Today I am free.
For too long I’ve been held beneath my wife’s dominance, but now I have taken action. Seizing cushions from our couch and loveseat, I built a fort in the center of our living room. I call it my “Special Persons Autonomous Zone.”
Or, “SPAZ.”
Don’t misunderstand, SPAZ isn’t anarchy. It is not without government, as I have installed an Elmo doll as my official Warlord. Yes, Elmo rules with an iron fist—but I’m not scared. It is for my own good. Charging reasonable fees, Elmo assures me this protection money will keep all SPAZ businesses safe from common, reasonable pressures of our community, like burnings.
Thankfully, I’m not alone in my struggle. Seattle’s Mayor Jenny Durkan has already voiced her support, saying, “SPAZ isn’t terrorism; it’s patriotism.” I’m told she said the same for similar actions in her city. Honoring liberty, she calls SPAZ “a place for free speech, community, and self expression.” Well done, Mayor Durkan. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Unfortunately, it’s been 20 minutes now, and supplies are running low. I’m starting to realize SPAZ has no resources of its own, except a Cliff Bar I looted from a nearby cabinet before walling myself in. Gotta make that last. But hey, it’s all good. This won’t be a Donner Party thing—at least I don’t think so—because I’m sure allies like Mayor Durkan will air-drop provisions. I just hope she can meet my extensive vegan demands, or I’ll never build a paradise like Seattle or Minneapolis.
Now there is some controversy, as not everyone recognizes the sovereign state of SPAZ. There has been pushback, most notably from a Trump-supporting faction I call, “Women Inflicting Fascism Everywhere,” or “WIFE.” Negotiations have stalled. Thus far, WIFE ignores my protests, even when I shout “Hey hey! Ho ho! Chick Flick Fridays have to go!” In a show of force, WIFE just callously turns up the volume on “The Wedding Planner.”
The sounds of tyranny, my brothers. The sounds of tyranny. Stay strong.
I accused WIFE of systemic oppression, then she reeled off tons of statistics showing otherwise—brow-beating me with numbers rather than hearing my pain. In response, I gave her the same statement she got from an actual Black Lives Matter advocate in an actual online debate:
“It doesn’t matter what the facts are if you’re on the wrong side of the issue.”
After a slight twitch from her left eye, WIFE asked what I wanted. I gave her a list of demands, including the immediate release of anyone matching my demographic from prisons everywhere, and the defunding of all authorities not named “Elmo.” After twitching again, she asked if she could count on Elmo’s help if our home was broken into during the night. Oh, I was ready for that one. Quoting Minneapolis City Council President Lisa Bender, I told WIFE her question “comes from a place of privilege.”
More twitching. Seems chronic. Could be COVID.
Anyway, my cause is just. WIFE may hold the remote—along with all functioning parts of the home—but not the truth! I have the truth, and I can live on that! When the nights turn cold, I’ll cover myself in truth! When supplies run out, I’ll eat truth! If necessary, I’ll use truth for sanitation purposes! WIFE thinks she has the upper hand, just because she runs everything everywhere that produces anything! But I have truth! And my truth can’t be measured by facts that don’t matter!
Sadly, only Elmo understands me, and that’s not good, since he just seized the Cliff Bar. When I asked if I could have the crumbs for nourishment, Elmo said he needed it all, since quality protection doesn’t come cheap. Then he hobbled me with a baton.
Man, freedom hurts.
To be honest, things started going south in SPAZ. I wanted to air my grievances with Elmo, but he just looked at me and casually mentioned he’s ticklish. That was…awkward. I mean, invitations to tickle my Warlord must violate harassment statutes, right?
I backed away to the opposite corner of my fort. SPAZ can be a scary place.
But now, the crisis is over. At long last, President Trump contacted WIFE and said if she doesn’t get control of her house, he will. He’ll send in the military, turn on some real movies that real human beings want to watch, and ship me to Guantanamo. There he’ll re-institute Enhanced Interrogation, without even asking me anything.
The threat worked. Apocalypse averted. WIFE has turned on U-571, which still has Matthew McConaughey, but it’s about war, submarines, and loud noises—so I can understand it. The cushions are back on the couch, and I’m not being water-boarded on an island somewhere.
All is well. Once again, we see a great truth in life: If you thoroughly annoy good people who have done nothing wrong, they’ll fold.
I learned it from Al Sharpton.
So be strong, my brothers. Find your inner strength. Deep down, there’s a SPAZ in all of us.
For too long I’ve been held beneath my wife’s dominance, but now I have taken action. Seizing cushions from our couch and loveseat, I built a fort in the center of our living room. I call it my “Special Persons Autonomous Zone.”
Or, “SPAZ.”
Don’t misunderstand, SPAZ isn’t anarchy. It is not without government, as I have installed an Elmo doll as my official Warlord. Yes, Elmo rules with an iron fist—but I’m not scared. It is for my own good. Charging reasonable fees, Elmo assures me this protection money will keep all SPAZ businesses safe from common, reasonable pressures of our community, like burnings.
Thankfully, I’m not alone in my struggle. Seattle’s Mayor Jenny Durkan has already voiced her support, saying, “SPAZ isn’t terrorism; it’s patriotism.” I’m told she said the same for similar actions in her city. Honoring liberty, she calls SPAZ “a place for free speech, community, and self expression.” Well done, Mayor Durkan. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Unfortunately, it’s been 20 minutes now, and supplies are running low. I’m starting to realize SPAZ has no resources of its own, except a Cliff Bar I looted from a nearby cabinet before walling myself in. Gotta make that last. But hey, it’s all good. This won’t be a Donner Party thing—at least I don’t think so—because I’m sure allies like Mayor Durkan will air-drop provisions. I just hope she can meet my extensive vegan demands, or I’ll never build a paradise like Seattle or Minneapolis.
Now there is some controversy, as not everyone recognizes the sovereign state of SPAZ. There has been pushback, most notably from a Trump-supporting faction I call, “Women Inflicting Fascism Everywhere,” or “WIFE.” Negotiations have stalled. Thus far, WIFE ignores my protests, even when I shout “Hey hey! Ho ho! Chick Flick Fridays have to go!” In a show of force, WIFE just callously turns up the volume on “The Wedding Planner.”
The sounds of tyranny, my brothers. The sounds of tyranny. Stay strong.
I accused WIFE of systemic oppression, then she reeled off tons of statistics showing otherwise—brow-beating me with numbers rather than hearing my pain. In response, I gave her the same statement she got from an actual Black Lives Matter advocate in an actual online debate:
“It doesn’t matter what the facts are if you’re on the wrong side of the issue.”
After a slight twitch from her left eye, WIFE asked what I wanted. I gave her a list of demands, including the immediate release of anyone matching my demographic from prisons everywhere, and the defunding of all authorities not named “Elmo.” After twitching again, she asked if she could count on Elmo’s help if our home was broken into during the night. Oh, I was ready for that one. Quoting Minneapolis City Council President Lisa Bender, I told WIFE her question “comes from a place of privilege.”
More twitching. Seems chronic. Could be COVID.
Anyway, my cause is just. WIFE may hold the remote—along with all functioning parts of the home—but not the truth! I have the truth, and I can live on that! When the nights turn cold, I’ll cover myself in truth! When supplies run out, I’ll eat truth! If necessary, I’ll use truth for sanitation purposes! WIFE thinks she has the upper hand, just because she runs everything everywhere that produces anything! But I have truth! And my truth can’t be measured by facts that don’t matter!
Sadly, only Elmo understands me, and that’s not good, since he just seized the Cliff Bar. When I asked if I could have the crumbs for nourishment, Elmo said he needed it all, since quality protection doesn’t come cheap. Then he hobbled me with a baton.
Man, freedom hurts.
To be honest, things started going south in SPAZ. I wanted to air my grievances with Elmo, but he just looked at me and casually mentioned he’s ticklish. That was…awkward. I mean, invitations to tickle my Warlord must violate harassment statutes, right?
I backed away to the opposite corner of my fort. SPAZ can be a scary place.
But now, the crisis is over. At long last, President Trump contacted WIFE and said if she doesn’t get control of her house, he will. He’ll send in the military, turn on some real movies that real human beings want to watch, and ship me to Guantanamo. There he’ll re-institute Enhanced Interrogation, without even asking me anything.
The threat worked. Apocalypse averted. WIFE has turned on U-571, which still has Matthew McConaughey, but it’s about war, submarines, and loud noises—so I can understand it. The cushions are back on the couch, and I’m not being water-boarded on an island somewhere.
All is well. Once again, we see a great truth in life: If you thoroughly annoy good people who have done nothing wrong, they’ll fold.
I learned it from Al Sharpton.
So be strong, my brothers. Find your inner strength. Deep down, there’s a SPAZ in all of us.
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