A Letter of Welcome to Our Fascist Overlords

Dear Amazing Fascist Overlords,

Thank your god you’ve arrived! Just in time, too, because things were getting out of hand, what with people flaunting their human and civil rights, reading whatever they want and doing things in the privacy of their own bedrooms that I personally find icky.

I know you’ve been working hard on eliminating this pesky democracy, and I wanted to be the first to write a letter of gratitude for your perseverance. We haven’t been that easy to subvert, and you are to be praised for your dedication to the task. (Please remember how much I admired and supported you from the get-go when you’re deciding which of us should be put into camps in the desert.)

Having one leader for the rest of his or her life (only kidding! I know it will be a penis-haver who will always be in charge) could not make me happier. I was tired of voting. It. Was. So. Hard! Who has time to try to figure out which candidates are human beings who want to improve our lives and which are lifelike robots like Elon Musk who want to use us as crash test dummies on flights to Mars? Not to mention how those “I Voted!” stickers always left glue on my good sweater. I had to make a special trip to that one drycleaner I don’t like because he didn’t say “Good morning” back to me that time, but he’s the only one who could get the gummy stuff out.

If history is right (and by history, I mean white, evangelical, male history, of course), you’ll probably soon be replacing all of our wardrobes with something utilitarian and drab. Finally! I can’t tell you how tired I am of scrolling through Etsy into the wee hours of the night to find a blue zip-up corduroy jacket, only to be shown jackets that are not blue, zip-up, or corduroy. Do they think I’m stupid? Give me a nice gray jumpsuit that looks just like what everyone else is wearing so I don’t have to worry about whether I wore the same thing the last time I went to a party. Not that I anticipate there being parties in my future, and that is just fine with me, what with my social anxiety and ADHD. If my jumpsuit is made in a sweatshop by children from Arkansas and Iowa, I won’t complain. Tiny hands are so much better at detailed stitching.

A lot of my fellow Americans are worried about what the future will hold now that you’re in charge, but I’m excited. For example, I can’t wait for the day when I no longer have to work out. We all know that everyone from Idris Elba to Idris Elba’s slightly lesser known and chunkier brother Whodis looks equally schlumpy in a gray jumpsuit, so why should I worry about muscle definition or cardiovascular health? No more leg days and arm days at the gym for me! I’ll be happy to sit on the sofa eating the one potato you graciously ration to us for the day’s caloric intake.

And I can’t wait to see what you do about sex. It’s been like one giant porn movie shoot here for the past several decades, what with everybody rutting like bunnies and putting things into other things that are clearly sinful, not to mention, dirty. I blame Sex in the City. As a woman who has passed her childbearing years and has no reason to have sex any more, I’m hoping to be assigned a job policing what other people do with their junk, as the kids call it these days. If you need a Martha, I’m ready to serve. I’ve never had Botox and can scowl with the best of them.

Before I go, I should let you know that I have two children and they are, well, not bright. Their grades in history, math, and science embarrass me as well as everyone in the school district. I’m hoping those subjects will be eliminated and replaced with something more to their abilities, such as memorizing the lyrics to the Kid Rock songs Wax the Booty and  Killin’ Brain Cells. This seems more suited to their intellect. They are, however, good at avoiding gunfire. I know that will probably come in even more handy in the future.

In closing, I prostrate myself at your feet in gratitude. I just know that you will make our lives so much easier. Having too many choices causes stress. Having no choices about anything ever will finally bring me to that Zen state that has been eluding me for so long despite my many attempts to meditate and/or find the right strain of weed for blissful peace. Now that I won’t have any problems to solve or  decisions to make, I’m sure I’ll sleep deeply. As long as I’m not in a camp in the desert. I have back pain that requires a pillowtop mattress, and I need some place to plug in my sleep apnea mask.

Signed,

Your Fan Forever (or Until the Next Coup)