Executive Outcomes by Michael Hollaback

I have undergone a paramount moral awakening. Were you aware that there are places around the world where people are uneducated in Western values? My, oh my… how have they gotten along without us? In a world like this? My most prosperous students and I have flown to Angola on an academic yet no less humanitarian mission to deliver the people our validation, our love — the love of the world. Why? Because we must. They must know they are loved by the West. So here I am, in my grand, well-ironed safari suit, lifting and lowering my great big magnifying glass to a beautiful boy’s head. How anyone could ever call a boy like this anything besides “adorable” is beyond me. He is cute as a button in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt faded to appear as if it were produced in the ‘90s. How my step-daughter would love to thrift something like that. Little does this boy know, he’s rocking some of the flyest threads available. It’s true. In Philadelphia, they might nod in honor of his swag. In Atlanta, if he were to pair it with some skinny jeans, perhaps a handsome young man would reward his fashion sense with fellatio. Ah! Intersectionality! How human is he. All too human. Write that down. Now write down how you wrote that down. Cultural studies… one must marvel at the achievement. Truly. Take a moment to marvel. Next, feel grateful. Your gratitude is of the utmost necessity. Yes, I feel it. We are helping these people more than they will ever know.

One moment. I will give the child’s bloated belly a rub after I’m finished caressing my own. I had a rather robust lunch, and the indigestion is most distracting. Goodness… the children are smelling my burps. However, I will allow them to. Here, boys and girls, come here. Smell the pale burps of a novitiate relishing in your vibrant cuisine. And for dessert: a Butterfinger smuggled straight from the Great Satan’s Café. No, no… you don’t want any part of this. It’s full of seed oils, corn syrup. The venoms of the snake in the garden. I assure you, you are better off hungry. There, there. Don’t cry. I’m uncertain if that was my tummy rumbling or yours. I’m not due to defecate, so I presume the rumbling must be your hunger. Are there not any bugs around for you to snack on like Timone and Pumba? It's been rumored that they taste like chicken but perhaps that is merely a jest of the Lyin’ King. Hakuna matata… translation: discipline and punish. A grave observation. Oh my, I've made a mess. I’ve pat myself on the back and the crispies of my Butterfinger have scattered into the dust. Oh no. Children! Too much of that will fill your bellies with mud! Translator! Tell them to stop!