My Cardboard Balcony

Common Era by Belinda Roddie Get me a beer and a ham sandwich with all the damn fixings: I'm itching for something stronger than five percent alcohol, but anything to get my brain wading in the waters of a new world will suffice in this brand new dystopia. Keep this bar air conditioned, since it's too hot outside to dance anymore. Once the dead pig settles in my stomach, I'll sidle over to the pool table and pretend that the sky isn't falling after all. Maybe a pretty lady will leave lipstick all over my new shirt. President's brand. It's all supposed to be great again. Does anyone carry a box of cigars? I haven't smoked a good one since Florida got weighed down with sea salt and sadness. Shame, too; it had good beaches. Margaritas on me, boys. Tequila's rare these days, and the guacamole hasn't had real avocados in it for almost three years. Once I finish my beer, I'll groom myself in the one stall bathroom, while the d

I feel like the term "American idiots" is redundant, don't you agree? Especially when it comes to choosing who runs the country. Then again, who knows if I'll be allowed to spout off like this come next year; free speech is a fragile thing, isn't it? Anyway, a whole bunch of racist, Xenophobic, sexist idiots gave my country to an incompetent, erratic blowhard who couldn't be trusted to throw a water balloon, let alone send off a nuke. Yay!