Rape-by-Ballot

Dispatch from the Pangolin Institute of Knowledge

I stood at the harvest table in our apartment, mixing honey, oil, two eggs, and salt into the dough, gradually adding flour one cup at a time and pulling it together in a metal bowl.

The top bolt unlocked, and my husband entered, his dark brown chukka and black leather messenger bag appearing at the door. The dogs barked excitedly, wagging their tails as they emerged from the bedroom to greet him. Kneeling down with a crack of his knees, he greeted them in a baby voice, "How are you Jimmy? How are you Jasper?"

They licked him back and ran around in circles, barking loudly, sure to upset our neighbors.

"How was your day at work, babe?" I asked, continuing to knead the dough on the lightly floured table.

"Stressful. Chrissy was a real pain, as usual. I don’t think she was intimate with her man yesterday evening. Did you take them out for their walk?" My husband's voice was strained as he removed his muzzle, red lines marking his mouth.

Chrissy, his Amazonian near-menopausal boss, despised all men and instructed a Pilates class every Tuesday and Thursday at six in the morning.

My husband could tell when her husband plowed her based on how bitchy she was on any given day. 

My husband's boss castrated him so thoroughly that he lost his testicles and traded his 370-Z for a Mitsubishi Eclipse Cross, just so the dogs could have a panoramic view out the back. Despite this, he clung to his sense of masculinity, refusing to opt for a Subaru Outback.

"I did," I replied, my focus on the dough rather than him.

"They seem rambunctious," he observed skeptically.

"They're just excited to see you. I took them out for a forty-minute walk and let them relieve themselves twice. They defecated and urinated at least ten times on the walk as well," I explained, shaking my head as I continued kneading the dough.

"Well, Jimmy looks like he's about to pee," he remarked.

"He's always about to pee. He takes the piss out of all of us by urinating in the hallway and tormenting all the white fluffy Shih Tzus and Bichon Frises in the building. He's incorrigible and was never meant to be a house dog."

"Don't say that. He has a tiny bladder and may have Cushings," my husband objected to the suggestion that our dogs weren't always perfect little angels and were, in fact, animals.

"Jimmy does not have Cushings. He's old and has warts. He's on his way out," I countered.

“Why would you say that?”

"You mean why am I acknowledging reality?" I walked into the kitchen to dampen a cloth to cover the dough. As I returned to cover the dough, my husband asked, "So, a big election is coming up? You're going to vote, right?"

"Who, me?" I raised an eyebrow quizzically. "No."

"What? Why?" He approached to hug me, wrapping his arms around my waist and planting a kiss on my neck.

"I don't know. I just haven't thought about it, and I just don't want to," I explained.

My husband released me and queried, "You're lucky to be an American citizen. You get to vote in the most important election ever in the history of the world and you don't want to?"

Ah, I have the privilege of voting in the election for the country that Canadians often mock but are ultimately subservient to.

"They say this about every election," I expressed confusion. "Why do you care about this election so much? Am I not in Canada now?"

"Because you should vote," he asserted.

"I should vote?" I sought clarification. "So, does that mean I can vote for who I want?"

"Ummm," he hesitated.

"That’s what it means, right?" I clarified, rubbing my hands on my red gingham cloth apron. "You’ll be fine with me voting for whoever as long as I vote?"

"Uh, I think you have a huge opportunity to vote a certain someone out of office," he finally stated clearly.

"So I should vote in one senile near-octogenarian to replace the current near-octogenarian who’s definitely not as senile? How does this election affect me?" I asked, retying my hair up into a ponytail.

"Why don't you want your student loans paid off?" my husband pressed, "Vote for Skeleton Jack, just in case."

"I guarantee you that won't happen. No one is going to hold me hostage with a fake promise like that," I argued, "Why should I burden the taxpayer with my utterly useless degree? I'm not even an overproduced professional. Besides, I can always pull a Henry David Thoreau and not pay back the loans. Money is fake, and I'm in Canada which is also not a real place."

"Skeleton Jack's wife works in higher education just like me. If she's anything like me, she'd want to cancel student loans. Also, if you don't care about politics so much, then why did you get a bachelor's in public policy?"

"Precisely because I don't care, because the degree is for rank amateurs, and I could just not try. I rarely went to class. I half-assed it the entire time. In fact, I even actively avoided class. I crammed all my exams into the last week of each semester."

"Aren't you a registered Dinosaur?"

"Yeah, against my will."

"What?"

"Yeah, when people in professional circles generally tell you to 'Vote,' the 'for a Dinosaur' is silent," I remarked, flopping onto the couch to feel the last moments of the sun’s heat on my skin through the window.

"Are you a Chicken Nugget?"

"No, I just don't believe in voting."

"Why?"

"It's a waste of time. It's a fake election. A president is basically a virus neutralized by the phagocytic blob. In fact, it doesn't matter who I vote for. I should only vote for who entertains me the most."

"Phagocytic? Are you using slurs again?" My husband was incredulous. "You need to watch your language."

"Phagocytic is a medical term."

"Oh."

"You should know that word. We're all experts on viruses now. Aren't we?" I commented sardonically.

Everyone is angling to be an expert or to blindly follow an expert.

After a moment of silence, my husband spoke up, "You know, you can register as part of Dinosaurs Abroad. You should do it now while I go out to buy duck and blueberry biscuits and pumpkin puree for the dogs. I'm also picking up my new frames across town."

What choice did I have? I was still waiting for my permanent residency and right to work in Canada via the spousal route. He is feeding me, financing me, and fucking me. 

His opinion is of utmost importance if only for that reason. 

I registered for Dinosaurs Abroad by diving into the Ocean. It was a quick process, and I found the entry requirements suspiciously minimal. Afterward, I took my dogs out for another walk to relieve themselves. Leashing my cockapoo mutts, we descended the elevator shaft and headed outside.

Both my husband and I were feeling restless in our Toronto apartment, fed up with the meddling middle-class neighbors constantly poking their noses into our business. We just needed to get away.

Taking the dogs out for their walks was a regular routine, but finding a patch of grass in this concrete jungle was always a challenge. The ongoing construction on Spadina Road between Bloor and Dupont only added to the mess. Construction in Toronto had a reputation for dragging on, especially with certain companies known for their ties to the Italian mafia. With contracts paid by the hour, there was little incentive to hurry. Consequently, the streets were littered with offal, discarded muzzles, needles, and other unsavory debris. Suffice it to say, the sight didn't improve my mood.

My hair was a rat's nest, disheveled and wind-tousled, as if I had just emerged from a fierce Kansas gust. Clad in Patagonia running shorts and a tattered hoodie, I made no effort to conceal my unkempt appearance. With unshaven legs and my dogs freely relieving themselves on the concrete, I presented a picture of casual disregard.

As if on cue, a hag from the floor above, in garish athleisure and a freshly tightened facelift courtesy of Yorkville, emerged from the apartment complex. She wasted no time in launching into a tirade about my dogs urinating too close to the building. Despite the fact that we were clearly outside, she seemed oblivious to the inconsequential nature of a few drops of dog urine finding their way to the parking garage or concrete steps.

I’m pretty sure I witnessed a bum the previous day taking a leak right outside our building. 

I stared back at the woman, a mix of shock and defiance in my eyes as she demanded a response. Finally, unable to contain my frustration, I retorted, "Because you're a cunt."

Her reaction was predictable - a cacophony of indignation and righteous outrage. "No manners! Rude! Disrespectful! Who raised you?!" she screeched.

Ignoring her tirade, I inserted my earbuds, drowning out her voice with music as I continued walking my dogs. Letting them do their business on the pavement, I calmly scooped up their waste, unfazed by the woman's continued protests. It was moments like these that reinforced my desire to escape Toronto.

The population was shrinkwrapped in their homes, sous-vide in their homes, forced to smell their own farts and bad breath. 

I released my dogs into the apartment.

It’s cruel to place animals accustomed to farm life in a mere five hundred square feet.

I realized I should just vote to appease my husband's constant nagging. He'd likely check if I voted as soon as he got home; after all, he had access to my wave mail.

My thoughts were disrupted by a commotion at six-forty-five P.M.

It was that transitional time of day, leading us into the evening.

Neighbors were banging pots and pans in support of our "essential workers."

Nurses and doctors enjoyed newfound recognition, hailed as saints and heroes of the frontlines.

Among them, nurses were twerking like Jamaican dancehall revelers.

A mechanical switch clicked, breaking the clanging with a sharp pop and crackle. I braced myself; it was my neighbor from the adjacent building, whose name and face remained unknown to me. He resided in the less polished one-hundred Spadina Road, distinguished by marginally cheaper rent but owned by the same real estate management firm as our eighty-eight Spadina Road.

The numbers spoke volumes.

Eighty-eight Spadina Road housed the upwardly mobile, ever-ready to report any infractions to management, conspicuously affluent.

One-hundred Spadina Road offered a sense of completeness and tranquility, with fewer interferences from neighbors.

His response was always a direct retaliation to the disturbance.

The man's megaphone blared, distorting his gravelly voice, "YOU ARE ALL FOOLS! YOU KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING, RIGHT? THEY'RE LYING TO YOU! YOU'RE GETTING THE MARK OF THE BEAST! GEAR GNOSIS GAVE THE PANGOLIN INSTITUTE OF KNOWLEDGE THREE HUNDRED COG CREDIT TO UNLEASH THE PLAGUE! IN FACT, THE HEAD OF THE INSTITUTE IS AN ANTHROPOMORPHIC PANGOLIN! ACTUALLY, IT'S A LITERAL PANGOLIN THAT TELEPATHICALLY COMMUNICATES WITH PEOPLE! THE PLAGUE USES SOME KIND OF DIAMODE STRUCTURE THAT TEARS THROUGH ALL STRUCTURES AND CANNOT BE DESTROYED! THE PROTESTS WERE COLOR REVOLUTIONS! THEY HAPPENED FOR A REASON! YOU'RE STUCK IN YOUR HOUSES NOW! A DANGEROUS PRECEDENT HAS BEEN SET WITH THESE SHRINKWRAPS! WHY ARE YOU CHEERING FOR YOUR IMPRISONMENT?"

The novelty of the shrinkwraps initially amused, especially during the first two weeks. For those inhabiting an antisocial and deracinated economic zone, shrinkwraps offered a semblance of stability and protection, cocooning individuals from external stimuli and fostering a sense of safety. The compressive embrace of the shrinkwrap even held therapeutic appeal.

It played out like a zombie flick or a psychological thriller. I relished the idea of hunkering down with family - my husband, my sister-in-law, and her emotionally crippled Swedish boytoy. We cooked together, had movie nights, and took walks.

My husband landed a telegram job, while I embraced the role of a housewife.

Compared to many others whose livelihoods were decimated, we considered ourselves fortunate. Those with telegram jobs basked in their newfound status as the stay-at-home gentry, indifferent to the struggles of those reliant on physical workplaces. Homelessness wasn't a fear for us. With societal collapse looming and illness rampant, intimacy became more alluring, and the fear of illness was an aphrodisiac of sorts. Yet, as weeks passed, the shrinkwrap around us felt increasingly suffocating.

I recall the eccentric man from one-hundred Spadina Road, steadfastly refusing to buy into the shrinkwraps from the get-go. Always armed with his megaphone, he was a kind of prophet, warning us about the encroachment on our freedom of movement and urging us to consider alternative theories. Initially, I found him entertaining, albeit eccentric. My husband and I would chuckle at his antics, dismissing him as a lunatic. But as the weeks wore on, his words began to resonate.

Medical professionals were even declaring Racism as the true Plague.

Perhaps my husband is onto something. Maybe I was the one being naive. After all, he’s the one with a career, he’s the authority figure. Shouldn't I trust his judgment? Perhaps it was time to reconsider.

As the sky turned purple, the creak of the door seemed intrusive. My spouse returned, carrying dog food and sporting his new glasses. They suited him well, but I craved solitude to gather my thoughts.

"Ah, not this guy again," my husband muttered. "He's such a nutter."

I need another fifteen to twenty minutes alone. Being together constantly feels like an invasion of my autonomy.

After feeding the dogs, my husband inquired, "Did you register to vote while I was out?"

I tightened my jaw, mustering a smile that thinly veiled my displeasure. "Yes."

"When do you plan to vote?"

"Soon."

"I'm heading upstairs to fetch some miso for the salmon you wanted to cook," he mentioned, referring to his sister, who resided on the fourth floor.

Every Jew from Winnipeg who relocated to Toronto seemed to land in eighty-eight Spadina Road, including his sister and her emotionally stunted Swedish boyfriend.

The only good Swede is Ingmar Bergman even though he is flagrantly Swedish. 

"Okay, hon. Thank you," I replied.

"Remember to vote," he reminded me.

"Fine."

I unfolded my stela and flopped back onto the couch once more, this shoddy Structube couch epitomized the illusion of the Canadian economy, stapled together by overpriced real estate. Practically everything in the house was from Structube. The wooden slats in the couch threatened to splinter under even the slightest weight, while the metal supports warped and buckled, making the once-sturdy foundation worryingly unstable. The stuffing consisted of low-quality foam and polyester fiberfill, and the cushions had lost their plumpness within months of purchase, coinciding with my arrival in Toronto.

Why can't we just salvage some old furniture? That old couch I had was sturdy. We could have dissected a brontosaurus on it. This couch is garbage. Focus, damn it! I need to get this voting thing done so I can start baking bread.

I procrastinated and opted to scroll through the Infinite Scroll instead. The buzz surrounding this election was palpable.

I examined your astral projection, A, my once-dear friend.

Next, I perused X’s palimpsest. I loved his palimpsest, and I think I loved him.

 He advocated strongly for the less senile near-octogenarian.

According to X's analysis, the less senile near-octogenarian was the Chicken Nugget option on the ballot, offering a lower likelihood of embroiling us in another war compared to the Dinosaur.

Who should I vote for? The Dinosaur is merely a fancier Chicken Nugget. Essentially, both are identical, sharing the same platform. Even Chickens, as creatures, trace their ancestry back to Dinosaurs. However, educated individuals view Chickens as provincial, bigoted Dinosaurs. According to them, Chickens were just bigoted plantation owners, like Foghorn Leghorn. Chicken Nuggets, in turn, are just the pulverized remnants of Chickens.

In defiance, I marked my ballot for the Chicken Nugget.

My husband can go cluck himself!

Feeling like a monster, I retreated to the kitchen.

I sided with the "bad" guy.

Taking hold of the red kitchen gloves, I made my way to the bathroom.

Slipping one glove over my head and the other under my chin, I confronted my reflection in the mirror, searching for my true self.

Yet, the truth remains elusive—there is no singular true self.

My husband came back with the miso. 

"I voted," I stated, sliding my apron back into place.

His grin widened. "And who'd you cast your vote for?"

"Satchmo East," I fibbed.

"Satchmo?" he echoed, eyebrows raised. “But Satchmo isn't even an official candidate on the ballot. Although, he's a fun character. Opting for a third-party candidate like Satchmo might detract from the Dinosaur vote, but that's alright. Just as long as you didn't vote for the Chicken Nugget…"

He prattled on, unaware of my deceit. I knew my husband would appreciate Satchmo; after all, he was a beloved musician and an Alfred Jarry character—a pop Dadaist for the modern age. However, to the good Dinosaurs, Satchmo was merely an acceptable vaudevillian minstrel, a mouthpiece for their less-than-politically-correct thoughts, the liberal id.

Satchmo could get away with saying the things they wished they could, all because of his race.

Oh, Satchmo is joking, they’d say. 

Satchmo is an artist, they’d say. 

Satchmo is a genius, they’d say.

That was until Satchmo said naughty things about Jews on air.  

"Can I level with you right now?" I addressed my husband after lying straight to his face. "I feel like you pressured me into voting, and that bothers me. Most men would appreciate a wife who isn't politically inclined," I focused on plaiting the challah to keep my hands busy.

"Voting is a civic duty in our liberal democracy, and you do care about politics. You're constantly engaging in contentious debates on the Infinite Scroll," he countered.

"Well, I'm not particularly fond of liberal democracy," I confessed.

"Are you suggesting you're a reactionary now? Is it because of your involvement as a Wave Courtesan with those losers in the Ocean? Am I not giving you enough attention?" My husband's questions came rapid-fire, leaving me at a loss for words.

"No, no, no! I just want some space! Can't you see that? I'm only in the Ocean because we've been shrinkwrapped for almost a year now, and I feel incredibly isolated and lonely. I'm waiting for the right to work in this country, but my original career path has been completely sidelined. I suppose you could say I'm 'reacting' to that. And as for this election, none of it really matters. Patagonia, Structube, Mitsubishi, Nissan, Subaru, Amazon—those corporations hold more sway in this age than any candidate ever could. They're more influential and tangible than Skeleton Jack or any Chicken Nugget on the ballot. We don't live in an era of Great Men. Brands are the Great Men. Brands are the only people that matter," I asserted while brushing the loaves with an egg wash.

"What are you on about?" My spouse was clearly taken aback by my sudden outburst. "Your entire existence in the Ocean revolves around catering to antisemites and white nationalists."

"That's absurd. They're simply frustrated and struggle with their desire for me. They're nothing more than racist liberals. Everyone's a liberal. Every so-called Marxist or reactionary is a liberal. Hell, even I'm a liberal. I just don't want to vote. I dunked in a mikvah and pissed off a lot of people, and you're resorting to that tired, clichéd excuse?" I shoved the challot into the oven in frustration.

I should sue J-Swipe…

I didn’t really have any friends in Toronto. After witnessing how many people responded to these shrinkwraps and pronouncements and witch-hunts, I had no desire to associate with the vast majority of people. Their behavior viscerally disgusted me. I met a few lovely people, but like many others, we all just sort of embraced our isolation and turned inwards. Furthermore, I was really not starting to like the denizens of Toronto.

Contrary to popular belief, Canadians aren’t nice.

They thinly feign politeness and are passive-aggressive.

Torontonians simultaneously harbor an inferiority complex because they don’t live somewhere with the cultural cache of New York or even Montreal but they also disdain bumpkins in the prairies or far out in the Maritimes. Torontonians constantly assert they live in a "world-class" city, despite the diversely mediocre dining, dreary architecture, unreliable public transportation, and exorbitant cost of living, which mandates spending at least two-hundred dollars every time you go out. They also frequently direct jabs towards the States, even though America, as flawed as it is, serves as their biggest trading partner and boasts superior cultural output.

These old stock liberal Canadians thought their unencumbered postnational project was so noble and magnanimous, when all they really wanted was an underpaid slave class of gig economy pajeets to deliver all their shit from food delivery services and Amazon. 

They were more than happy to sell out the country to rich Han and poor subcontinentals just to become genetic dead ends and raise the gross domestic product. 

They also asserted that homeless people were their neighbors, with signs on their front lawns, but certainly did everything they could to avoid living near the homelessness they indirectly supported through their backing of shrinkwraps and despair.

They hung stupid glowing neon hearts on their windows to flaunt their Veblen beliefs of solidarity, along with the ever-evolving rainbow flag.

I recall a lady neighbor incessantly prattling on about the supposed stupidity and backwardness of American Southerners.

Little did she know she was speaking to a girl born and raised in North Carolina. Yes, these Southerners can be rather provincial and dim, but I can tell you this, my dearest former friend, A: they have much better instincts than that middle-class crone.

Observing people's reactions to this alleged Plague not only made me generally misanthropic but also severely misogynistic. I say that partly in jest; I do admire select women, but good Lord, there is nothing more contemptible than large swathes of middle-class women in the Western world. I found that middle-class women were the most devout emissaries of security theater, and they were generally more vicious if they weren’t pleasant to look at or interact with.

They loved chastising me if my muzzle wasn’t over my nose. Since most women work bullshit jobs in the service sector economy, they also relished any sort of extra work that required extra paperwork from the comfort of their home, all while sipping moscato and hanging out with their cats. 

This is the fate of women who are ignored, which unfortunately befalls most women as they age and are forgotten if they’re not married or something.

These types of women may not face the physical toils of labor or the dangers of war, but the passage of time takes its toll, leading to a gradual unraveling of their sanity. Middle-class women uphold and reinforce a moral code often disregarded by the truly affluent and unfairly punishing the less fortunate.

Middle class women like my neighbor and that hag with the shitty facelift. 

This middle-class morality is particularly insidious as it constantly shifts and evolves, yet consistently serves to protect and enrich those at the top.

MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN READ BY-LAWS FOR FUN. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN ARE GENERALLY HYPOCHONDRIACS. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN GENERALLY DON’T DO ANY REAL WORK, AND THEIR JOBS ARE BULLSHIT. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN THINK ALL WOMEN CONSTITUTE A POLITICAL CLASS. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN TEND TO PARROT ANY OVERSOCIALIZED SHIBBOLETH TO STAY TRENDY. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN CASTRATED EROS. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN ARE PRUDES. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN NEUTERED INDEPENDENTLY MINDED HOMOSEXUAL MEN. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN EXPANDED THE SECURITY STATE OUT OF FEAR. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN BELIEVE IN SUSTAINABILITY. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN BELIEVE IN SEAT BELTS. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN INVENTED A SLEW OF ALLERGIES FOR NO REASON. MIDDLE CLASS WOMEN EXPANDED HUMAN RESOURCES DEPARTMENTS. AND MIDDLE CLASS MEN ALLOWED THIS TO HAPPEN. I HATE MIDDLE CLASS MEN AND WOMEN.

I especially abhorred middle class men during the Plague who were henpecked by middle class women.

Middle class men who succumb to the scourge of middle class women are not even men.

They are eunuchs.

My husband, as smart and principled and thoughtful as he usually is, was one of those men.

It also didn’t help that I wasn’t able to truly distract myself with proper work. I was waiting for my permanent residency card via the spousal route, but honestly, the only reason I would have wanted any residency in Toronto was for the sake of healthcare in Toronto. 

This deficient healthcare system. This underdeveloped and subpar healthcare.

People are willing to go to extreme lengths for healthcare.

They'll demean themselves for healthcare.

Regardless of how severe the austerity measures become.

Regardless of whether individuals could benefit from preventative care or shedding excess weight.

Doesn’t matter if the Hippocratic Oath is constantly violated so a bunch of affirmative action imbeciles can glide through medical school unscathed. 

Doesn’t matter if a bunch of Turd World brain-drain ingrates become doctors for the express purpose of status and not because they care about healing people.

Bunch of haughty assholes.

Why not? Why don't we all just endure endless hours in the emergency room and wait for months to access specialists?

I could only model domestically, and the market wasn’t exactly brimming with work. Not to mention, anytime I had work in Canada, they were always keen on olfactory rape. How many times did I have to violate my nasal cavities so some ghouls in corporate could save their hides from insurance upcharges? 

I endured nose rape at least biweekly for the sake of domestic travel or the paltry work I got or to appease family members. 

I complied with others' wishes, particularly my husband's, driven by guilt and the fear of potential reprisal. Despite my belief that the situation was exaggerated, I didn’t want to alarm him, especially considering his asthma. Financially dependent on him while awaiting my permanent residency and job eligibility, and with no family support, he was my sole pillar. The weight of my guilt was compounded by his elderly father and his mother undergoing chemotherapy for pancreatic cancer. Seeing countless others lose their jobs due to the shrinkwraps made me appreciate our financial stability even more.

I knew many girls who sold lewds out of desperation in the Ocean for five bucks a pop, only to be leaked into the aether. 

I felt like I had to shut up and only have a sense of gratitude, but my patience wore thin. 

I felt compelled to silence my dissent and maintain a facade of gratitude, but my tolerance reached its limit.

The Plague underscored my lack of desire for human interaction. I found greater solace in scrolling through my stela and interacting with my loyal but simple-minded dogs. In a world where everything could be delivered at our doorstep, and where I could isolate myself within the confines of shrinkwrap, the necessity for interpersonal cooperation dwindled, rendering it almost obsolete.

If you wanted to live and love and fuck and touch and reproduce, you were more of a dinosaur than any Dinosaur on the ballot. 

Long live the new flesh. Become one with the Machine.