Minimum Wage: Aftermath of A Kick to the Cha-Cha’s

(Continued From)

So there I am, lying on the porch, the pain in slowly dissipating. While the severity of the situation grows on me. Stranded in 1960 Washington, D.C. With an asian guy from Canada, Machismo Wainwright, and a really young Bill Clinton, he has to be about twelve. He is also hungry as he has just reminded me for the second time in five minutes, that he would like to get a sandwich or some wings. I didn’t even know they had wings in the sixties.

“We just got kicked in the junk by a young Pat Buchanan, who stole our time machine and has gone into the future to assume the identity of Ted Cruz! Do you really think now is the time to worry about food?” I scold the once and future president.

“I’m sorry. I just always have fought time traveling conservatives better on a full stomach.” he says with a doughy faced grin.

“Is that your attempt at ironic appropriationalist internet humor?”

“What’s the internet?”

“Don’t worry, your best friend will say he invented it, get ribbed for saying he invented it, then become the sex symbol of the environmentalist world.”

“Way to go Bobby!” young Bill Clinton says with a glance to the sky.

I just look at the kid in disbelief. When I was his age and weight, he was running the country. Now – since we figured it was safest to get a younger and less wild version of young Bill Clinton – I could be brought up on kidnapping charges.

I sit up and check on Machismo. He says he is fine, but I know that he is beating himself up for leaving the keys in the car. “Don’t worry man, we are going to be just fine. We’re gonna do great!”

Machismo opens his mouth to speak. Before he can say a sound, he is interrupted by a new voice as someone rounds the house. “Finally! I was getting tired of waiting on you to say something like that so we could make our grand entrance. Mr. Flare for the drama, probably voted for Obama, over here wouldn’t have it any other way.” The voice is fast, with that nasally southern drawl. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place where. My view is intercepted by a pie chart as a turn to find the speaker.

“See here, this is how much the space time continuum has veered from your reality since you bunch of panty-waists let Patsy steal the time machine.”

A blur of color fills my binocular vision. I can’t make out anything other than blurred colors where my vision overlaps. My brain screams at the paradox of only seeing yellow in my left eye, blue in my right, and green in the center. In attempt to better make out what the holder would like me to see, I lean back, putting distance between the pie chart and myself. Whoever is holding it though just keeps it against the tip of my nose. Pushing it to keep it at the current distance.

“I can’t read your damn pie chart!” I roar as I rip from the grip of the holder and send it flying like a broke ass frisby. The continuation of my rant falls short. In fact, I don’t think it would be a good idea to berate any further. One in a business suit, the other is some futuristic mechanized battle suit thing. Names swim in my head and I find them almost instantly. However, they don’t leave my lips as their conversation continues and I sit awestruck.

“I don’t believe you can call them panty-waists.” Mr. Roboto responds. His voice is slower, deep and bouncy. Well thought out by comparison.

“It is 1960 Washington, D.C. I can do whatever I want! Wanna get a hooker? Fine! Wanna go do blow with absolutely any politician? Fine! Wanna call a couple of losers and a fat kid panty-waists because they practically gave a time machine to my good friend Patsy, who honestly has no business having a time machine, because he can’t help himself? Why don’t you just go ahead and give a bottle to a baby or something!”

“That isn’t a very apt metaphor, Hank. You see, people generally give babies,” The chastisement is cut short.

“Quit bustin’ me in the bean bag for god sakes Ralphy! This is why we never hang out!”

“That isn’t the only reason.” he responds with a smirk.

(Continued)

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