Overlord L’Orange: Observations of an Average Citizen, Installment #110; “The Foot of the Unknown Bone Spur”

         As Overlord L’Orange scrolled through his Twitter feed in the wee hours of Memorial Day morning, he came across a meme of himself that read: “L’Orange lays a wreath at The Foot of the Unknown Bone Spur”. There was a photo attached, showing L’Orange holding a giant wreath, surrounded by military personnel.

     L’Orange was confused; had this already happened? No…he was sure he would remember it, especially since he considered himself a stable genius. If this had actually happened, he would most certainly remember it.

     He thought it must be an advertisement for a future speaking engagement. And how exciting that they (meaning everyone else) were taking bone spurs seriously. It was about time they gave him the respect that he deserved.

     L’Orange contacted his Press Secretary, and demanded that she find the location of this giant foot immediately, so he could get proper photo ops with it (better than this grainy meme) on Memorial Day – no time like the present! He did have Air Force One at his disposal, after all, specifically for situations such as this.

     His Press Secretary tried to explain to him that this was “Fake News”, whereupon L’Orange exclaimed, “I’ll be the judge of that!” then demanded, “Do you want to keep your job, or not?” For some unknown reason, she did.

     Since it was L’Orange’s daughter’s turn to be in charge of the Unwed Mother’s Internment Camp in Alabama, his Press Secretary had a little extra time to set this thing up, and frankly she was looking forward to getting away from all those screaming unwanted inbred babies for awhile and direct her energy toward doing something she was a little more qualified to do than nurture and take care of crack-addicted infants.

     “Sarah!” L’Orange shouted. “I want it now!”

     “I’m on it, Sir!” Sarah stammered.

     The Overlord wondered aloud why she hadn’t thought of this press opportunity sooner. “Why is it that I always have to come up with the best ideas?” he opined.

     L’Orange’s Press Secretary managed to locate a giant foot sculpture at California Institute of the Arts in Valencia, CA. She hastily contacted the university, but as it was Memorial Day, the campus was closed.

     “I don’t want to hear any excuses!” the Overlord exclaimed. “Make it happen!”

     “But, L’Orange, Sir…the campus is closed for the holiday, and you’re still in Japan…”

     “Don’t you think I know where I am?” the Overlord exploded.

     There was an uncomfortable silence.

     “Look,” L’Orange said, “I’ll just have to leave a little early…this is tremendously important…it’s like a ‘Déjà vu’.”

     “A ‘Déjà vu’?”

     “Yes, it’s like it’s already happened, but it hasn’t happened yet. Or it’s happening again. Or it’s about to happen. I don’t have time to explain everything to you all of the time! Just make it happen now!”

     “But L’Orange, even if we make it to CalArts today, the campus is closed…there’s no one there.”

     “Call the military in!” growled L’Orange. “Do I have to think of everything?!”

     So the military was called in, the President of the university was informed they’d be coming (despite his adamant protests) and hasty goodbyes were exchanged with Shinzo Abe, who was honestly glad to see him go.

     The giant wreath was provided by Santa Anita Park racetrack at the last minute, as there had been very little winning there in several months, due to all the dying horses.

     Upon seeing the giant wreath, the Overlord slipped it over his own head and started prancing around like a pony. “Look at me! Look at me!” He cried. “I’m a horsey! I’m a winning horsey!”

     The paid extras (who were recruited from Central Casting at the eleventh hour to form a “crowd” of people around L’Orange) exchanged concerned glances with each other.

     As it was dark by this point, the photos did not turn out well — the only photographer available at such short notice on a holiday weekend came directly from a children’s birthday party and didn’t have the proper lighting equipment — so the original meme was used in the end, credited to “Artist Unknown”.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda Confers with Her Online Witch's Group"

   Miss Linda decided to write to her online Witch’s Facebook group to ask for advice in dealing with the spirit inside her house. She wrote: “Just curious…let’s say you turned around in your house (with ‘good vibes’) and inadvertently stuck your hand inside some plasmic goo, mid-air, about chest level. What then?”

     Their answers were varied.

     The first response was a GIF of a well-built man pointing and gesticulating, wearing a snugly-fitting white T-shirt, and covered in dripping green slime – obviously meant as a joke.

     Another replied: “You should probably take it easy on the drugs for a few days.” (Miss Linda hit the “thumbs-down” button in response to this.)

     And there was just: “Gross!”

     Another answered: “Say Gesundheit, and offer a tissue?”

     “Wait and see what happens…just because weird sh*t is happening doesn’t mean it’s bad. You don’t know until you know.” (Miss Linda hit the “thumbs-up” button for this one.)

     “Request Z-Pak from the doctor.” (Thumbs-down.)

     And: “I guess say hello and introduce yourself politely, just in case.” (Thumbs-up.)

     “I’m gellin’, you gellin’?”

     “I’d shield, ground, quiet myself, and reach out for communication.” (Thumbs-up.)

     Lastly: “Rotate ninety degrees.” Miss Linda was frankly still trying to wrap her head around that one. If she rotated plasmic goo ninety degrees, wouldn’t she be spreading it, or amplifying it? That could get messy.

     Miss Linda obviously liked some of the answers more than others, but decided to contemplate them all, just to cover her bases. As it was her first time in dealing with a spirit up close and personal, she wanted to make sure she did not act too rashly.

Overlord L’Orange: Observations of an Average Citizen, Installment #109; “Alabama”

     

     Overlord L’Orange has been placing ultra-conservative judges in the Supreme Court and various other judges in various other courts in order to further the Republican party’s attempt at controlling the masses of out-of-control women and people of color.

     These old white geezers like to stick together. It makes them feel safe, in an out-of-control world. Everyone knows it’s a ‘Man’s World’, and men need to rein in their fillies!

     Yesterday a female governor (ironically, and by no means accidentally chosen for this task because of her femaleness) in Alabama decreed that all abortions will be illegal, even in the case of rape and incest. 

     Why do the Republicans hate women so much?! My theory is that it’s because they’re terrified of them. They sense women’s inherent power, and feel the need to squelch it, to make themselves feel bigger and better.

     It’s interesting that at this point in time, when women have more power than they’ve ever had before, ‘The Man’ wants to take women’s right to control their own bodies away. ‘In the name of God.’ Bullsh*t! In the name of servitude to ‘The man’.

     As more and more children are going to be born now, with inbred defects and serial-killer tendencies inherited from their rapist ‘fathers’, the Overlord has decided to set up special internment camps to raise them.

     Since women are apparently naturally cut out to be breeders and raisers-of-children, the Overlord has appointed his own daughter, Ivanka, his female Press Secretary Sarah, his female ‘Counselor’, Kellyanne, and his wife/beard, Melania to co-run these internment camps for all the children whose mothers were forced to bear them against their own will, because if they didn’t they would be jailed or executed. These internment camps will be overseen by his ‘Personal Pastor’, Paula (whose last name is White…you can’t make this sh*t up).

     “But Daddy!” complains Ivanka, “I have my own children to raise!”

     “So, do I,” says Sarah, sullenly.

     “Me, too!” Kellyanne quips.

     “As do I.” Melania drones.

     “And I’m running a multi-million dollar scam organization!” yelps the ‘Pastor’. “Plus Kids!”

     Ivanka rolls her eyes. “We’re all running multi-million dollar scam organizations, plus kids!”

     “It’s the only way!” the Overlord booms. “It’s ‘The Lord's Way'!

     “L’Orange, you don’t actually believe in ‘Ze Lord’s Vay’!” his wife exclaims, hands on hips, frown on lips.

     “I do now! And women need to know their ‘place!’ Thanks to you ladies, we’re going to show the country, the good ‘ole US of A who’s in charge here! Now start packing! Your nannies can raise your children; if it was good enough for me, it’s good enough for them. God Bless America!”

     The women stare at each other in disbelief, not realizing until this moment that they have brought this on themselves, just like their menstrual cycles, instigated by Eve’s weakness in the Garden of Eden. After all, everyone knows that men are far superior, and Baby Jesus wants it this way.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda Inadvertently Sticks Her Hand Inside a Spirit"

     Miss Linda hosted a 4th of July party every year; not because she was particularly patriotic, but because the El Caballero Country Club shot off fireworks every year for their members and the fireworks just happened to explode right over Miss Linda’s backyard, as her house overlooked the tee-off hole. This was also her parents’ wedding anniversary, and they, too, had hosted many 4th of July parties here in their younger days. 

     Each year that Overlord L’Orange was in office, it was getting harder and harder to muster up the energy to celebrate the birth of our country, and it seemed ironic now that it was called “Independence Day”, as the Overlord was chipping away at everyone’s freedom and independence on a daily basis. Miss Linda loved to dress up for any occasion, but donning the ‘ole Red, White, and Blue attire was getting less inspiring with each passing year of his administration. Miss Linda tried to focus instead on her friends who showed up to celebrate, and the delicious potluck spread that they brought with them. There was usually enough food and alcohol left over to last for a couple of weeks or more. Except for the beer, which Manuel polished off post-haste. 

     On this particular evening, Miss Linda was cleaning up in the wee hours of the night after a very successful party (she had a reputation for throwing successful parties), and was downstairs alone in the dining room putting away stars-and-stripes serving platters inside the party pantry, when she turned away from the cupboard door to reach for another platter on the sideboard and stuck her hand directly inside some plasmic goo, hovering mid-air, about chest level. It was invisible, but tangible. Miss Linda gasped, but was not altogether taken aback, as she was somewhat used to unusual things happening. She took a deep breath and waited. Nothing. She reached her hand out again, but the plasmic goo was gone, leaving only a slight residue on the floor at her feet, and a pervasive scent of Night-Blooming Jasmine.

     This happened to be the room that her father had died in, several years before. “Poppa?” she asked. There was no answer.

     Just then a very late-night (or very early-morning) firework randomly exploded over the house, showering down golden-white trails of expansive dancing light.

     Miss Linda was a strong believer in “signs”, delivered in various forms.

Overlord L'Orange: Observations of an Average Citizen, Installment #108; "Putin's Bitch"

     It was time for Overlord L’Orange to report to his overseer, Vladimir Putin, or “Vladdy” (as he liked L’Orange to call him). It was a “term of affection”, and also seemed fitting to L’Orange, as Putin was kind of like his long-lost Daddy. It was a double entendre, even though L’Orange did not know what that meant.

     L’Orange was feeling giddy as a schoolgirl this morning, like he was going to his first Prom, as he sat at his desk nervously, preparing to make his phone call. This was definitely different than Tweeting! More hair-raising. On-the-spot. He ran his fingers through the Silkie sleeping on his scalp, and straightened out his signature red tie. He was a fraud and phony, a treasonous traitor, a ghoulish shape-shifter, depending on who he was with, similar to the demons living inside Regan from The Exorcist who declare: “I am nothing! I am no one!” Ironically, today at the White House L’Orange’s “personal pastor” spoke and trumpeted that “We declare every demonic network to be scattered right now!” Of course there were jokes all over the internet afterward that obviously her exorcism didn’t work, because L’Orange is still there, fidgeting uncomfortably at his desk and being broadly inept. This “personal pastor” is a television evangelist with bleached blonde hair and what appears to be plastic surgery gone awry, and is married to a former rock star from the 1970’s. She wore a string of pearls as she performed her “exorcism”, dainty and powerful at the same time; the women in the L’Orange administration love to wear pearls! It makes them appear more ladylike, instead of Snake-Oil salesmen-like, or sell-your-soul-to-the-Devil-for-a-dollar-like. It helps the racist old geezers trust these women even more, these nice young gals with spunk, wearing good old-fashioned pearl necklaces, fighting the Good Fight! The Lord’s fight.

     Speaking of lords and ladies, L’Orange’s phone call was going through to his Master, Putin.

     Putin spoke first: “Talk to me!” he said, picking up the phone in the middle of the first ring.

     L’Orange cleared his throat, nervously. “No collusion! No puppet!” he croaked.

     “L’Orange…save it for your followers…it’s me, Vladdy!”

     “It was all a big hoax! A Witch hunt!” L’Orange went on.

     “Yes, that’s right, a big hoax, a big Witch hunt. You know just what to say, don’t you, L’Orange? You have the best words. You are a stable genius,” Putin satiated.

     L’Orange blushed, a deep crimson red. Whenever he blushed it was a deep crimson red color, for obvious reasons.

     “You vill tell people that it vas mouse, not mountain?”

     The Silkie stirred sleepily on L’Orange’s head. “Yes, yes, it was a mouse, not a mountain!”

     “Very good, very good! We don’t vant you to end up in prison, or vorse, do ve?”

     “Or worse?” L’Orange pondered.

     “Vell, you know…sometimes things happen to people who don’t follow the rules or instructions, and sometimes things happen to people who break the rules and then don’t cover them up effectively, no?”

     “No! No, no, no, no, no!” blurted L’Orange.

     “So, we have an ‘understanding’? Our ‘understanding’ still holds?”

     “Yes, of course, it still holds!”

     “Very good, very good…you are smart man, L’Orange. Such a smart, smart man. You know vat is good for you, yes?”

     “I…yes. I know what is good for me!” L’Orange felt confused.

     “And who is your Vladdy?” Putin asked, with a slight smile, and a gleam in his eyes.

     “You are,” responded L’Orange.

     “Let me hear you say it!”

     “You are my Vladdy, Putin. You are my Vladdy!”

     “That’s right! And don’t you forget it!”

     “Never,” vowed L’Orange.

     “But, if you do forget, Kim Jong-un has a present or two for you, as a reminder! Big, strong, powerful presents!”

     L’Orange remained silent. He knew that Putin liked to have the last word. After they terminated their call, L’Orange sat at his desk for a few minutes, stroking his Silkie with one hand, while gnawing on the thumb of his free hand. These moments of contemplation were rare, far-between, and extremely uncomfortable for him. He much preferred not having to think or feel at all.