I saw Wolf Blitzer earlier this morning. He’s carrying around a microphone and conducting interviews with people who aren’t
there. I worry about him.



November 14: I squeeze what’s left in my ketchup bottle into my mouth. The rotting corpses of my roommates next to me have begun to stink. I wish I would have
eaten them a few days ago. Matt might have been pretty tasty with some ketch—



Sigh...nevermind.

"By some ironic coincidence, everyone who didn’t vote in this year’s election was killed first, proving P. Diddy correct."

November 16: Word crackles over the radio that they’re coming. I check the clip. Got some ammo left. I glance at my neighbor. She is white with fear. I grab her
breast to calm her.



CRASH! Here one comes swinging the receiver and babbling into a headset in a language that’s close to English, but yet so so far. I put six rounds in his chest and
green ooze spills out of him as he falls dead.



There’s more of them. I kill them all.



November 19: Braylon Edwards walks by. I shoot him in the head. Not catching touchdowns now are ya?



November 20: We’ve fled to the mountains of Michigan. I’m pretty sure that the rain that’s been pouring down for days has given me herpes. Sometime
during the night I drift off to sleep...



November 21: I had the strangest dream last night:



Bush won the election a few weeks ago. At first I was mad, but then two days later, the war on terror was just, over. I know it sounds crazy, but all the terrorists in
the whole world were dead. Just fucking dead. Iran sends us a motherfucking HUGE gift basket. Iraq renames itself “America Fucking Rules.” The Chinese send over
trained monkeys who rebuild the towers in just over 48 hours. Even North Korea unblocks us on their buddy list. An unprecedented peace causes the world to sing in perfect
harmony. Coca-Cola stock goes through the proverbial roof.

It gets better. Turns out that new retarded Nicholas Cage movie was right—there IS a treasure map on the back of the
Declaration of Independence (or Constitution, whatever). There is a billion jillion dollars buried under a 7-11 in Pennsylvania.



Our national debt is erased. Huge checks go out to everyone. Everybody quits their jobs and goes on vacation to Bora Bora. A new world record is set for “Biggest
Fucking Keg Party Ever.” All the chicks go out and get new boobs. Even fat guys start getting laid, because mail order brides are finally affordable. Senior citizens can get any prescription drugs that they want. In fact, anyone can
get any drug they want. Who cares about the War on Drugs now, bitch? Dubya lights up a fatty on national television with Colin Powell. Bush is a hero. Michiganders are
ashamed that they won their state for Kerry.



As if the things aren’t cool enough already, PIC becomes the most popular webpage in the world. We move our offices into the monkey-built towers. Court gets that new
lung he needed. Justin finds a girl who actually talks to him. Amir is appointed Secretary of Sweet Ass News. Nicole becomes the next Dear Abby. Simonne writes a script
that wins an Oscar before even going to the box office. I can finally buy that limited edition NSYNC album I’ve always wanted. Emmanuel...well...he’s Canadian,
so he doesn’t get shit.



All of a sudden, everyone has three cell phones. One is directly connected to a phone sex service. One is just for ordering pizza. The last one is to call up your buddies
and do the Budweiser Wazzzaaap commercial for the five hundredth time today. PIC spends a billion dollars on new servers in bandwidth the first day alone. Everyone in the
nation goes out and buys wireless routers and high speed Internet. Linksys becomes the world’s biggest company.



Then everything starts to go horribly, horribly wrong.



Because all of these technology companies are horribly incompetent (that means you Comcrap, Charter, AOL, Linksys, etc.), everyone has to spend the next week on the phone
with technical support. Finally one of the customer service reps in India or wherever the fuck they’re from snaps and hits the wrong button. Fifteen nuclear warheads
streak toward the US. All fifteen of them hit Wahoo, Nebraska. Only 35 people are killed, but within minutes, wave after wave of telemarketers swarm onto American soil. We
had built their army for them when we outsourced everything in those days right after the election. Sure it had been weird to have to phone your order in at Taco Bell, but at least they almost always had mild sauce.



By some ironic coincidence, everyone who didn’t vote in this
year’s election was killed first, proving P. Diddy correct. Unfortunately, Diddy himself was cut down by a level three speed dialer early in the fighting. I saw Dan
Rather describe it as “poked to death.”



I awoke clutching the hell out of my weapon. My dream was not a dream at all, but a convenient flashback. I cry man tears.

I check the clip. One bullet left. I contemplate using it on myself. No, fight the impulse. I can live four more years through
this...can’t I?



November 23: Lloyd Carr walks by. I trip him. He falls down the mountain. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Hail to the victors my ass.



“Only four more years,” I chant to myself. Only four more years...

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