American Idiot

I escaped from my white, padded cell. "This is how the
story usually ends", I murmured to myself. I was sick of the bullshit.
Everybody thought I was crazy, but only I knew the truth about everything.
Well, me and the underground resistance of truthiness and justice. Please allow
me to explain.
On September 11th, 2001, something truly tragic happened. It
led to the deaths of thousands of Americans and others. But there was something
about it that they, the government, didn't want us to know: that it was all an
inside job. They did it all for the money. So that they could start a war in
the Middle East over raw oil, and convert the Middle East to crony Capitalism.
They were going to set up a military base in Iraq and then Syria and possibly
someday the Ukraine and Luxembourg. But that was until they ran out of
political capital. ... For now. Republicrats, Demolicans. Et cetera. Both major
parties are in on it, so don't bother voting. As if your ballot COUNTS!!!
As for me, I saw through their hollow lies. And I know that
more are to come, and the catastrophes they created were just the first steps.
... In case you want my name: I decided to call myself Jesus. The Jesus of
Suburbia. I had just finished writing my new novel in my mind, which I entitled
Affirmative Reaction. It takes place in the year 2025, when all of the Eastern
shoreboard of the United States is underwater due to the sins of global
warming. Christ returns and is voted out of office by the stupid sheeple
public, and the water levels continue to rise and threaten the Midwest and
parts of Canada and Mexico. The hero, Dangling Chad, comes to the rescue of
America, armed with a bionic arm and seemingly innocent yet highly flammable cans
of Mountain Dew. He puts on his scuba gear and dives underwater into the White
House with his cell phone camera, revealing to the otherwise oblivious public
that the new President was actually a robot named Willard G. McSameasClintonBush.
Things never go back to normal because of carbon emissions and all that jazz,
but c'est la vie. At least Jesus gets to be President again.
And by Jesus.. I mean me. I was destined to be President. And
it was going to happen in real life, too. I just had to return to my cabinet. My
medicine cabinet. To pop some bottles of ibuprofen. And smear the tiny red
tablets in delicious, non-refrigerated nutella. But also... the cabinet that I
refer to as my 'underground'...
I bit through my straight jacket with my teeth and let out a
prayer to She-Ra, Goddess of Buttholes and Rainbow-Colored Grapes. I needed Her
to give me all the strength She could.
I lit up a hand grenade and kissed a horseshoe for goodluck
before it could obliterate the wall ahead of me. KA-BOOM. There was a hole in
the wall, now. I accidentally blew up my poster of Hanoi Jane in the process,
but c'est la vie. I ran through the tunnels, into the sewage. My legs were
covered in shit. It reminded me of the bullshit that the government broadcasts
into all our minds, about terrorists being behind everything and such. 
Knowing that the enemy would be on my tail, I streamingly
ran through the biological discharge until I was abruptly halted by the ringing
of... a payphone. Admittedly, I only heard the ringing in my mind, but it was
definitely a payphone. In my attempt at suddenly halting, I stepped on a rat
who bit into my foot, and a serious amount of blood leaked from my toes and heal.
Fortunately, my prayer to She-Ra had blessed me with the strength of tolerating
and essentially ignoring it. Despite being weary that the call was from the
thought police, I picked up what was left of my 1985 Doc Jordans and put my
leathery shoephone up to my ear, Maxwell Smart style.
"This is Agent 576, speaking."
"Agent 576! If you're 576, I must be 555! ... Anyway, I
see you're in the sewer."
"Please read my mind less often. It makes me...
uncomfortable."
"Yes, I do apologize for invading your privacy. And
wiretapping your shoephone. Meet me at the Representatives chamber in five minutes.
That's when we'll make our struggle known to the people oncr again." There
was a click, and I put my shoephone away by untying the laces. Good thing I
used those practice papers that you can tie shoelaces into before you have to
do the real deal on your own without your mom.
Anyway: that call affirmed that the only underground I
needed was waiting for me at the X on our hypothetical maps. I lit up a
cigarette in anticipation. I used to have another name for cigs, but I had
forgotten about that at this point. They may be cancer sticks, but they were
also my lucky stripes. Helping me keep my cool. My sweet, sweet valentines.
I let out a throaty, disgusting cough that nearly took out
one of my lungs before climbing out of a manhole. I felt like a Ninja Turtle.
No one would ever appreciate our vigilante justice, but that was O.K. because
what was right was right. I examined the streetsign ahead. Brokedream
Boulevard. The street was empty that night--a lonely road. It was like the
people were on some sort of holiday, or perhaps, a state of emergency. I had
been put away for a long time. What was the government up to now...?
At this point, I was still seven miles away from my
destination. I was gonna be late, and this was stressing me out. I compensated
for this emotional distress by injecting myself with sweet, sweet Novocain, and
out of insomnia-induced jitters, I pulled out one of my teeth. Not one to waste
valuable resources, I gave the tooth to a bum as payment, and  in return she let me give her head. I felt
like I was trading items for points like one of those old Sierra adventure
games... like a boss. "Whatsername... you're the last of the American girls.",
I offered before tipping her a dime. And by that, I mean I thrusted my cock back
into her in a circular motion, and she giggled for a little bit.
Good thing it only took me a half a minute to orgasm,
because I was already way late on getting to the House of Representatives
chamber. I systematically plucked out another tooth and asked a cabby if he'd
take it as money. Of course, he said no and by the time I attempted to strike a
deal, I already had gotten the ride. He started shooting at me and I ran like Mitt
Romney hoping that the third time would be the charm.
I didn't want the man to make brain stew out of me, so I
lost 'im in an alley after hopping into a trash can. Once the coast was clear,
I rolled down like a monkey in a barrel. Down tight wad hill, Stuart and the
Avenue... Christie Road...
After pulling the trashcan up and hopping out of it like a
midget in a potato sack race, I went for a couple block walk. I may've been 24
hours late, but I had finally reached my destination: the House of Representatives
chamber. Do keep in mind that at this point my arms in legs were covered in
shit, bloody bullets and hamburger buns. But what nobody could accuse me of... was
being a quitter.
I could glance Agent 555 through the window. Yes... yes, she
knew I was there! I could only imagine what standing in that room of
aristocratic sleaze for 1,440 whole minutes must've been like. "Gloria!",
I wanted to scream, but if I gave away our cover, the whole thing would've been
blown. So: I kept cool. I didn't wipe myself off or anything, because I knew my
best cover would be to make people think that I'm a homeless man. Which I'm
not. No matter how many times anybody tells you: I am not a homeless man. Even
if I promise to you again and again that I am one. I am not a homeless man.
Remember that.
I hummed a melodic ditty I impromptu wrote, to try to ease
out the stress... my very own panic song, if you will... as I strutted my way into
the chamber. "Welcome to 7-11", Representative Douchebag casually
stated to me. Yeah, right. Good thing that he wasn't the one we were after.
But as for the other guy... he looked bothered. "Sales
are down", he said to the Representative in a thick accent. "But
we're going to sell hot dogs, and we're going to sell chicken fingers, and
we're gonna sell pizzas! We're gonna sell Doritos loaded, and sausage biscuits,
and burritos! And then we're going to lead sales and be promoted to District! RAHHHHH!"
Yep... it was Governor Dean. He turned to me, and... a look
of terror lit up in his eyes. He instantly recognized me, bloody shit smears
and all. It almost made me believe that I was a homeless person after all.
"It's him! He's back! Call the police!"
You know what? I chilled out and just thought, fuck that
noise.  I didn't know where Governor Dean
picked up the tan and East Indian accent, but i wasn't falling for him and and his
false concerned. I chortled, and decided that the only way I could keep our
plan strutting along was to go along with the gig.
"I would like two hotdogs, Howard. Mustard and ketchup,
please." And he did just that. Simmered down, and actually served me a
couple quarter pound dogs. He really, truly, honestly, sincerely, frankly... if
you pardon my pun... took me for a fool.
Had I trained myself up from sitting on my figurative
crucifix, waiting to get my television fixed... for this? To play dollhouse with the former Presidential candidate and
Governor of Vermont? Bitch, please!
Without thinking twice, I ran into the bathroom. I inspected
the hotdogs thoroughly. Mustard. Ketchup. Grade E pieces of Dookie meat. It all
seemed to just be an innocent hot dog. Nothing to see there.
And then they... exploded.
I was on fire. I made out of the bathroom in the nick of
time, but I was most definitely, absolutely, set aflame. I thought back to my
third grade education--the last year of schooling I completed before dropping
out--and I rolled around as a last hope. Unfortunately, all that did was spread
the flames. 
Gloria grabbed my burning body, and was also set on fire.
Governor Dean, not knowing what to do, ordered us out but his pointed index
finger must've hit Gloria's enormous breasts or something, because he was set
on fire too. I heard police sirens and was hoping that some officer--as much as
I naturally never trust any police offer under any circumstances ever--had brought
a fire extinguisher with him. Instead, he proffered me some handcuffs. Frantic squirms
wouldn't let me out of this one, and I wasn't going to come up with a James
Bond style plan or anything. Agent 576, Agent 555... the underground would now
be without its two greatest minds...
At this point, I'm guessing you expect this story to end
with me back in a padded cell. But if that's what I told you, that'd actually
be a lie: the cell wasn't padded at all. I was in jail. My attorney, Mr.
Phoenix Wright, tried to enter an insanity plea for me, but as I'm originally
from the state of Alabama, they would burn me to a crisp on the chair even if I
actually was crazy. Which I'm not.
Anyway, I'm sentenced to be executed tomorrow. But our
second-in-command, Rusty James, baked me a cake. With a hand grenade inside of
it.
I didn't want to blow up my picture of Nyan Cat french
kissing Doge as President Obama stared on indigently, but I had no choice.
Being executed wasn't going to make things any better. The only thing that
could, for both myself, this country, and this world... was real hope and
change. Unlike President Obummer.
I had bit the bullets out of my arms and legs, and a guard
had given me a sponge bath. I was at full health now. I bit off the pinhead
with my few remaining teeth. I looked down at the shoephone I had programmed
using the technically that my fellow inmate, Ed Snowden, had proffered me.
I lifted my hands in the air. Consider the dessert-covered
explosive a letter bomb to a brighter tomorrow. It was to be the dawning of the
rest of our lives.
That cake tasted really good, too.
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