Last night, my two-year-old son and I watched Hillary Clinton deliver her historic victory speech on CNN, me sucking down a double bottle of Pinot Grigio through two straws I jammed together; my gifted child guzzling milk from both of my desiccated breasts. (How can I tell him no? He’s a growing boy, thirsty for knowledge.)


About a third of the way into the speech, my 99th-percentile little guy looked up at me with worried eyes. “Mommy,” he said softly, “Why does the lady look so sad?”


“Are you talking about me or Hillary Clinton, pumpkin?” I asked. “I’m sad because my vaginal elasticity is completely shot. I’m sad because fucking is like hitting a baseball into the Grand Canyon.”

“The lady on TV, the old witch, why is she so sad?”



“I don’t know, honey pie, I just don’t know,” I said, my blood alcohol content a flirtatious .07. “Being a woman is hard.”


“Being a lady is harder than being a disenfranchised impoverished youth?” he countered, tit milk dribbling out the corners of his mouth.

“I can’t say. Are you talking about yourself? Or another hypothetical youth?” I asked. “You know you are too young to work.”


“Mama, wah wah, why is the liberal media so openly hostile to the radical left?” he followed up, not noticing that he was now sucking down a breast milk n’ blood cocktail. “Don’t you think that CNN’s disdain for the anticapitalist movement is more damaging to America than it would be to just never allow women to talk?”


“That would mean that I would never talk, poopsy,” I slurred into a garbage bag, my son unyieldingly pinching my nipples with both his tiny fists. He was having one of his tantrums.

“Don’t you think that the Clintons are really the embodiment of the bourgeoisie?” he asked, “Guilty of pitilessly tearing asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his ‘natural superiors,’ and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, callous ‘cash-payment?’”


“I am still your mother,” I spelled on the floor with my own vomit.

“But mommy, aren’t the Clintons are single-handedly guilty of drowning the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation?? Have they not resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, have set up that single unconscionable freedom, free trade?! In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, they have substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation! Don’t you understand, mother, that the Clintons have torn away from the family its sentimental veil, and has reduced the family relation to a mere money relation?!”




“Babykins, it is not my fault that your father doesn’t believe in participating in the workforce and is now patiently extorting me from his kibbutz in Coney Island,” I said, now in an ambulance with several tight EMTs working my body with their hands; my enormous, woke son still latched onto my breasts like a 30-pound leech.


Due to my 3.2 b.a.c. mixed with all that blood loss, my heart rate monitor in the ambulance flatlined.

“Mommy, does that big machine measure America’s political revolution?” said my son who had outgrown carseats even before he tore open my bottom.


But I couldn’t answer, because I was dead.

