Japan’s wristlet purse rattled all the way to the coffee bar.
“Double shot, please,” she told the machine.
It whirred to life and soon a steaming shot of bean water was filling a mug.
She fetched a pill pouch from her purse. It had to be holding at least a dozen different pills in all shapes and sizes–capsules, tablets, slick, some small and round, and others quite enormous and shiny.
She dumped the pills into her hand, popped them into her mouth, tossed back the scalding hot espresso and swallowed it all in one big gulp.
On America’s birthday, England “fondly” remembers the “best” memories of his “son.”
Did we want him back?
That was the question everyone wanted to know in the aftermath of the war. Over time I started to understand that people weren’t asking if we wanted to reclaim a rebellious colony. What people wanted to know was… if we missed him.
To decide whether one misses someone, one has to determine whether there was anything to miss. But, you see, never in his centuries of existence has America ever done anything to make him worth missing. In fact, he’s often made me want to disown him.
I could easily think of five hundred abhorrent things America has done (and then there would be five hundred more repressed memories lying in wait to be unearthed through the therapy I will soon surely need). But to spare us both, I will talk about only five.
See, kids? That’s what heavy industrialization and 500 years of chain-smoking will do to ya.
Once in a while, you have to make a yearly budget. You also have to periodically reflect on your financial priorities because some people can’t be trusted.
“So, bit of a funny story,” England said to the other members of the Security Council sitting in the conference room. “I was looking through the budget proposals when I see something just a little strange.” He slid the thick budget book to the center of the table and with a pen pointed to a particular line on the page. “This says ‘2AM runs to McDonald’s.’ And, it gets better, we’ve got $1000 set aside for that. One-thousand dollars, eight-hundred and ninety-three Euros, six-thousand something yuan–whatever the hell you want.”
He looked around the room. “Now, who wants to take a little guess at which one of us thinks we need one-thousand dollars for McDonald’s?”
You asked how things are faring over here so I will explain with brevity the current state of Europe and its great powers. But first, I would like to get family matters out of the way.
Wales sends her greetings and wants you to know that she has been praying for your safety and prosperity. I was not aware that peculiar crystals were instruments of prayer, but she insisted that she was a “good.l Christian woman” and “not at all a Pagan.” Odd of her to say, as I had not mentioned paganism. When I asked Scotland if he too wanted to send you a message, he inquired about your identity. “Who?” “The United States of America, our estranged son!” Yet he still feigned ignorance. Ireland, a rather new addition to the family, seems to be adjusting well enough. She fears the internal backlash, but it was exactly that backlash that made her feel even stronger the need to unite. Well, she is convinced she has done the right thing, and so am I.
Can you guess who wrote which one?
(It’s painfully easy.)
Chill guy, super powerful, crazy rich, really hot, great sense of humor. Ordering pizza after sex is mandatory. Preference: anything that moves. If you curvy that’s all good; big is beautiful. I’ll be more attracted to you if you blindly agree with me and support everything I do even when I’m wrong.
You think you’re worthy to breathe the same air I breathe? You insignificant beast. Love me. Praise me. Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me. You’re less than dirt. Pathetic, pitiful, powerless. Tell me how much you want me, pig. You’re just the jackal howling at my door. My love is a gift you are not worthy to receive. I grant you mercy because I take pity on creatures of lesser intellect, beauty, and purity. Perish, worm.
The Darien expedition to a mosquito-blighted swamp overlooked by forbidding mountains that separated the Pacific and Atlantic coasts was an utter disaster for Scotland.
This a guest post by fellow blogger babbitman, a funny English guy who writes brilliant short stories, among other cool things, on his blog. Check him out, show him some love.
The British Isles, 1690
Wales closed the door quietly behind her and walked across the oak-panelled room to the table where England sat brooding over a map of Europe. He looked up and, although her presence was acknowledged, declined to offer her a seat. It was good for her to know her place as the junior partner in their shared enterprise. He jabbed at the map.
“France has just raided again. Gave our fleet a bloody nose then sacked a port in Devon. And the Gallic swine is now trying to persuade Ireland to join in on his side, all while our Dutch allies are desperate for us to commit against France on the continent. And that’s ignoring the conflicts sparking off in the colonies.”
Wales cocked her head, knowing he hadn’t yet finished. “But there’s something else that’s bothering you?”
England and America sat at opposite ends of the couch, beers bottles and a pizza box between them. The thing was, you couldn’t ever look away from America when there was pizza. You’d grab two slices and there’d be six left. Look away for a second. Now there’s two slices left and he’s already eaten half of his share. How is that possible? England stopped asking fifty years ago.
America turned and asked, “How you been, man?”
“Oh, I mean…” England caught a funny look.
“Uh, right, okay. So I, uh, haven’t heard from you guys in a while, ‘cept a few business calls here and there. How’s everyone after the whole Brexit disaster? How’s Scotland? He okay?”
“Uhhhhh…” England stared into his glass. “You could say that.”
Scotland threw the curled newspaper at England. It nailed him in the chest before dropping to the ground. A headline screamed up at them: WE’RE OUT!
“You fucked me! You fucked me, you fucked me, you–“
“Come on, Scotland–“
“Do you know where you fucked me, England?”
“Please don’ say–“
“Right in the ass!”
“There it is.”
In the kitchen, Northern Ireland plopped a bottle of something down on the counter.
England had to squint. “Is that bleach?”
“It is,” Northern Ireland said. He poured two glasses. “Cheers.”