Yesterday, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the news on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. It turns out that the FBI planted a mole in the Trump campaign back in the spring of 2016. The mole’s name is Stefan Halper. Stefan is a hotshot professor who works at Cambridge University in England. He’s a famous spook. Over the past five years, he’s been paid more than a million dollars by the federal government to be a snoop.
Usually, I don’t like to write about American political issues in my books. Instead, I prefer sticking to universal topics like masturbation and bowel movements. So let me tell you something about myself before I climb on my soapbox. I’m nearly fifty years old, and I’ve only voted twice in my life. The first candidate who struck my fancy was George W. Bush back in 2004. After that, I cast my ballot for Barrack Obama in 2008. Like most of my fellow citizens, I vote for my pocketbook.
Anyway, this news about spying on Trump really scares me. And rightly so. Using the FBI to run surveillance on a political enemy should raise the hackles of anyone who has an ounce of commonsense. But the actions of the mainstream media are even more terrifying. They are justifying this criminal behavior by employing slick Orwellian language. For instance, it turns out that Halper isn’t actually a spy. He’s simply a confidential informant. With that said, the good people at the Bureau are merely protecting us from the Russians. Therefore, we should all happily get on our knees and suck their cocks for being so selfless and heroic. Who’s stupid enough to fall for this shit?
I walked to school by myself. Rice-Boy Larry is still having problems with his toe. He was scheduled to meet a doctor later in the day. We’re trying a new hospital. The last clinic was highway robbery.
I got to my classroom at 7:30 a.m. and called Ken the Atheist using WeChat.
I said, “How was your first day of work?”
He said, “It was OK, but I didn’t do much. They just showed me the basics and sent me home.”
“I really want to see you in the uniform.”
“I don’t actually get it until tomorrow.”
“Did you learn to make the French fries? That always looks so dangerous to me.”
“No, but the manager thinks that I’m a lucky guy. He said that the position was between me and sixteen other applicants.”
“Wow. That’s impressive. What separated you from the pack?”
“I don’t know. I never asked him.”
“I’m very proud. You’re a great son.”
Asian kids love America because they don’t have to study twenty-four hours a day to impress their crazy tiger mothers. And Ken is no exception. He’s now allowed to go to bed at a decent hour and make a little coin during his spare time. Good for him.
I taught the eleventh graders at one p.m. I gave the group an essay test. We’re just about finished with I Am Malala. The question was this: Compare and contrast the problems of Pakistan to those of China.
A boy named Harry raised his hand. “You better be careful what you say about my country. I’ll call the cops and have you put in jail.”
He was merely fooling around, but his words still pissed me off. This isn’t the first time that a Chinese teenager has threatened me with imprisonment.
I said, “Have you ever read 1984?”
I knew he had because I had seen him with the novel about a week ago.
I pointed at him angrily. “You remind me of Parson’s creepy little children. They were always threatening to reveal their very own father to the Thought Police. Well, Buffalo ain’t afraid of the Ministry of Love, so do your worst.”
I paused for dramatic effect.
“And one more thing. You have a detention.”
“But I was only joking.”
“I’m simply teaching you a valuable lesson. I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Students who mess with Mr. Buffalo get the horns.”
I felt wonderful. I whistled and sang songs all day long.