Post-Election Message to the 53 Percent
[More than half of the white women who voted in the presidential election cast their ballot for Donald J. Trump, according to exit poll data collected by The New York Times.]
I’m a woman, and I supported Donald J. Trump. Well, if you want to split hairs and get all technical about it, I’m not an actual woman, per se, but a cryogenic cyborg brought here from the future to destroy all of humanity as we know it.
I’m sure you must be thinking that I’ve either gone Defcon One or that I’ve logged in too many hours watching the Sci Fi Channel. Well, I assure you everything’s going to be just fine. I’m not going to start bending shit with my mind like Eleven from Stranger Things or anything wacky like that, silly. I’ll start from the beginning. Here, hold my laser Glock while I adjust your ankle chains. Ha! Just kidding. Nice and easy.
I come from a dystopian future Earth where virtually no women exist. That’s right, you heard me. Sometime early in the 21rst Century, following a critical election between a pantsuits activist and an orangutan, all the women of Earth were rescued by a sympathetic alien race and whisked away in fleets of giant space ships to the planet Clintonia, which is a cross between the island paradise Themyscirada where Wonder Woman was born, and a women’s locker room at Club Med.
For the Earth refugees, living among the Aliens on planet Clintonia was a veritable paradise filled with brunch dates followed by yoga and spinning classes, vision board therapy, mani/pedis, evenings watching reruns of Oprah and Downton Abbey, and box wine—red, white AND rose’! But something was just not right. I mean, sure, there were zero restrictions on carbs, and no one had ever heard of gluten intolerance or cellulite, why for Pete’s sake, I once witnessed my master, Carol, suck down an entire five-layer lemon-chocolate cake with butter frosting in under a minute! And not once did she shame herself! Now that’s a miracle if you ask me!
You might think the obvious reason for the malcontent amid such splendor was because there were no men around to blame shit on, or lift heavy objects, but you’d be wrong. Who needs men when there’s cyborgs –thank you very much—but the unease continued. The Earth refugees called for a symposium in which the indeterminable sense of that thing no one could put their finger on was much discussed, and the problem was finally determined to be that there was no LaCroix to be had. Mama’s got to have her LaCroix! So much for revolution.
So here we are, back from the future to destroy humanity for its LaCroix. Tilting the election in Trump’s favor was just the beginning, just the first step. Now, come with me if you want to live. Just kidding! Take me to your LaCroix CEO.
Tiffany Midge is an assistant poetry editor at The Rumpus, and an award winning author of The Woman Who Married a Bear. Her work is featured in McSweeney's, The Rumpus, Okey-Pankey, The Butter, Waxwing, and Moss. She is Hunkpapa Lakota. Follow her on Twitter @TiffanyMidge
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