Russian hacker made me change my vote    

Now that the grieving is nearly over, my story can be told. Alt-right neocon fascists and other members of the #banalityofevil will no doubt scoff at the Truth™ staring them in the face: Hillary was robbed of her rightful place as America’s 45^th president by Russian hackers. I mean, how can you ignore the plain logic? If President Obama wants to punish the Russians for hacking the election, well they obviously hacked the election, right?

These simple facts will probably make Repugnantcans stick their fingers in their ears and run to their Rush Limbaugh climate denial echo chambers where they can get high on the fumes of crude oil and FOX (FAKE!) News, but they can’t ignore my testimony. I know what happened to me, and it must have happened to other progressives across the country, too.

You were all like me. You had purchased fireworks, a box of Madam President t-shirts just arrived from Amazon, and you were rolling joints with the best weed to celebrate the scientifically inevitable coronation of our Queen. You were so excited to be with Her, that you even borrowed your parents’ gas guzzling SUV to get to the polling station. You were going to vote with the rest of progressive America, and just sit back and watch the votes roll in for Hillary.

Well let me tell you how a Russian hacker changed all that and destroyed my life forever. I was on my way to the polling station when an apparition appeared with long hair, an unkempt beard, and wearing like a Jedi robe or something. He looked like the feminist studies major I had been dating earlier in the year, but with powerful, hypnotic eyes. Was this the missing fifth Beatle?

“Who are you?” I asked. When he answered, I could hear his voice in my head. It was a heavy Russian accent reverberating with authority, and he said, “I am Father Grigory, and you must Vote for Trump!” I felt as if somebody had hit me on the back of the head with a copy of The Way Things Ought to Be. As if in a trance, I took my turn in line, and didn’t even protest the inherent racism in being asked for a proper ID, but listlessly handed over my driver’s license. Glassy eyed, open-mouthed, and drooling slightly on my “I’m with Her” t-shirt, I proceeded to the voting machine, robotically checked “Trump”, and cast my ballot.

Nobody knows how painful it is for me to recall what happened that awful day. I want to vomit and cry all over again. This was worse, yes worse, than my experience firing a Daisy bb gun. When I awoke from the trance, I couldn’t believe what I had done. Because of me, America was going to have a president who wanted our country to be “great” again. After eight years of declining employment, loss of respect in the world, and with our enemies growing stronger and bolder every day, we were *this close* to achieving our socialist utopia of a dependent America lying prostrate before the UN.

Instead, we all awoke to the greatest national tragedy since Hitler became the first Republican president. My world was shattered. All my dreams and aspirations of living the life of Julia, getting prescription glasses at age 60, and being recycled in a common grave were robbed from me by – me. And all because of a Russian hacker.

Oh, Hillary forgive me! What have I done!?