Mike Bloomberg Re-Enacts Call Me By Your Name Peach Scene With an Orange
I kept thinking of him as I lay in bed that sultry afternoon. Donald. Donnie. Don. How he called me by his name and I lovingly called him “Mini Mikey,” his pet name for me. How he had penetrated me with his miniature manhood and stretched me to my limits.
I reached for the orange I brought with me. I held it in both hands contemplating the somewhat misshapen orb, for it was a navel orange. The pocked skin of the fruit reminded me of him, orange and rough. The nubbin at the end reminded me of his petite meat.
I began to peal the skin, opening the inside segments. It all began to remind me of his ass. The white of the inner peal clinging to the flesh of the orange reminded me of the thicket of hair hiding his orifice. Having to part it to find my way in.
I was seized by a desperate yearning. I yanked my erection out of my shorts, rubbing it against the flesh of the orange. The citric acid smarted a bit , but I was too rapt in ecstasy to care. I came hard, drenching the violated fruit with my Bloomberg juice.
Spent, I was about to toss the fruit on the floor for the help to find later, when Don opened the door.
“Whatcha doing there, Mikey…er…Donnie?”
“Uh well, Mikey, I was just…”
“Whatcha got there, pal?” Don asked, thick tiny fingers trying to seize the oozing orange from my hand. ” I am yugely hungry right now.”
“Don’t. I can’t bear it,” I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes.
Don bit into the orange, juices running down his face. A secret service agent handed him his handkerchief.
Is it just me, or have we devolved in the past couple of months into something akin to our Neanderthal forebears? Has the noble WASP strayed too far from his isolated cluster and caught the bee virus? Whether we are Casper ghost pale, a delicate pearl pink, or a subtle tangerine hue, white people are devolving. Our Trailer Park Titanic, which spurred on our glorious exalted orange 70 year-old Adolf Adonis, has sprung a leak and is sinking faster than you can whistle ‘Dixie.’
Personally, I blame that black guy. Oh, it was all fun and games until all those Mexican Muslims infiltrated our electoral college and universities and got him elected. Eight years of Kumbaya, Kenya, and free phones, it was time for change. We fashioned a golden calf from a golden man and commenced to worship him, chanting our mantra, “Make America Great Again!” America is great, now, but something is missing. That black guy was nice. This guy, his magnificence is too bright, an amber wave of grain knocking against our collective blue eyes. I can’t see anymore.
The above was a vain attempt at satire. Seriously though, my fellow white Americans, what the freaking hell? Is this hell? Maybe in an alternate universe, this is the liberal version of the Left Behind series. Our messiah left us for Hawaii and only David Bowie, Prince, and Carrie Fisher got raptured. Guess who is the Anti-Christ?
My family hails from Appalachia. They are a homogenous group (inbred?), Republican all the way back to Lincoln, and had they known my mom and I were democrats, that was a disownable offense. My grandparents knew, but what can you do? Just don’t let my second cousins find out! It was bad enough knowing that my otherwise gentle grandfather would rather be “a knot on a dog’s dick than be a democrat.” Since I’m already disowned because of my mom not keeping in contact with them, my second cousins do not know whether I’m alive or dead. Good riddance, they said in ever such a kind way after Mom died, not rude, just evasive (it’s the southern way). Do they ever think of me? Like when members of their family croak? Oh wonder what happened to Pat’s mentally deficient daughter?
Anyway, I had a point to this last part. Because being abandoned even by people who barely know you sucks, that is why I don’t unfriend people on Facebook for different points of view, microaggressions, macroaggressions, racist remarks, homophobic, Islamophobic ,phobicphobic remarks. I think what does it feel like to be tossed away even online? What if you’re my second cousin fallen off the turnip truck and you just don’t know any better?
Global warming caused this, thinks Al Gore, staring at the horror outside of his door. Is it snowing in June? No. The ultimate horror film scenario unfolds before his eyes. Bunnies, white sweet little bunnies fall to the ground. Hopping, doing jigs, going this way and that, filling the island neighborhood of the environmentalist’s vacation home. Soon there is no ground at all, just teeming masses of white fur.
Just then, Al saw a neighbor coming out on his porch. Jim Bob is the CEO of a lucrative alcoholic beverage company whose success mirrors the plot of a Horatio Alger book had Alger wrote From Drunken Boy Jim to Functioning Alcoholic CEO.
“S’up, Al? ” twangs Jim Bob.
“Umm, Jimm Bobb?” Al replies as fast as he can, which , let’s be honest, isn’t that fast at all.
Jim Bob had held an exclusive wine tasting all the previous night, so exclusive that he had only invited himself. This perhaps makes him at a disadvantage to notice the ground below him obliterated by white fur. What happens then takes place in the span of 15 seconds . Jim Bob’s glazed eyes meet one red eye in the front, and as though it is the signal to attack, a white wave of fur swirls up the lengthy stairs to cover Jim Bob. When the wave of white recedes, all that remains of the man who was Jim Bob McLure was his jawbone.
“Ohhh the humanityy! ” cries Al as he bars his door. It’s moments like this when I wish The Tipper was still around. Maybe global warming caused the bunnies to condensate and return to earth mutated into rabid rabbit carnivores when solidified. I see a book in this: An Inconvenient Bunny.
Ah, Al, this story isn’t over yet.
Suddenly Global Warming or Mother Nature or somebody shuts off the bunny deluge as the bunnies eat anyone in sight.
And then the truly unthinkable happens. Kittens! Sweet, innocent little kittens raining from the sky. Kittens of all breeds and colors falling onto the blood thirsty bunnies. But the bunnies don’t eat the falling critters. Instead the multitude of kittens start eating the bunnies until there are no more bunnies.
And everyone on the island that’s still alive and many others in the surrounding counties each got a kitten. And they all lived happily ever after.
(Author’s note: You can go ask Alice, but I don’t think she’ll know.)
(Author’s profound statement: Yes, I proudly voted for Gore in 2000. I believe in global warming too, but not as much worried as some people are.)
Working title for the movie version: The Hossenfeffer Horror
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a lady who wishes to send off an item bartered on eBay must be in want of packaging tape. Ah, this lamentably was the state of affairs and such a deprivation could not be borne.
Our lady, a Rubenesque spinster of three-and-thirty years, suggested to her mother a scheme of going to the shop down the way post-haste, for it was a week until Christmas and the best of couriers could not always send the required article in time. Fearing the wrath of an angry gentleman who had placed his custom and faith upon her, the lady commenced in her carriage, her good lady mother as chaperone. The mother, sullen, melancholy, and hinting her disapprobation at her, said, ” Make certain, daughter, that you buy something sweet for the time we feel peckish.”
The establishment frequented by all the ton of the neighbourhood and surrounding villages was called the Family Dollar and carried sundry items for sale. This mainly consisted of treasures imported from the orient, a plethora of genuine plastics molded into dishes and playthings for children, plus toiletries designed to cover smallpox scars and other maladies of ladies in need of the refinery.
The lady’s mother had her filial daughter go inside without her guiding hand, confident that she would find no disgrace within its doors. Nay, no disgrace indeed as our lady meandered the aisles of the store plucking up the tape, chocolate mint patties, and some sort of Christmas mint that once dissolved took on a consistency like gum. Looking at the cookies without her mother to advise which to procure, as her mother’s dark mood seemingly prevented her from issuing any hint of preference, she selected a large package of vanilla sandwich cookies with cream.
Taking these items to the cash register, our lady was assailed by the sounds of the music peculiar to certain sects of religion. This genre, aptly titled “Christian Pop,” seldom reached the tender regions of her soul as the lyrics and music intended. Instead of invoking all the comforts of religion, she oft, when not spared , chose to dissect the lyrics of such songs as though they were written by lovestruck poets for their would-be paramours. This song, however, was in a somewhat different strain, invoking the Lord thus:
Jesus is just all right with me, Jesus is just all right…
La! But an older lady, finding such a ditty insufferable, called attention to the young man attending the till. “I say, boy, this music you play upon yonder radio device, is that your personal preference?”
“Nay, madame,” said the young man. “Rather ’tis the preference of the lady proprietors.”
“I see,” spoke the lady with consternation. “You should play something soothing.”
“Ah, the ladies grew weary of the station that plays the Christmas music for the entirety of the season.”
“But that’s what the customers wish to hear whilst shopping, and they should think of the customers!” punctuated that lady.
You’d think they were playing the unexpurgated works of Eminem to hear her speak. A pretty thing this, thought our lady as she rushed from the edifice. She could not help, aversion to such music notwithstanding, how unpleasant were the manners of that lady.
Later, our lady and her mother arrived at the post office, and once more the spinster was left to her own devices as her mother waited. Soon our lady was amid a bustle of humanity all converging in a final frantic bid to send parcels for arrival by Yuletide.
She was waited upon by a lady who could be surly to some, but never to the spinster. “Is there anything fragile, liquid, perishable , or potentially hazardous inside, Madame?”
“Well…” said our lady, thinking back to a most helpful posting upon the wall sometime ago listing items that were foolhardy to send via courier, “the ___ has batteries inside.”
“No, ’tis fine and proper. What sort of ___is it?”
A ___ from the 80s, Madame,” said our lady.
“Oh, those I do recollect and my child possessed one that___.”
“Ah, indeed! I mark those, though many a year has passed betwixt then and now.”
“Please tell your mother Merry Christmas from me,” said the lady post office attendant.
Our lady counted out the change from a purse and thought uncharitably, Nay, not I, not now as my mother has declared she hates Christmas, which makes me hold the hold the holiday with similar malevolence, The spinster, acting like a hussy, could maintain a strong petulance at times, a nasty flaw to her being a genteel lady.
She was so immersed in thought that our lady almost forgot to return appropriate holiday greetings herself. “Thank you, I shall tell her…Oh dear! And Merry Christmas to you, Madame. I fear that my mind is a soupcon addled today.”
It is perhaps diverting to look at our spinster and note that despite a peculiar air hinting at wishing to sink into the floor beneath her rather than look another in the eye, she twice or thrice was complimented on her exceeding good manners in the past. It seems that some ladies and gentleman are taciturn when services were rendered inside the office. This compliment pleased our spinster in no uncertain terms.
The end of the day’s activities was nigh, but alas, the mother had lost her reading spectacles a couple of days previous and there seemed no way of finding the lost article. Despite her mother’s seasonal surliness, her most dutiful daughter did not wish to see that grand dame deprived of such creature comforts. Our lady bade the carriage to go to the shop where excellently crafted spectacles could be had, The Dollar General. As her good lady mother sought a perfect pair to match the strength of her weakened eyes, our lady perused the aisles, passing a gentleman in the stationary and place where books grace store shelves the final time.
Soon a young lady from that more southern clime came before them with a brood of children. The young lady spoke in the rapid tongue impossible to learn in finishing school book or by her dear teacher originally from Philadelphia town. Suddenly the gentleman in the aisle with her growled in a low voice, “Speak English goddamnit.”
What a fine gentleman! our lady thought as she disembarked for home. Mayhap he is a lord or an earl. Such command that can even instruct mothers and innocent babes the correct dispensation of the queen’s English. No doubt a man of the best of stock whose kind manners condescended to make foreigners feel so at home in ours, the most welcoming of lands. Such a portly stature and the pungent scent of smoke from the best of cigarettes. La! This is the sort of man I should wish to marry!