CSI: American Carnage (Tuesday, March 19, 2019)
Little Timmy, pup reporter, and Sarah, his friend from the resistance pot luck, leave the bus in the parking lot fronting the border facility. Jumbo, the salacious driver, is cowering in the back. Timmy says, Never mind him. We should try and find Mohammed. He could be here, in this awful place. Sarah says, The autocrat cares nothing about these poor children. He uses them as players in his sick teevee show. Timmy and Sarah make their way to the facility’s servant entrance and join a work detail of brown-skinned children carrying shovels and wearing hard hats and striped uniforms. Guards on horseback head-up the detail. Sarah spots a pile of helmets and grabs two. They trudge along. Timmy says to one child to his right, Hi, I am Timmy. The child does not look up. He trudges in silence. To Timmy’s left is another boy. Timmy says, Do you know anyone named Mohammed? The boy looks up. He says, There are many Mohammeds in the Muslim pens. They are inspected and processed daily. Many Mohammeds. Many. He falls silent and trudges with the rest. Timmy says to Sarah, It’s possible Mohammed is still here. We must find him. Sarah looks around. She says, The autocrat has brought down much sadness and pain on these poor children. He has ruined their lives, yet remains completely indifferent and unaccountable. Timmy says, We’ll find Mohammed and then we’ll see who’s unaccountable. Meanwhile, at a diner downtown, the Ghost of John McCain, tears running down the rotting flesh of his cheeks, turns from the lunch counter and exits down the steps, chains clanking. Lindsey, he wails, where is my gorgeous Lindsey? Perhaps he is at home in South Carolina. Beautiful Seneca, South Carolina. I’ll mail myself to him. The Ghost of McCain now smiles with his plan, dislodging two teeth that fall to the sidewalk. The Ghost enters a post box and is instantly transported to Seneca, South Carolina. The Ghost thinks, This is like magic, this postal service, but it is a long way from Lindsey’s house. He heads up the road, dripping mud. No one will stop for him and then his thumb falls off, making hitchhiking impossible. He says to himself, looking at the decaying thumb, I am so glad I have already voted against that meglomaniac and his supposed health-care plan. No thumbs down anymore. The Ghost eventually comes to the modest Graham house, with its smattering of pine trees in the front yard and its poor-man’s Palladian windows. The Ghost rings the bell. There is no answer. Lindsey is not home. The Ghost of John McCain begins to weep again. Lindsey, my beautiful Lindsey, where could you be? He sits and waits for Lindsey, who at that moment is defending the president to the Fake News™. I know how the game is played, Lindsey is saying, as the Ghost of McCain staggers around to the back of his house. Lindsey says, I don’t give a damn if you think I’m two-faced. If you don’t like me working with President Trump to make the world a better place, I don’t give a shit.
— Tuesday, March 19, 2019