Lastly, not a meme at all, but a piece LSR wrote in 2019 for the Great International Scavenger Hunt (GISH). The item was "Right the Great American Novel." I did so.
I doubt that this is what anyone had envisioned for this mostly-visual-items scavenger hunt.
In honor of Senator Turtle's announcement that he is not running for reelection in 2026, I present, "The Rapes of Wraith, Chapter Three."
The Rapes of Wraith
Chapter Three
By Little Sister Resister
(apologies to John Steinbeck)
The National Mall was edged with a mat of tangled, broken protest signs, and the protest signs were heavy with wit and angst to catch a congressman’s eye, and entreaties to fasten in the ear of a lawmaker; equal rights waiting to be heard and implemented; every cry armed with a pierce to express their wants, and all waiting for legislation, for a Senator’s courage or the will of a Representative, all powerful, but armed with compassion and hope, and each possessed a voter registration card.
The sun lay on the grass and warmed it. And over the grass at the Reflecting Pool Senator Turtle from Kentucky crawled, turning aside for nothing, dragging his cheap suit over the grass: His chin set and yellow-nailed hands wringing wickedly, not really walking but boosting and dragging his shell along. The cries for compassion and common sense slid off his shell, and the entreaties for impeachment bounced off him and fell to the ground. His horny beak was partly open and his fierce, beady eyes, under brows like fingernails, stared straight ahead. He came over the grass leaving a slimy trail behind him, and Capitol Hill, which was the People’s Chamber, reared up ahead of him. At last he started to climb the Capitol steps. As the steps grew steeper and steeper, the more frantic were the efforts of the Turtle Senator. Pushing little legs strained and slipped, boosting him along, and the horny head protruded as far as the wrinkled neck could stretch. Little by little, Senator Turtle climbed up the steps until at last a hall cut straight across his line of march, a chamber 230 years old. As though they worked independently, the legs pushed the turtle across the hall. The head upraised and peered over the metal detector to the rotunda. For a moment Senator Turtle rested. A red-faced protestor ran toward him, and suddenly head and legs snapped in, and the little tail clamped in. The protestor’s hopes were crushed by ancient white Southern ideas. For a long moment Senator Turtle lay still, and then the neck crept out and the old beady frowning eyes looked about and the legs and tail came out. The old legs went to work, straining like GOP elephant legs, and further and further the legs boosted him, further and further to the right, until at last there was no center, the right went further right. The tenants of the U.S. Constitution were crushed in his yellow hands.
Now the going was easy, the legs worked and the shell boosted along, waggling from side to side. A microphone held by a forty-year-old reporter approached. She saw Senator Turtle and swung to the right, her voice screamed and a cloud of dust boiled up. The reporter skidded back into the hall, and went on, but more determined. Senator Turtle had jerked into his shell, but now he hurried on, for the reporters were burning hot.
And now a refugee child approached, and as she came near, the child saw Senator Turtle and swerved to confront him. His teary eyes begged and flipped everyone’s emotions like a tiddly-wink, except Senator Turtle, who rolled on. The Senator went back to his course along the right side. His yellow nails caught the elevator button and little by little the car descended.
The sobs were unheard and the protestors, reporters, and children were stuck in the hall. And as Senator Turtle crawled into the elevator, his heels crushed hopes for fairness and equality. Senator Turtle entered the elevator and jerked himself along, leaving American ideals in the dust. The old beady eyes looked ahead and the horny beak opened a little. His yellow finger nails pressed the “up” button.
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