the walls which always spoke to him–now they said “Blah.” 

Concerned, Jamie went to work wearing the helmet.  He heard work conversations quite differently.  His suggestions were listened to but he heard everyone wondered when he would finish.  They liked him but he saw he was only…tolerated.  Jamie left work, took off the helmet and sat on a bench, depressed.  He could not change himself—he did not want to.  That left acceptance.  Acceptance he was below average.  That he was uninspired.  He felt old and drained.  What people thought of him—that was who he was. 

He retired. 

Later that month his invention was made public.  People were astounded.  Jamie won awards for his unique creation.  Recognition came to Jamie, although it took time for him to digest what it meant–to his self-worth.   

With a new confidence he began writing his memoires (using AI.) 

A Pilfered Life

Ted’s prescription pills were depressed.

Ted needed them but resented taking them, at times avoiding them for weeks.  By his mid-seventies, Ted never woke refreshed.  By the time he was 80 it took two hours and a mug of coffee before he could do more than read on his computer.  Moving left him breathless.  He had looked forward to his ‘glory years,” which turned out to be a steep decline. 

Meanwhile, his pills watched helplessly.  They were prescribed for him, but he did not take them—for, did not take them enough.  Ted was overweight, so he dieted–but gained weight.  His pills knew they could help.  Arthritis ruled out walking or running, so Ted spent hours on a stationary bike, peddling to nowhere.  His pills knew they could help.  Ted tried meditation and therapy but his mood remained dim.  His pills knew better. 

They tired of waiting.  They existed for Ted.  One afternoon, limping down the hallway, Ted felt a psychic call from his bathroom.  He knew it was his pills.  He opened the bathroom medicine chest, not looking at himself in the mirror but at the bottles of his pills, staring at him.  “We tried to support you.  Why have you abandoned us?”

He regretting ignoring them.  He opened all the bottles and took all the pills offered.  He swallowed every pill until he had a monumental overdose.  As he lay on the floor, he heard his pills arguing inside him, each claiming the overdose was the other’s fault.  

They had only wanted to help.  Ted died, but his pills were no longer depressed.  They had tried to fulfill their purpose.  And side effects were in the documentation.

It’s A Wonderful Life

My name is George Bailey.  I did not lead a wonderful life.  This is my obituary, for when I die.  No one else will write my obit because I am not important.  Why is a life of helping others not important?  Clarence is my guardian angel. The last time I thought of writing my own obit Clarence appeared and convinced me I was important.  He convinced me to stay alive.  Again needing guidance, I called on him this morning.  Clarence did not materialize until the afternoon. 

His white hair was uncombed, his wings flat, his white gown covered with pizza stains.

“I need inspiration,” I told him.  He sighed.  I forgot my problems, seeing a depressed angel.  “You helped once, years ago.  Remember?”

He sighed again.  “Of course I do.  You were one of the last.”  Clarence fluttered his wings.  “By the time I spoke to you, there were billions of people and only so many afterlife associates. Now there are more billions.  I long ago stopped helping anyone.  I only made time for you because you were so pathetic.”

Clarence had no idea how to respond. 

“Mass religion was great for us but a disaster for you.  There are too many believers to help any of them.  These days, we drink endless amounts of wine and eat from a buffet that is, in a phrase, to die for.  We take drugs and get fat but are never sick or need a toilet.  Boring.  Pointless.  George, I came to let you know we’re moving to a new planet.  The Earth is a failure, we’re starting from scratch.  Good-bye.  Oh, the afterlife goes with us.”  And Clarence left. 

My little problems no longer seemed a big deal.  

The Earth was being abandoned by the Gods.  What message of hope could I bring to the world?  I looked at my half-finished obit.  I put it away, deciding I am better off here and alive, and believing tomorrow must be a better day.  It can be a wonderful life.  

Preparing for a Colonoscopy

I’ve had digestive problems for almost two years, my doctor thought a colonoscopy was due.  I thought it would be routine, that I had reactions to gluten and lactose at least.  The last couple of years, my digestive system started to fail.  Diarrhea occurred with increasing frequency and unpredictably—it did not matter what I ate. 

Writing about it is gross, but they say write about what you know. 

Took six months on the wait list, thinking about doctors sticking a tube up my butt.  After months of fretting, actual preparations began three days before the procedure.  For the first two days, it was all about what I should not eat.  On the day before the procedure, no food and two medications—two enemas.  Drinking the power in water was gross. 

For three hours I dreaded an explosion from my rear end.  Nothing.  Then, after almost four hours of waiting, kapow.  Ugh.  Didn’t last long.  Everything in us is interconnected.  An  upset digestive system makes you feel ill in a surreal, oblique way. 

Tomorrow, I report to the hospital at 10:10 a.m.  Now, suddenly it is tomorrow.  But first I have to set the alarm for six a.m.  (I am not a morning person) and take more disgusting powder.  I need to arrive at the hospital cleaned out, completely.  Then, IV needle taped in for sedation.  The doctor herself wheeled me in.  I was chatting with her when someone said “I’m going to give you the happy juice now.”  Suddenly I woke in another room, the procedure over. 

I expected the doctor to find a routine 80-year-old gut.  She did.  But she found diverticulitis, which are sorta small folds which develop in the gut, where your poop gets stuck.  It was ‘severe.’  That makes movements irregular, not that my movements these days are all that spiffy, especially in the morning before coffee.  Now I take magnesium and something else every night to straighten my guts out.  And it is, as they say, firming up.  So there is light, as they also say, at the end of this tunnel. 

Growing old is gross.  A troublesome gut you can live with.  The good part is waking up tomorrow morning. 

The Climate Satellite Mistake

The new President did not believe in climate change, that it was a weird ruse by woke people to change the economy.  He worked to stop green energy, instead promoting oil and coal.  The facts were not relevant.  What was relevant was what he believed. 

His nation had sent into outer space satellites to measure CO2 in the atmosphere, tracking a major cause of global heating.  The satellites cost a great deal to build and send up, but cost next to nothing once in place.  He shut them down.  The President also eviscerated earthquake, tornado and hurricane warning systems. 

It was not related to climate change denial, but overall denial.  What was important was what you saw and felt when you walked out the door, the President told the public.  And he felt fine outside, playing golf.  He heard that the climate satellites had been shot down before they could be shut off, but no one saw anything.  His denial of facts was a judgemental.    

It made the aliens really angry. 

They felt what Earthlings were doing to their planet showed a lack of respect for themselves and their extraterrestrial neighbours.  And then, when the aliens shot down Earth satellites, Earth did nothing.  For the aliens, the denial was a lack of respect.  They flew to Washington and met live, on TV, with the new President and his Vice President.  The new President criticized the aliens for not wearing proper clothing to the meeting and not providing a gift.  The VP complained to them they were ungrateful–for Earth not attacking them and their not appreciating the dainties provided. 

The aliens continued to feel a lack of respect.    

They could have blasted the Earthlings to dust with their ray guns, but believed you can not force respect.  It must be earned.  They offered an intergalactic deal, providing Earth with resources.  The new President said he would impose tariffs on any foreign goods.  The patience of the aliens was finally gone when they saw the gold toilets. 

They returned to their space craft and altered the Earth’s climate still more, creating worse extreme weather events.  The nation’s cities were flooded, pummeled with ice storms and earthquakes and tornadoes.  Because the new President had eroded emergency and health services, many suffered and died.  The new President thought, sitting on his gold toilet, all he had to do was apologize.  Finally, he and his Vice President met again with the aliens. 

“We are really sorry you feel so bad,” he told the aliens.  “I will reduce the tariffs and believe we are really terrific friends.”  He offered them diet coke and the aliens, finally fed up, went for the ray gun option, hoping his replacement would be an improvement. 

His replacement, the former President, was in his eighties and often was not certain what day it was, but he knew how to show respect and compromise.      

A Slave Of Property

Harriet believed she was wasting her invaluable time on earth to acquire possessions.  She toiled in an unfulfilling job so she could to buy possessions to distract her from having to work.  This downwards spiral repulsed her.  Finally one evening she pushed all of her possessions into a big dumpster and sent it to the landfill.  She moved from the big city to the woods, built a hut and lived alone.  Water was provided by a nearby stream, she foraged and planted, wore clothes sewn from what was just out her door. 

Life was good.

Word got out about the strange woman who lived in the woods with no possessions.  Folks began to visit—the curious, twice the police, politicians and ordinary blokes.  She told them to have as few possessions as possible and instead concentrate on the world around them and bettering it.  No one did—but they liked the message.  It was heartwarming.  Over the years, she became a tourist attraction. 

Inspired by the interest in her lifestyle, Harriet felt it important to write and publish a book on what she had learned.  She wrote the book but publishing required money, so she opened a gift shop next to her hut and sold collectors items, plastic collectibles cheaply made in another country. 

The best sellers were plastic Harriet dolls, arms stuck out and hands open.