Jacking for Trump

I don't remember much of this dream, thank god. The little that I do remember is bad enough. It was another dystopian future present dream, this time featuring President for Life, Donald Trump. I tell ya, life couldn't be any more fucked if, after the rest its indignities, one has to go to sleep and dream of that guy.

None of us were living in our own homes, since the wrecked economy had forced the entire population of the middle and lower classes into homeless Dickensian poverty. The neighborhoods had been snatched up by a robber baron class of elite cronies, and the president had turned all private dwellings into "boarding houses," which seemed to function more like mini internment camps. We lived 12 to a house, and every available space was used for habitation, including bathrooms and broom closets. 

We didn't have jobs to go to, so most of our time was spent collecting semen for the president's breeding program. Males were expected to produce prodigious amounts of the stuff, which would be gathered in cups, then buckets, and finally barrels, then brought to the president's dwelling, a mansion on a hill. I don't know what females were expected to do, since I didn't see a single one of them in this non co-ed living arrangement.

"Hurry up, number four!" a voice shouted into the communal bathroom. It was a long, narrow room, lined with rows of doorless stalls. The floor was glazed with a fetid patina of urine and shed body hair. I wondered how any of us were expected to get this sort of business done in these squalid conditions. 

"You're late," the voice continued. "It's almost time for second collection, and you're not even done with the first batch."

I finished under duress and used a disposable wooden ice cream spoon to scrape out my cup into the bucket. Once a bucket was full, the next bloke would take a paint stirring stick and do the same thing, emptying his bucket into a larger one, and so on, until there was enough to transfer into a 55 gallon drum. These were toted up the hill dutifully at the end of the day. 

Apparently, I'd missed collection time by minutes, so I had to go around looking for the barrel guy, who was nowhere to be found. This was not good. I would have to schlep my tiny sample up the hill and appeal to the president directly to have it accepted as a late arrival. He hated late arrivals, and I was sure to be reprimanded.

"Not just disappointed, number four," I could already hear the president whining. "This is...just disgraceful. No excuse for this kind of thing. None."

There weren't any punishments for late arrivals, other than having to endure the incredibly irritating tone of the president's voice during the long lectures on personal productivity. I woke up rather than have to listen any longer.