Glamorous Revolution

Queen Revi has to die. This I know for certain.

The second she stole the throne Hagavale was doomed; instead of beautiful brick refugee aid centers and warm diners lining the main stretch, grand crystal obelisks tower over the cobbled street. As per a royal decree, manufacturers must turn away from their family businesses and focus on smelting enchanting jewel ornamentations so intricately etched and designed so the ugly residents would look more appealing on television.

According to Revi, Hagavale was nothing but a hovel for ingenuous savages pent on vomiting putrid bile on the regal Glinspour Expanse, and in her words: “The black strike that is Hagavale will be washed anew in the dawn of the Jewel Age.”

How would embedding blocks of peridot into the roads and inserting opal pillars in Hagavale square make us savages any less brutish? And what about those water purifying stations that provide us with clean water being replaced with pearl chardonnay fountains? How will our youth grow strong and healthy if every meal consists of a glass of wine and a mini sparkle cupcake that they’re made to eat with a fork and knife?

Let me reiterate: she really needs to die.

Feel free to put arsenic in her bedazzled ham during the Glinspourian Ball, bomb the palace, shoot her with a poisoned dart – hell, you can even stab the witch. I would do it myself, but my name’s already on the watch list for recommending beige over bubble gum pink for the interior of the capitol.

You have to act fast, though; rumor has it that she’ll be making us all get mani-pedis and facelifts next week. I wouldn’t be surprised if soon we’ll have to change our names to the imaginative Brittany or David.

To those who still value hard work and steak and potatoes, and wave the magnificently greasy flag of democracy: please save us. I can’t handle another cream-filled sparkle cupcake.

A Note To Humanity

As everyone was occupied with relating “chipping” humans with the so called “Antichrist,” they were too blind to notice that I had already arrived, decades ago. Furthermore, my first act of vengeance upon the human race was not one of direct aggression; no, I am too smart to stoop to such a glaringly obvious form of appropriation.

Since the word of God became an ordinary discussion in communities, all of those hypocritical snots debated when and where I was going to make my grand entrance in the land of the living. Their inquiries served as perfect excuses for them to avoid new age politics and technology. Oh, yes. Out of all the terrible creatures on Earth, I would choose the path of a deceitful world leader. Honey, let me break it to you. I don’t need a pitchfork-wielding following to see you all turn against your omnipotent “Savior” and scratch yourselves to death in a bloody paranoia. You guys are doing a great job of getting to that state without my assistance.

Admittedly though, when I take all the credit for dismantling humanity, it would be nice if there was something I could claim as my own doing. Now, all thanks to the gluttony that plagues you simpletons, I am able to do just that.

So, like the sneaky bitch that I am, first I seized your health.

You remember McDonald’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, and the other countless fast food joints, don’t you? Yeah, that was ALL me, and I’m fucking proud of it. Call me an egomaniac, but I legitimately do not believe another evil being could accomplish a greater feat as the expansion of the fast food industry.

I remember passing an old gal – I could smell the mini Bible in her bubblegum pink snakeskin purse – and as she was discussing the callousing of youth today relating to their Christian faith, she was also washing down a mouthful of Chipotle with a 32-ounce Diet Pepsi. Who knew the taste of victory had so many calories?

The ball is in your court now, humans. Well, it would be if any of you were interested in physical activity. And if you like the heat from that jalapeno cheddar melt, just you wait.

Clogged Arteries and a Stroke of Genius

“Pick your ass up off that couch, Rachel,” her mom barked. “They can’t taste so damn good that you’d sacrifice everything for which you’ve ever worked to have just another bite.”

Golden crumbs stuck to the trail of drool rolling down Rachel’s chin, her fingers glossy with salty oil. The air reeked of fried chicken and butter. “I can’t help it, mom; you know that.” Her hand fumbled in the darkness of a potato chip bag. “And besides,” she spat, “half the housework around here wouldn’t be done if I weren’t here all day.”

Rachel’s mother scoffed, cutting the calorie-rich air with a sharp index finger. “Excuse me? The only thing getting cleaned is your hands after a plate of buffalo wings.” Taking a less accusatory tone, she joins Rachel on the sofa. “Babe, for your own sake, at least look at this page of classifieds.”

The heavyset teen chucked the damp newspaper roll across the room. It was the same deal every afternoon: soon after Rachel’s mom arrives home after working a third shift at the bakery, she would present Rachel with an alternative to her unhealthy habit. One day, she brought Rachel an introductory yoga course flier. The high school valedictorian was a whole 400 pounds of pure woman; there was no way she was going to embarrass herself and the others taking the class sticking her ass in the air. With her luck, she’d fart and everyone would need a paramedic.

Rachel didn’t need yoga or a depressing page of job ads, she knew exactly what the universe had in store for her. “Mom, no! I told you I’m going to be a model. So until you can bring me the phone number of an agency that accepts plus-sized girls, you might as well just mind your own business.”

“Honey, it’s not that –”

“Let me tell you something: modeling isn’t all about anorexic, skinny beauty. We larger chicks are so much better than those pathetic twigs, anyhow!” She chokes on a mouthful of black licorice. “Don’t you realize that the reason I eat so much is because the fat in this good food makes my skin plumper and my complexion more vibrant? Take this Cheeto,” Rachel waved a gnarled orange cheese twist as if it was a motion of surrender, “one of these bad boys has enough good stuff in it to make my skin thick and tight enough to get rid of the largest pimple or blemish.”

Rachel noticed only confusion in her mother’s bleached face. Then, after swallowing a spoonful of chocolate gravy, Rachel adds, “Society mistakes fucking miracles for obesity, mom. You might as well call me a magician for the blotches that I’ve purged from this round face of mine.”

“You know what? Just forget it. Forget it. I’ll be in the bathroom cleaning up your filth, if you decide you want to have an actual conversation.”

Gnawing on a strip of beef jerky, Rachel called, “Okay, mom. Just mind the stash of Butterfingers and cereal bars in the top drawer; I’ll need those if I’m ever going to get rid of that birthmark on my ass.”