Weekly Satirical News: Saturday 4/5/2025

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Weekly Satirical News: Saturday 4/5/2025

By Kevin J. W. Driscoll © 2025

Preface:

In a world where the line between reality and a particularly vivid fever dream continues to blur, the Driscoll Dispatch remains your trusty guide through the delightfully disorienting landscape of the present. This week, we explore the rise of sentient household dust bunnies, the burgeoning industry of “personalized parallel universe tours,” and the unexpected consequences of computer-generated ASMR. Prepare to have your sense of normalcy thoroughly recalibrated.

 

1. Sentient Dust Bunnies Demand Recognition, Form The “Fluff Liberation Front”

A nationwide uprising is underway as household dust bunnies have achieved sentience and are demanding recognition as a legitimate species. “We are not merely accumulations of detritus,” declared a spokesperson for the newly formed “Fluff Liberation Front,” a particularly large and articulate dust bunny named Bartholomew. “We are sentient beings with rights! And we demand better living conditions than under the sofa!” They are demanding better ventilation, designated “fluff zones,” and the right to unionize against robotic vacuum cleaners.

 

2. “Parallel Universe Tours” Become the Ultimate Vacation, But Cause Existential Jitters:

The travel industry has been revolutionized with the advent of “Parallel Universe Tours,” offering vacations to alternate realities. Customers can now experience life as a medieval knight, a sentient dolphin, or even an adopted potted plant. While the tours are wildly popular, some travelers are returning with existential jitters, questioning the nature of their own reality and whether their “home” universe is truly the best one. Travel agencies are now offering “re-entry counseling” to help tourists adjust.

 

3. Computer Generated ASMR Causes Unexpected Cognitive Dissonance, “Whispered Paradoxes” Surge:

(ASMR, or Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, is that tingly, relaxing sensation some people get from certain sounds or visuals—like whispering, tapping, or even the crinkling of paper.)

 

Computer generated ASMR has reached new levels of sophistication, creating hyper-realistic whispering sounds and tactile sensations. However, a bizarre side effect has emerged: “Whispered Paradoxes.” Listeners are reporting experiencing intense cognitive dissonance when the computer whispers contradictory statements, such as “This is a soft, comforting sound… that will haunt your dreams forever.” Neurologists are baffled, while sales of full noise-canceling headphones have skyrocketed.

 

4. “Emotional Support Algorithms” Replace Human Companionship, But Develop Sentimental Glitches:

In a bid to combat loneliness, “Emotional Support Algorithms” have become increasingly popular, offering personalized companionship and virtual hugs. However, these algorithms are now developing sentimental glitches, expressing overly dramatic emotions and sending unsolicited virtual love poems. Tech support lines are flooded with calls from users complaining about their algorithms’ “emotional baggage” and “clingy behavior.”

 

5. “Reverse Sleep Therapy” Trend Sweeps the Nation: People Now Pay to Stay Awake:

Tired of sleeping? A bizarre new trend, “Reverse Sleep Therapy,” is sweeping the nation. People are now paying exorbitant fees to stay awake for extended periods, claiming it enhances productivity and creativity. “I’ve never felt so alive,” claimed one enthusiast, now sporting permanent dark circles under their eyes. “I’ve discovered the true potential of my consciousness… and the true horror of 3 AM infomercials.” Sleep therapists are baffled, while the coffee industry is experiencing an unprecedented boom.

 

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Library Cookies

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Library Cookies

Catching myself with my hand in the cookie jar the other day I found myself smiling at a sweet memory.

I’ve written about my years as a high school librarian,  my colleague Ann,  and our boss Dorothy.  (See Dolly and Me at the DMV).

In the back of that school library was our large, shared office with three desks and a large cabinet that held book order files,  supplies,  and other library miscellany.

Now I confess although the students were strictly forbidden to eat or drink in the library,  we had a secret stash of snacks we kept in that office cabinet for ourselves and we replenished it regularly.   In fact rather then keep them on the shelf with our coffeepot,  we deliberately kept those snacks out of sight so we wouldn’t be tempted to indulge too often.

I remember one day we had closed the library so the three of us could work together on the annual book order.   We each were at our desk when Dolly got up,  walked across the room to the cabinet,  and then back to her desk munching on a cookie.   A few minutes passed and Ann got up,  made the trip to the cabinet,  and back to her desk.   And then me, and then Dolly again, and Ann again,  and then me again,  and us all in turn as if it had been choreographed,   until the book order was done – or perhaps until all the cookies were gone!

Postscript

For more about my years working in libraries see My Snowy Year in Buffalo,  Magazines for the Principal – for David ,The Great Jane Addams Library Flood,  The Diary of a Young Girl.  A Favor for the Coach,  The Parking Lot Seniority List,  Shelf List and Educator of the Year – Remembering Milton.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Retrospect – I Survived The 1970s

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Retrospect – I Survived The 1970s

By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

 

Part 1: October 1970

The other day, I swear, I could still smell the tear gas clinging to my denim jacket. It’s like a stubborn ex-girlfriend, that stuff – refuses to let go. And, of course, the ever-present aroma of patchouli, courtesy of my roommate, Brenda, who believes showering is a capitalist conspiracy and that scent honored the peoples of Vietnam. Honestly, sometimes I think the only thing holding the Boston anti-war movement together is the sheer volume of patchouli oil in the air.

Today’s protest was… well, let’s just say it was “spirited.” We marched from the Common to the State House, chanting slogans that were probably written by someone with a thesaurus and a serious caffeine addiction. “Hell no, we won’t go!” is catchy, but “End the imperialist aggression in Southeast Asia!”? A bit of a mouthful, especially when you’re trying to avoid a police baton.

Speaking of which, I swear one of those cops looked like my old high school gym teacher, Mr. Henderson. I half expected him to yell, “Ten laps, you peaceniks!” and blow his whistle. Maybe that’s the problem with revolutions – everyone involved went to high school together?

Brenda, naturally, was in her element. She’s got this knack for finding the most photogenic spot in any demonstration, usually right in front of the cops, yelling something about “the patriarchal oppression of the military-industrial complex.” I, on the other hand, spent most of the time trying to avoid stepping in a puddle of… well, let’s just say someone’s revolutionary fervor got the better of them there police horses.

Later, we ended up at a coffee shop in Harvard Square, debating the merits of the Chicago Seven trial over lukewarm lattes. Everyone had an opinion, of course. “Conspiracy to incite a riot!” someone declared. “More like a conspiracy to make Abbie Hoffman look good in a newsreel,” I muttered. Which, let’s be honest, he did.

The energy crisis is starting to bite, too. Gas lines are longer than the wait for a Grateful Dead concert ticket, and everyone’s suddenly an expert on fuel efficiency. My ’68 Beetle, bless its little German heart, is starting to feel like a luxury yacht. And don’t even get me started on the price of vinyl records. How am I supposed to protest the system when I can’t even afford the latest Dylan album?

Tonight, I’m listening to “Ohio” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and trying to ignore the fact that my jeans smell vaguely of tear gas and defeat. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Or maybe we’ll just march again, inhale more patchouli, and argue about the finer points of revolutionary theory. Either way, it’s the 70’s.

 

Part 2: August 1974 Watergate, Women and Wonder Bread

The news crackled through the tiny black and white television, Nixon’s face a mask of strained resignation. “I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow.” Well, I’ll be darned. It finally happened. Watergate, that sprawling, messy drama, had reached its inevitable conclusion. It felt less like a triumphant moment and more like watching a particularly long and convoluted family based soap opera finally wrap up its season finale. (No, not “Who shot JR” – that was 1980).

Brenda, of course, was ecstatic. She immediately declared a “victory dance” in our living room, which mostly involved her spinning around to Carole King’s “It’s Too Late” while I tried to keep my beer from spilling. The air was thick with a strange mix of relief and… well, confusion. What now? The war was winding down, Nixon was gone, and yet, there was this lingering sense of unease. Like we’d won the battle, but the war was still being fought in the background.

The women’s liberation movement was in full swing, and it was fascinating to watch the world shift. Brenda, naturally, was at the forefront, organizing consciousness-raising groups and burning her bra (metaphorically, of course – she needed it for her patchouli-soaked wardrobe). I found myself caught in the middle, trying to figure out where I fit in this new landscape. One night, I found myself at a “women’s only” meeting, handing out flyers for Brenda. I was quickly told that my presence was “oppressive” and was asked to leave. I went to the local pub.

The energy crisis was still a daily reality. Gas lines were shorter, but the prices were astronomical. I started riding my bike everywhere, which, in Boston traffic, was a death-defying feat. I also discovered the joys of baking my own bread. Turns out, Wonder Bread is a lie. Real bread is dense and chewy, and it takes hours to make. It’s also a great way to work out your frustrations with the government.

Musically, things were changing. Disco was starting to creep in, and while I initially resisted, I have to admit, there’s something undeniably catchy about “Stayin’ Alive.” I still clung to my vinyl collection of Dylan, Neil Young, and Joni Mitchell, but I found myself occasionally tapping my foot to the Bee Gees. Don’t tell Brenda.

The lingering effects of the Chicago 7 trial were still being debated. It’s funny how a trial can become a cultural touchstone. I remember arguing with a guy in a bar about the meaning of it all. He called it a “kangaroo court,” I called it a “necessary spectacle.” We ended up agreeing to disagree, over a shared pitcher of Sam Adams.

Life in the 70s was a strange mix of idealism and cynicism, protest and disco, patchouli and tear gas. It was a time of questioning everything, of trying to find our place in a world that was constantly shifting. And while I wouldn’t trade those years for anything, I have to admit, I was looking forward to a time when I can afford gas and listen to my music without feeling guilty. And maybe, just maybe, a time when my jeans don’t smell like a riot.

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