from Tyler Martin
March 8, 2016, 10:56 p.m.
I awoke twelve hours later to the sound of Donald psyching himself up for the next rally. Something was not right, however. His accent kept changing back and forth between his New Yorker “You’re fiyed” tone and what I instantly recognized as a 16th-century Italian accent. Suddenly, a knock at the door startled Trump and he proceeded to leave the bathroom. Recognizing that I would be trapped under that sink for several more hours yet, I reached for my double-emergency flask and imbibed. Unfortunately, I forgot that I had replaced the bourbon in this flask with absinthe for shits and giggles, so I ended up crawling through the pipes into a industrialized dystopian version of Wonderland where I vanquished the Deuce Lord thereby freeing the pipes to once again deliver water to the common folk. That’s a totally different story for another time. Fast-forward to the end of the rally, the Bad Splatter had successfully reopened the portal to come back to my home world and I arrived just in time with all of the confidence in the world coming from my conquests.
Trump apparently felt dejected after the rally and wished to be alone in his deluxe bathroom suite. This was my chance. After giving him a few minutes to get settled, I made my move. “Aha! I knew it!” I shouted as I popped out from under the sink, presuming that I had indeed caught Mr. Trump in the middle of some dastardly act. This was merely a guess, though, as the sixteen-plus hours I had spent in a singular position under the sink had left my head stuck looking downwards. I contorted my body so that Trump could enter my field of vision, but, to my surprise, Trump was nowhere to be found. Instantly I recognized who it was. Standing before me was Niccolò Machiavelli.
Who is Niccolò Machiavelli? Well, how about one of the most misquoted, misunderstood geniuses of satire of all time. Seriously, you’ve probably quoted him at some point in your life by saying, “the ends justify the means,” when you are doing something shitty but don’t want to feel bad about it. Guess what, douches, he was satirizing that statement when he wrote it. It’s a truly stupid sentiment and you’re an asshole for ever believing it. This little nugget of knowledge highlights the dangers of satire, as the very point you are trying to illustrate the absurdity of may be flung right back in your face by people who don’t get the joke. So whatever you do, budding satirists, never ever write something that takes more than a little thought to be understood unless you’re willing to risk people missing the fucking point and then thinking that you are giving good advice.
Horrified, I stammered, “Nic-Nic-Nic,” before passing out, likely due to the horrendous things my body had endured during the past day. My dreams were filled with flying sharks with machine guns on them. Nothing meaningful or in any way insightful, I just thought they were cool and wanted to share.
A splash of cold water ruined the best part of my dream. Strike one, dickweed. “Are you a alrighta?” Machiavelli inquired. With tears in my eyes I shouted, “You ruined the sharks you monster!” He gave me a puzzled look almost as if he didn’t understand what the person who had been hiding under his sink for the better part of a day was saying. “Uhhhhhhh...” “Whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore. First question, how are you alive?” “Ah I seeya that you a know who I ama,” Machiavelli responded, “and I also seeya that you are nota familiar with the a Fraternal Order of Eternal Satirists, my frienda. We are an organization appointed to a serve humanity by criticizing their mistakesa.” “You speak as if you are not part of humanity,” I said with a tinge of confusion. “You seeya, my friend, we are nota of this world. We come from a world known to us as Cynica. We have watched you a since the beginning of your race a, and we decided that you a needed a helping handa! So we traveled acrossa the nighta skya and tooka on a different forms to helpa you!” “So you’re telling me that you could do away with the obnoxiously stereotypical Italian accent?” “Oh shit, is this better?” “Yeah sure whatever. You should really think about whom you are representing when you take on these personas, no need to reinforce outdated cultural stereotypes. It’s 2016, bud, how about we act like it?” To be fair, I didn’t really care, but I knew that I needed to put Machiavelli on the defensive if I was going to get the answers I needed.
“Sorry, man, I’ll pay attention to it from now on, sorry,” Machiavelli whimpered dejectedly. Perfect. I decided this was the time to pounce. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, you’re a shape shifting alien who is part of a secret society meant to control the destiny of the human race? Am I getting that correct?” “I know that it’s a lot to process, but yes, you are correct. Are you okay?” I sighed, “I mean now I have to apologize to a few people on Facebook for calling them ‘shitwit imbeciles who will never amount to anything in society’, so, no, I’m not alright.” Strike two. Fuck this guy for forcing my hand with those assholes. “Wait, are you telling me that there are people out there who actually believed aliens controlled society?” a shocked Machiavelli questioned. “Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahahahaha,” I couldn’t control my laughter, “hahahahahahaha!” I was in tears and could barely speak when Machiavelli inquired as to what was so funny. “You- you’ve obviously never perused the Internet, huh?” I choked out. My laughter was met with the familiar puzzlement on Machiavelli’s face. After another solid three minutes of laughter, I was able to continue my interview. “So who have you been throughout history?” “Well, after the whole incident in Italy, I went into hiding for I had shamed my otherwise successful race. It wasn’t until the birth of hip-hop that I felt that I could serve your race effectively. So, when it was my time, I became Tupac.” “Well, duh,” I replied, “you could not have been more obvious about that if you had tried.” Machiavelli let out a little smile, “how do you know that it wasn’t on purpose? How do you know tha—“ “that you weren’t satirizing how painfully obtuse and vain the other members of your species had become in their satire during your absence! Genius!” I truly was not worthy to be in the same room as this majestic being. “So what’s the deal with this Trump gig? How could you be two people at once?” “You see,” Machiavelli started, “I was Tupac until I had Suge Knight set up my death by a ‘rival gang member’,” he said with air quotes. “I had learned the night before Tupac’s death—“ “Pour one out for the homie,” I said as I reached for what my emergency Tupac flask. The Hennessey hit the floor mixed with a single tear. “Anyways,” Machiavelli continued, “the night before Tupac died, I learned that Donald Trump had died in a horrific tanning bed accident. I immediately knew that I could redeem myself with the greatest act of satire ever witnessed at a time when people needed it the most.”
I was shaken. Machiavelli misinterpreted my horrified realization as divine revelation and produced a shit-eating grin. “I decided to create the Donald to embrace, nay, embody the biggest issues facing America.” “Dear God.” Machiavelli’s speech increased in speed along with his excitement. “Yes! Donald Trump is the greatest satirical piece of art created. What could be purer than an entire life dedicated to being the art rather than creating the art?” “YOU FOOL!” I screamed, “DON”T YOU UNDERSTAND?” Machiavelli’s face soured. “YOU STUPID DUMB IDIOT, PEOPLE DON”T UNDERSTAND YOUR WORK! THESE PEOPLE BELIEVE YOU! HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING?” Strike three. At least he went down swinging, for that I respected him enough to only tase him six times in his stupid face before jumping out of the window of the moving bus.
Where does this leave us? Machiavelli, clearly unaffected by my words or my Taser, is still trying to redeem himself. I am sure that FOES is now aware of my existence and is after me. I don’t have a clue who they could be comprised of, so I have gone into hiding. I can’t hide forever, though. I know that one day I will have to reenter the investigative journalistic world to expose these powerfully manipulative shapers of society. For now, I lie in waiting, much like the noble hermit crab. Mark my words, though, I will stop Machiavelli before it is too late.