Mr. and Mrs. Smith

Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody’s face but their own. 
Jonathan Swift


Mr. and Mrs. Smith lived at 123 Maple Street in Typical Suburb. They had a blonde, blue-eyed son who played every sport his public school would let him, and a daughter, slight and brainy with raven tresses and almond eyes, adopted from terrible poverty and squalid conditions somewhere in Asia. They lived very comfortably, what with Mr. Smith’s income and Mrs. Smith’s government assistance for her documented disability, and in addition to their home on Maple Street they had a time-share in St. Augustine.

On this beautiful fall day, Mrs. Smith reminisced about the point in time when they weren’t sure they could afford the beach bungalow. Her doctor had insisted she had no disability, and if she were to eat more vegetables and take the stairs occasionally, she would be cured. “We showed him!” she thought to herself. It had taken months, and expert witnesses and personal testimony and character references, but the court had finally realized that she was a victim of bad parenting and a glandular condition that forced her to drink at least 10 large colas a day. Now everything was set right. The cola company paid for her diabetes treatment, the government paid her what she could have been making if she was able to work, and the doctor retired in disgrace after paying all her legal fees, plus compensation for her emotional distress.

Mrs. Smith smiled to herself as she hung the blue placard in her windshield, “All has been made right.” she murmured as she lowered her 450-pound frame into the motorized shopping cart.

Mr. Smith, unbeknownst to his wife, was doing some reminiscing of his own from his cubicle in the City. He remembered his childhood in Midwest Farm Town with great fondness, and often wondered what his family would think if he took them back to visit with him one year. But Mrs. Smith wouldn’t like his parents’ house, all the bedrooms were upstairs. If there was one thing Mrs. Smith hated it was an upstairs bedroom. And All-American Boy wouldn’t be able to miss his summer practices for something as trifling as a vacation. Exotic Adopted Daughter might enjoy the visit, but his parents were very strict on gender roles, and she couldn’t be exposed to such a female-denigrating environment as the wearing of aprons and baking of pies might foster. No, perhaps it was for the best that his family stayed in Typical Suburb for now. Although, someday, he’d like his parents to meet their grandchildren.

All-American Boy had no idea what was breaking over the horizon as he and his friends passed their customary bong during lunch hour. The foremost issue on his mind was a plan to legalize recreational LSD.

Exotic Adopted Daughter journalled her pain and angst over the mystery of her birth and adoption in her math class, and expressed a wish for free abortions worldwide so that unwanted children wouldn’t have to suffer the way she did. Then she realized that the ink from her gel pen was dripping on her A&F jeans and expressed her doubts as to the pen’s parentage, sexuality, and intelligence. Exotic Adopted Daughter received an award and scholarship for her journals.

The pen was offended and wandered off to become a spitwad shooter.

Unfortunately for the Smith family, their next-door neighbor believed so whole-heartedly in extra-terrestrial life that he converted his house into a spaceship and when he took off at 3 o’clock in the morning (so as not to arrive on Mars in the middle of the night), the thrusters he had installed in his foundation enveloped the whole block in fire and brimstone, leaving none to tell the tale. 


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