Minimum Wage: Aftermath of A Kick to the Cha-Cha’s

(Continued From)

So there I am, lying on the porch, the pain in slowly dissipating. While the severity of the situation grows on me. Stranded in 1960 Washington, D.C. With an asian guy from Canada, Machismo Wainwright, and a really young Bill Clinton, he has to be about twelve. He is also hungry as he has just reminded me for the second time in five minutes, that he would like to get a sandwich or some wings. I didn’t even know they had wings in the sixties.

“We just got kicked in the junk by a young Pat Buchanan, who stole our time machine and has gone into the future to assume the identity of Ted Cruz! Do you really think now is the time to worry about food?” I scold the once and future president.

“I’m sorry. I just always have fought time traveling conservatives better on a full stomach.” he says with a doughy faced grin.

“Is that your attempt at ironic appropriationalist internet humor?”

“What’s the internet?”

“Don’t worry, your best friend will say he invented it, get ribbed for saying he invented it, then become the sex symbol of the environmentalist world.”

“Way to go Bobby!” young Bill Clinton says with a glance to the sky.

I just look at the kid in disbelief. When I was his age and weight, he was running the country. Now – since we figured it was safest to get a younger and less wild version of young Bill Clinton – I could be brought up on kidnapping charges.

I sit up and check on Machismo. He says he is fine, but I know that he is beating himself up for leaving the keys in the car. “Don’t worry man, we are going to be just fine. We’re gonna do great!”

Machismo opens his mouth to speak. Before he can say a sound, he is interrupted by a new voice as someone rounds the house. “Finally! I was getting tired of waiting on you to say something like that so we could make our grand entrance. Mr. Flare for the drama, probably voted for Obama, over here wouldn’t have it any other way.” The voice is fast, with that nasally southern drawl. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place where. My view is intercepted by a pie chart as a turn to find the speaker.

“See here, this is how much the space time continuum has veered from your reality since you bunch of panty-waists let Patsy steal the time machine.”

A blur of color fills my binocular vision. I can’t make out anything other than blurred colors where my vision overlaps. My brain screams at the paradox of only seeing yellow in my left eye, blue in my right, and green in the center. In attempt to better make out what the holder would like me to see, I lean back, putting distance between the pie chart and myself. Whoever is holding it though just keeps it against the tip of my nose. Pushing it to keep it at the current distance.

“I can’t read your damn pie chart!” I roar as I rip from the grip of the holder and send it flying like a broke ass frisby. The continuation of my rant falls short. In fact, I don’t think it would be a good idea to berate any further. One in a business suit, the other is some futuristic mechanized battle suit thing. Names swim in my head and I find them almost instantly. However, they don’t leave my lips as their conversation continues and I sit awestruck.

“I don’t believe you can call them panty-waists.” Mr. Roboto responds. His voice is slower, deep and bouncy. Well thought out by comparison.

“It is 1960 Washington, D.C. I can do whatever I want! Wanna get a hooker? Fine! Wanna go do blow with absolutely any politician? Fine! Wanna call a couple of losers and a fat kid panty-waists because they practically gave a time machine to my good friend Patsy, who honestly has no business having a time machine, because he can’t help himself? Why don’t you just go ahead and give a bottle to a baby or something!”

“That isn’t a very apt metaphor, Hank. You see, people generally give babies,” The chastisement is cut short.

“Quit bustin’ me in the bean bag for god sakes Ralphy! This is why we never hang out!”

“That isn’t the only reason.” he responds with a smirk.


Minimum Wage Increase: Waiting For The Meteor

Yesterday I had a friend, Machismo Wainwright, strike up a conversation with me about the raising of minimum wage. It was in response to me sharing some “Republicans suck and voted down raising the minimum wage.” post on facebook. He asked me if I was really in favor of it and mentioned a few of the negative points. Such as the possibility of having to fire people in order to pay other’s higher wages. What if everyone becomes too expensive? To the point that automation has a more appealing price point to shareholders and lots of people lose jobs.

I agree with him on the points he brought up. My reply was that something has to be done and that I am in favor of doing something. Sure that something could something that sounds impossible like Getting the money out of politics! or The government regulating shit out of things that are too expensive for people to afford on the current minimum wage. Which by the way is pretty much fucking everything! Another something could simply be Waiting for a meteor to wipe us out of existence.

Instead, I began to fall back to my defensive dry humor and said something far more plausible “We can fix it! Although I have no idea where we are going to get a time machine and go stop Reagan, Nixon, Pat Buchanan and everyone else responsible for this mess. This time travel reference was not of the Terminator paradigm, but more of the Bill and Ted/Back to the Future variety.

An asian guy and a guy with a red beard in a time travelling smart car pull up in front of each and every respective offenders house. From there we cram them in the nearly non-existent back seat – apologizing profusely for the cramped space while pointing out that in the future we don’t have the money to buy huge vehicles. Also, that thing called global warming turned out to be real and is now called climate change. Without more a do we take them to the future and show the scummy clog they have created.

We make them watch women give birth and go back to work in under two weeks. We make them watch hard working people not make ends meet. We make them watch as young people go to college and incur crippling debt only to get unpaid internships. We make them watch as people die due to terrible medical coverage.

The message sinks in. I have a good feeling about Reagan and Nixon being overall good guys and seeing the errors of their ways. They are also incredibly interested at the wealth accumulation prospects of a time traveling smart car! Machismo will have to keep an eye on the keys. George H. “Walker Texas Ranger” Bush says he will do his part to make things right as he throws a box of magnums up on the counter at the 7-11. “If only we had’em in this size the first time ‘round.” He says as he tips up his cowboy hat with his thumb. “Now that’s what I call planned parenthood!”

We can’t fit everyone in the smart car at once, so we just have to keep taking them and then dropping them off. Things get a little weird when we pull up at Buchanan’s place. Doesn’t help that young Bill Clinton didn’t eat lunch before we left and he is a little hungry. However, when the door opens is when we officially step into the poo. I must have seen a photo of young Pat Buchanan recently. He seems so familiar.

“Aw, my cha-chas!” Bill Clinton roaringly mumbles as Pat kicks him square in the nards. Before Machismo and I can even react younger – and surprisingly spry – Pat Buchanan lunges forward, dropping to one knee and punches both of us in no-no’s. He sprints away from the battle, leaving us lying in crippled heaps.

While laying in the fetal position next to a panting young Bill Clinton, I realize why young Buchanan looks so familiar. “God damn you, Ted Cruz!” I yell with all the strength I can muster. Yelling through the pain throbbing in my stomach.

“That is a great name, I think I will use it when I establish a new political career for myself in the future.” He says as he opens the door to the smart car. He pauses and leans against the roof, resting his elbows. “Say where ya’ll from? Ya’ll seem like nice folk, you from Canada or something?”

“Yeah, we are from Calgary.” I whimper after a moment’s pause. I know full well what he is going to say next and it pleases me to no end that I have bested him, for now.

“Hey that sounds like a great place to live and call my birthplace!”

Eat shit young Pat Buchanan, enjoy Nickleback, winter, and your damn hockey team. I think to myself as I smile and double over in pain once more. I  hear the smart car drive away and hit a fuel efficient eighty-seven miles an hour as it begins its leap into the future. A whole mile sooner than the older model. I lie there and wait for the meteor to come.