Erotic Campaign Fiction: Apologies to Everyone


_”Let me ask you something. Is there something about the left, and I am going to put the media in this category, that is obsessed with sex? Why is it the only question you want to ask concerns homosexuals? … Well, you know. ISIS is executing homosexuals. You want to talk about gay rights? This week was a very bad week for gay rights because the expansion of ISIS, the expansion of radical, theocratic, Islamic zealots that crucify Christians, that behead children and that murder homosexuals. That ought to be concerning you far more …”_

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Ted Cruz was right. Like all liberals, I was obsessed with sex. And, like all liberals, I didn’t care about foreign policy at all. AT ALL! But Ted Cruz changed my mind: why are gay people complaining about anything? As long as we aren’t executing them like ISIS, then what is the problem? End of discussion. In one amazing moment of clarity, Ted Cruz boiled the conversation about social issues in this country down to one single idea: are you currently getting murdered by ISIS? No? Then everyone shut up. 

The same thing applies to women. Are you being publicly executed? No? Then don’t talk to me about insurance covering prenatal care. Hey, fetus, life begins at conception, but big government _does not_, so why don’t you eat some amniotic fluid and be happy for what you have? Hearing Ted Cruz solve all of America’s social issues with one easy explanation made me wetter than a bucket of water in a rainstorm. I’d brought Ted Cruz up to my hotel room with the promise of showing him my lower-back tattoo of the Second Amendment where all the vowels were replaced with yin yangs, but I think we both knew what had to happen next. 

He sat by the window, staring out at his home state. He was pensive as shit. “I’ve never been with a liberal woman before.” I was losing my patience. He started crying a little. Quietly. Almost sweetly. “Why are you so obsessed with sex? Why can’t we just cuddle?” I shook my head. “I’m not going to fucking cuddle with you, Ted Cruz. Now take off your clothes, lie down on that bed, and let me eat off you like a plate.” I was naked at this point and covered in barbecue sauce. MSNBC was blaring on the cheap hotel TV, and I ignored his tears and gnawed on another pork rib. Ted was shaking. “Can you at least wipe the barbecue sauce off your face? It’s really gross.” I shook my head no and told him he wasn’t allowed to offer an opinion unless he was being murdered by ISIS. He nodded. Yes, it was a sound argument. Gently, he removed all his clothes and got on the bed. “Are you nervous, Ted?” He nodded. “Tell me about being born in Calgary. Just kidding, I don’t give a shit.” He lay there, naked, waiting to see what I was going to do. “Ted, you’re so right about liberals. Sex is all we ever think about. Honestly, the only other things I think about besides sex are weed and the Oscars.” Ted nodded, trying to avoid getting hit in the face with barbecue sauce. He was really freaking out at this point: “Liz, let’s just do it if we’re going to do it! I need to go pick out a plaid shirt and belt for tomorrow!”

But instead of touching him, I pressed a button, and the wall of the hotel room creaked open to reveal a stairway leading down into a dark and terrifying unknown. Sounds and smells flooded the room. I took his hand and led him down as the moans got louder and louder. “What is this place?” Ted asked, his voice barely a whisper. “This is the weird secret basement where sex-obsessed liberals go to have sex with one another like beasts.” Ted clapped his hands. “I knew it! I knew that was happening. This whole time.” I nodded. “You were right, Ted. You were the only one who saw through us.” We both fully sanitized our bodies and zipped up into hazmat suits. It was dark, but the little pools of red light made it easier to see the disgusting, depraved, unthinkable acts happening all around us … 

There was Matt Damon dipping his balls into Nancy Pelosi’s hair like a bird of prey laying eggs in a nest of twigs. Elizabeth Warren scissored Debbie Wasserman Schultz like she was in preschool and someone had just taught her how to make a snowflake. “Is that — is that Hillary Clinton?” I nodded. Hillary was sitting on FDR’s lap, dressed as a sexy Depression-era nurse, purring into his ear: “I’m going to make wages go up!” FDR whispered back, his voice dripping with lust: “You’re making me go up, girl. The only thing you have to fear … is underneath this lap blanket.” Ted grimaced: “That’s a terrible joke. Why would FDR make such a terrible joke? That doesn’t seem like him at all!” I shrugged: “This is the way liberals really are. You’re seeing the real us now, Ted.” 

Eleanor Roosevelt was there too, throwing the government’s money on top of a pile of writhing lesbian social workers who were eating one another out while simultaneously adopting shelter dogs on their phones. “Check out Snowball! How cute is that?” one lesbian shouted to another lesbian who was sewing beads onto an ethnic-looking purse. “Hey, I’ve got a Jeb in my Bush!” another lesbian called out, reaching down and pulling out a Lucky Charms marshmallow. “Why does she call that a ‘Jeb’? That makes no sense!” Ted cried. “You’re right,” I said, “And why is she eating Lucky Charms directly over her bush? Can’t she wait till after? I’m so sorry.”

“Where are we going? I hate this place. Get me out of here.” Ted was kind of hot when he was whining. We passed by Bernie Sanders reading out loud from _Das Kapital_ while naked college students covered him in Vermont maple syrup and forgot to vote. We thought we saw Ruth Bader Ginsburg in the distance and were momentarily relieved, but then we realized she was fully nude and had the words “super-PAC” written on her stomach with an arrow pointing down. “Hey, sailor! You wanna make a contribution?” she shouted, as we both tripped over Neil Young fucking a Tesla. “He’s knocking the plug out of the wall. That thing is never going to get charged if he keeps fucking it!” “Get your shit together, Ted! Keep your eyes down and keep walking!” 

Just then, a flock of endangered birds flew by. “I want to kill those endangered birds and make jobs for America!” “I know you do, Ted. I know you do.”

Poor people were everywhere, making love to one another, then taking naps, then not working. Teenagers were having sex with condoms, and not just where condoms are supposed to go but condoms everywhere, condoms on their hands and condoms on their heads like hats, which just looked dumb and uncomfortable. Nobody had guns. Nobody had God. Nobody had jobs. All you could see for miles was just a mass of body hair and guitars and vibrators and empathy. 

> Nobody had guns. Nobody had God. Nobody had jobs. All you could see for miles was just a mass of body hair and guitars and vibrators and empathy. ​

We rounded a corner and saw a couple of homosexuals with rock-hard boners getting married while watching _Step Up 2: The Streets_ and tweeting about the Met Ball. Ted screamed in pain, “No! NO!” We rounded another corner and saw a Renaissance Abortion Fair, which was just liberals in Renaissance costumes giving one another abortions while eating caramel apples and making candles. Margaret Sanger wore a princess hat and played a song about pelvic exams on a historically accurate lute: _”Spread thy legs and scoot thy body down the table … Keep scooting …”_

Ted Cruz tried to run away, but his hazmat suit was too big and bulky, and he got lost in a sea of HBO subscribers. Finally, he ripped his suit off and grabbed me by the shoulders with tears streaming down his face. “Just kill me. Just kill me and get it over with. I can’t take any more of this.” I gently kissed his forehead and led him into the final chamber.

It was Oval. And had been decorated with some weird beige shit. Behind a large wooden desk sat President Obama. He was naked. He was beautiful. For a moment, Ted Cruz was frozen. Mystified by his grandeur. Then the president really surprised both of us and got out a tambourine and started playing “Wild Thing.” _”Wild thing! You make my heart sing!”_ We both listened politely, but honestly it wasn’t that good. And no one looks good naked playing a tambourine. No one. It was totally anti-climactic and kind of disappointing. Plus, the tambourine had different colored ribbons on it, and it was not the right vibe for where our heads were at. But we were both really nice about it and thanked him so much for sharing. He invited us back to hear him play some more songs. “I can play ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ and ‘All of the Lights.'” We were like, “Yeah, we’re going to be out of town a lot in the next month, but maybe after the holidays?” The president was like, “Whatever. Text me. We’ll figure it out. Can’t wait.” 

Back in the hotel room, Ted was visibly shaken even though it was impossible to tell from looking at his face, which is always plastered into a weird frozen alien mask, like an alien is trying to smile while doing a big number two. I asked him if he actually was an alien, because I was feeling kind of mean and snappy and the barbecue was NOT sitting well with me, and he reached up to his neck and took off his face skin like in the movie _Face Off_ and also lots of other movies and showed me what was underneath. He was an alien! He was this cute little green alien! His name was Zogon the Large Face, and he said he was trying to take over America in order to prepare it for the coming Alien Invasion of 2018. He was actually a real sweetie. We touched fingers until we both kind of came I think, and then I got his number and went home. It was a pretty cool night. Minus Obama playing the tambourine naked. I was, like, not into that at all. I hope I survive the Alien Invasion. I think I’m going to get an earthquake kit tomorrow. 

_Elizabeth Meriwether is a playwright, screenwriter, and the creator and executive producer of_ New Girl _on Fox._

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