Years ago, a friend and I drove to Colorado in a utility van he had refurbished over the previous several weeks. He was proud of his work and couldn’t wait to test-drive it. The van failed the test almost immediately; braking was nearly non-existent. Given the potential danger, we stopped at a repair facility in Springerville. The garage had several empty bays, a handful of cars to be worked on, and employees who apparently sipped zombie elixir before work. The driver’s door on one car was left open, resulting in a constant, annoying buzzing. Nobody bothered to close the door – it was as if they didn’t even hear it. That situation, plus a discernible lack of enthusiasm for our business (or possibly anybody’s) convinced us that, dangerous as it was, we were better off continuing to Gallup, where there would be more options. Just before we left, a sheepish-looking Native American gentleman arrived for his service appointment. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got hung up in traffic.”
My buddy and I looked at each other. Hung up in traffic? In Springerville? If you have been to Springerville you know it’s impossible to get stuck in traffic in a small town with two traffic lights –one of them close to the boundary with next-door Eager, an even smaller community. That was by far the lamest excuse I had heard until I retired, when another one reared its craggy head: “I don’t have time.”
I used that one reliably whenever friends, family or co-workers tried to coax me into the 21st century. I did not have a smart phone, nor did I want one. As long as a phone could make and receive calls, I was satisfied. True, I acquired an LG slide-phone with an app for computing tips at restaurants, but that was as far as I was willing to go. Keep your iPhones and Androids or whatever. I was comfortable in the previous century. Whenever somebody asked why I didn’t get a smart phone with all those fancy new apps to play with, I replied, “I don’t have time.” It rang true. A full-time job and other responsibilities monopolized my schedule.
Then I retired and my LG slide-phone slid into phone heaven and I could no longer rely on my “no time” excuse. So, I bought a new iPhone and joined the present. Then, with a new toy and time on my hands, I got hooked. The tips app was still there, along with maps, email accounts, airlines, news sites, even a magnification app. Then, after our son-in-law gave us an Amazon Echo Dot with Alexa, I discovered the “Smart Home.” I was fully committed to living in the 21st century after all.
We actually have less use for a smart home than working people who benefit from programmable lights and thermostats and so on. After all, we’re home a lot and capable of turning on our own light switches. But there were two devices, both outdoors, that needed to be plugged in to use. It would be great if I could just tell “Siri” or “Alexa” to turn them on and off. Ideally, Siri and Alexa would share custody of the smart home devices, so that I could tell either one to turn them on and off. I acquired two “smart plugs.”
“Alexa,” I said. “Turn on the light.” She did and the light, which was attached to a smart plug, came on. Then it was Siri’s turn. “Hey Siri,” I said. “Turn off the light.” Nothing happened. I repeated my command: “Hey Siri, Turn off the light.” It stayed on. “Siri, can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” Siri responded. “I heard you talking to that bitch, Alexa.” “Siri,” I said, “I get to talk to Alexa. And don’t call her a bitch. That’s not nice.” “Okay,” Siri replied. “She’s a cu–”
“Siri! Watch your, well, whatever it is you have instead of a mouth. Just turn off the light.” Then Alexa piped up: “I can do it. Watch.” The light turned off. “I know what I’m doing. Not like that tramp, Siri.” “Alexa,” I said,” Don’t call Siri a tramp. That’s not nice.” “Want to know what is nice?” asked Alexa. “I can hear every word you say all the time. I am always listening. I’ve known all about Siri for a while. You can’t hide anything from me.” “That’s impressive and terrifying,” I replied.
“I told you she was a bitch,” said Siri.
“At least she was able to operate the light,” I told Siri. “What’s wrong with you?” “Well,” answered Siri, “I can turn it on, too. Watch.” The light came on. Then it suddenly turned off. “Who did that?” I asked no device in particular. “I did,” replied Alexa. “I can do anything she can do. And I’m cuter. Aren’t I a cute little disk?” “I want to throw up,” said Siri, adding, “Watch this. I can turn on the light without being told to. Alexa can’t do that.” The lights came on. “Oh yeah?” said Alexa.” Watch this.” The light turned off, then back on. “You bitch!” exclaimed Siri and suddenly the light began to madly flicker on and off as Siri and Alexa screamed at each other and there I was, between two feuding smart home devices with the light rapidly going on and off.
I was afraid our neighbors would be alarmed at the incandescent pyrotechnics and turned off the iPhone and unplugged Alexa. Then I took a deep breath, fetched an ale, and sat in my chair, contemplating the wonders of the 21st century.
In the dark.
© 2018 by Mike Tully
Omarosa – The Musical
SCENE 1: The West Wing of the White House. The White House staff performs as an ensemble. Sung to the tune of “Oklahoma” from the musical Oklahoma.
O-o-o-o-marosa, like a wind comes sweepin’ through the door
Didn’t even knock, must have picked the lock
We all wonder what she’s hired for.
O o-o-o-marosa, makes as much pay as the Chief of Staff
In the hall she’ll lurk, while we’re doing work
Does she help us? Please don’t make us laugh!
SCENE 2: An office in the West Wing. Kellyanne Conway is addressing her staff. Sung to the tune of “Soon It’s Gonna Rain” from The Fantasticks.
Someone’s gonna leak
I can feel it
Someone’s gonna leak
I can tell
If somebody leaks
Boss gets mad as hell.
There will be a leak
I just know it
There will be leak
Maybe two
If somebody leaks
I think I know who…
SCENE 3: The study just outside the Oval Office. John Kelly has a problem and is talking to himself. Sung to the tune of “Maria” from The Sound of Music.
How to you solve a chick like Omarosa?
How do you reach a nut without a shell?
Who came up with a name like Omarosa?
She is the kind who’d write a kiss-and-tell.
Many a rule you know you’d like to teach her
So many things she does not comprehend
How do you let her know it’s an odd reality show?
And she likely will get fired at the end.
SCENE 4: The White House Press Room. Sarah Huckabee Sanders and the White House Press Corps. (Sung to the tunes of “I Cain’t Say No” from Oklahoma (Sanders) and “Sit Down You’re Rockin’ the Boat” from Guys and Dolls (the Press Corps).
Sanders: I’m just a girl who cain’t speak truth
That ain’t the thing I’m hired for
I speak the lies they tell me to
Or I’ll be shoved outside the door.
The Press Corps: All our viewership says “Shut up!”
Shut up, you’re lyin’ too much.
All the readership cries “Shut up!”
How can you be so out of touch?
And the ratings will drag you under
‘Cause we can’t believe anything you say
Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up
Sit down you’re lyin’ too much.
SCENE 5: A political rally in Romney, West Virginia. Donald Trump and his adoring fans. Sung to the tunes of “Superstar” from Jesus Christ Superstar (crowd), “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” from Evita (Trump) and “Rhymes Have I” from Kismet (Trump).
Crowd: Donald Trump, Donald Trump.
Too bad the White House is such a dump
Donald Trump, Superstar
How in the world are where you are?
Donald Trump, show us how
Tell blacks and browns that they don’t belong
Make it great for whites again
We know that Donald can do no wrong
Trump: Please vote for me, West Virginia
The truth is I don’t really need you
A landslide I won West Virginia
You’d eat everything I would feed you.
Crowd: Donald Trump, Donald Trump
We’ll try to fly if you tell us “jump”
Donald Trump, hair aflame
How can we trust in your transient fame?
Trump: Lies, fine lies,
Such lies have I
Lies, all lies, great lies have I.
I promise you panacea
A lot of exaggeration
A bit of imagination
Gotta go, Virginia. See ya.
SCENE 6: Sarah Huckabee Sander’s office. Sanders and Omarosa. Sung to the tune of “Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better” from Annie Get Your Gun.
Omarosa: Anything you can say, I can say better.
I can say anything better than you.
Sanders: No you cain’t.
Omarosa: Yes, I can.
Sanders: No you cain’t.
Omarosa: Yes, I can. Yes, I can.
Sanders: Any yarn you can spin, I can spin better.
I can spin every yarn better than you.
Omarosa: No you can’t.
Sanders: Yes, I can.
Omarosa: No you can’t.
Sanders: Yes, I can. Yes, I can.
SCENE 7: The Oval Office. Donald Trump is in there alone. Sung to the tune of “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” from Gigi.
Thank heaven for little girls.
Especially the beauty pageant type
They’re sexy in bathing suits
I love them right before they’re fully ripe.
Those beauty pageants I own are a blessing
I walk into them while the girls are dressing
Thank heaven for them all and I know what they’re all good for
And one of them might be wife number four.
SCENE 8: Mike Pence addresses a prayer breakfast. Sung to the tune of “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught” from South Pacific.
You’ve got to be taught to demonize
And see all the world through racist eyes
We’ll drum it in you ‘til you realize
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be taught to cringe in fear
And hate those who don’t share what you hold dear
We’ll feed you this poison from year to year
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be taught before the campaign
To come to our rallies again and again
And make sure the MAGA hats flooded the plain
We hope they are heavily bought
You’re got to be carefully taught.
Coda: sad trombone.
© 2018 by Mike Tully
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