I’ve cleaned the house, I’ve done the laundry, I’ve cooked our dinner, I’ve taken out the garbage, and I’ve smoked my meth. My body is ready. This is Election Day—approximately two p.m. on the East Coast. My idiot cousin Bennington claimed last week that he’d been assigned the last Quibbits piece for Splice Today before the election because my wife and I “wanted to take ecstasy and fuck in an industrial complex far away from nature and any other living lifeforms that they haven’t already invited, arranged, or bought.”
He went on: “My cousin and his disgusting wife are up to some wild Eyes Wide Shut shit right now. I don’t know if they’re having sex but they’re definitely putting on masks, and not the kind you see every day now. They’re also wearing robes—black robes. They said Amy Coney Island might be there. I was puzzled—isn’t she busy? She was just confirmed as a Supreme Court Justice.”
These are lies, and they come from the beak of a pervert. Bennington Quibbits is not my cousin—at least not biologically. The family took him in as a young chick because his parents had been massacred for a “chicken bake” a couple of hundred years ago. Why should I need proof for my claims? I’m Rooster Quibbits, I’m literally a talking bird. I can write fluent English. This bird can do whatever he damn well pleases, and if you don’t excuse me I will still be getting on with my very own bad self.
So Monica and I did some drugs over the weekend. So what? Everyone needs to blow off some steam every now and then. We’re very stressed out over the election, you know. If Trump wins, well, we’ll probably get another stimulus check. If Biden wins, well, we’ll probably get another stimulus check. I’m not worried for myself—I’m worried for someone who isn’t me, who is the person I am voting for and the person you should all be voting for. Don’t vote for yourself, vote for the person who’s at the bottom of the capitalist totem pole. Listen to the Democrats and change your life, become a servant to the great proletariat, and accept your new position in the social caste as a pay pig—and no, you can’t cum anymore.
Monica and I made a bet that we’d see Andrew Gillum at one of our “spun parties” this past weekend, but no dice. It was all random freaks as usual, just a mass of trunks and feathers and limbs and claws and cloacas just getting stuffed and wildly wet. I will not go into further details except to say that We Had Fun. I’m excited to listen to Oliver Bateman’s podcast What’s Left?, because that’s the exact question I’ve been asking my dopamine and serotonin receptors all morning. I think I’ll be able to hold on and keep from committing suicide until at least Wednesday morning.
What is the scene here in rural Massachusetts? Well, calm. I took eight Valium just now so that’s probably effecting my view, but I honestly think this election is beautiful. I wish I could sleep with it, I wish I could fuck it. I preen and pose on here like an intelligent bird (which I am), but I have animal impulses. Desires. I don’t talk about them here because we get enough bad press. But at what point does voluntary self-censorship become the real gateway to fascism? Look, if there’s a fascist coup in this country, I want to be on the side of the fascists. Anyone that disagrees, tell me to my face. I won’t believe you.
Monica’s drinking champagne. “But it’s only 2:15…” She just threw the bottle at me. Now she’s walking out of the barn… now she’s getting in the turtle convertible… oh no… oh, shit… wait… maybe I should follow her… maybe I should go after her… hmm… No. Too lazy. She’ll be fine. Women be shopping, anyway. She’s probably just going out to get a new hat. If she’s buying more heroin and doesn’t tell me I’m gonna be pissed. Honestly I might be so pissed I might Verb my wife.
And what verb might that be? Love—that’s what I’ll do to my wife. Love her. I love my wife.
My friends are doing well. I’m doing well. Why should I care who wins the American presidential election? I live here, but I’m not proud of it. I mean, what can I do? I’m not getting a cabinet position—anymore. Maybe next time… in another life, when I didn’t know John Boehner.
My wife just texted me. “The lines are nuts here,” she says, “and they’re all Trump voters.”
To be continued…and to never end…
—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits