FOTUS: The Beginning
I saw how it is out there. Out there it’s a mess, a nightmare, a disaster. But in here, inside, it’s safe. It’s the safest place on Earth.
Of course I didn’t see, not at first. It’s not like the womb is well-lit. Okay, some backtracking is in order. Consider this my memoir, from me to you via the minuscule keyboard display on my minusculer (is that a word?) smartphone. I thought about getting a laptop, but being a fetus in the womb, I don’t have much of a lap. And since I’m not going to exit this personal Nirvana anytime soon, the smartphone is just fine. And not surprisingly, having tiny prenatal hands with even tinier prenatal fingers, I can race over the keyboard like an Olympian, like Usain Freakin’ Bolt, my fingers a veritable blur! So I guess we’ve reached the point in human evolution where being “all thumbs” is a good thing, and where the most perfect indisputable unassailable infallible leader to ever occupy the once unsullied office of President of the United States has been realized. The fetus. Yours truly.
And yeah, my parents did give me a name, although technically it’s unofficial, since I’m stubbornly prenatal. And sure, the only reason I got elected was because I’m a fetus. Duh! I played that “fetus card” every chance I got. Wouldn’t you? Because Americans love the fetus. Hell, they even amended the ol’ Constitution on its behalf! Never underestimate Republicans. They’ll do whatever it takes. And they knew that a good chunk of God-fearing Americans from that infamous basket of deplorables hate Mallory Blitzen, as in passionately detest, and they’d vote for anyone, including a fetus, instead of her. So, lucky me!
And being born is overrated. It’s no wonder babies cry their everlovin’ heads off once they open their eyes and see what fresh hell they’ve emerged into. Paradise Lost (no shit!), because allvusudden you have to do things, like walk and talk and go to college and get a job and be like everybody else. Arrgghh! And for those of you grammar Nazis or whiny liberals who bristled at me ending one of the above sentences in a preposition… well, guess who’s the President? Moi! That’s right, muthafucka! Guess who can publicly Tweet yer ass into submission and have the IRS audit you and have Homeland Security deport your family and have a drone send an MX missile up your butt… Moi as well. So don’t fuck with the Big Cheese. Besides, I’m unstable. I mean, by definition. They say a woman’s brain isn’t fully developed until her early twenties, and a man’s brain, like fifty-seven or something. Me? I’m a freaking fetus! (And a white male fetus at that.) So when I’m a bit, how shall I say, impulsive, what do you expect?