Secaucus, NJ — James Adler, a small business owner and staunch American patriot broke a pact on Thursday between himself and the bumper sticker on his 1996 Ford F-Series pickup truck, a sticker that proudly states, “911: We Shall Not Forget". The sticker was placed on the back bumper by Adler shortly after the September 11th attacks. While Adler initially intended the gesture of placing the bumper sticker to be an act of somber patriotism, last Thursday’s lapse of memory rendered the act obsolete and left Adler questioning his own allegiance to the United States.

“If I can’t remember that day, I’m no better than Bin Laden himself,” said Adler. “I may as well wrap a towel around my head and give up my right to bear arms.” Soon after realizing his mind slip, Adler bought a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, a World’s Greatest Football Follies DVD and a slew of American pornography in an apparent attempt to reclaim his damaged nationalism.

On a clear day, Adler can see the Manhattan skyline from his New Jersey home but Thursday brought hazy weather and with that, an obfuscated view of where the Twin Towers once stood. “I knew there was something I was forgetting,” said Adler. “It slipped my mind but really only for like a couple of days.” After seeing an advertisement for a program showcasing the construction of the World Trade Center on the History Channel, Adler finally remembered what had happened.

“I felt like a real jerk, un-American,” Adler added. “At first I was mad at the sticker for not reminding me, but I guess it was really my own fault.” Adler claims that he had every intention of remembering the American tragedy but it had simply been “a long time” since the attacks. The bumper sticker had also faded significantly over the years. Adler attributes this to New Jersey’s pollution and turbulent weather.

Adler’s initial reaction was to remove the bumper sticker to avoid future mishaps but this proved more difficult than expected. The sticker’s corners would rip and only parts of the sticker would come off the bumper. The parts that did come off would leave a sticky residue that was more unsightly than the battered sticker itself. Adler then considered getting the sticker replaced but decided against the idea after realizing “nobody sells those damn things anymore”.

After much soul-searching, Adler decided to reconcile with the bumper sticker and promises to get it touched up at a local American-owned custom detail shop as soon as his next paycheck clears. Adler has made peace with the bumper sticker and hopes that future terrorist attacks will pave the way for more durable stickers. The bumper sticker refused to comment.

Written by Matt Kelley for the Bunyon (like "The Onion" but with a B). Read more at TheBunyon.com.

Bertha Nettle gripped the green bingo dabber as tightly as her arthritic hand would allow. This Tuesday night ritual had been going on since before her beloved husband, Stew, had fallen ill with Type II diabetes and too many Dewar’s on the rocks. But on Tuesdays at Our Lady of the Benedictine Saint none of that mattered. She and Stew’s ailing eyes would soar over the bingo cards, bright as new diamond rings, scoping out those winning numbers while keeping vigilant tabs on the large, lit up board at the front of the gymnasium. Once, before all of the Dewar’s, when Stew won 150 smackers, he bought the two of them brand-new TV dinner trays and put the rest of the money into savings. Her tray was beautiful: a deep sky-blue background with a gorgeous, patriotic eagle sailing above and away with a rubber ducky in its claws. She wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but she liked to think it had something to do with America’s loss of innocence.

But something about this Tuesday was different. She could feel it in her hands the way she could feel it when it was about to rain- a quick and low tightening, a warning of sorts. Stew hadn’t been the same since Arthur, that scallywag from St. Andrew’s, had crashed the party and took home two $500 wins. “That’s ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS!” Stew had yawped, clearly distraught. “Do you know how many dinner trays that would buy us?” It was soon after that that he began to laden his tray with drink after scotch-filled drink, and Bertha began to set out on her own. She missed her Stew and their weekly ritual. She never gave up the hope of winning it all for the both of them but she found her spirit continually deflated like a river raft with a tiny but persistent hole careening down a stream of failure.

It was when she heard the incessant giggling and careless talking out of turn from the second table from the wall that her hands, and her heart, knew just what they were up against. Seven interlopers, none of them older than 25 by a long shot, had infiltrated her sacred space and were, as Stew would say, “in it to win it.” One of them shoveled salad into her mouth while dabbing deftly at the bingo card with her other hand, while another made joke after joke- this one really knew how to kill a joke!- about any combo called out in the B aisle. “You can B whatever you wanna B”, the joke-killer drawled in some sort of elderly-mocking accent, “but I’m gonna B-11.” The salad tosser got a huge kick out of this, and together they guffawed and snorted like two delinquent barnyard animals.

It was the unassuming gent in the dapper hat that got the first win- $150- and they all cheered like they were at some sort of whippersnapper sporting event. Aside from the noise, Bertha didn’t much mind- the winner reminded her a bit of Stew in his younger days- eager, genuine, and with a smile that could melt a root beer float phosphate. But then the salad tosser won $5 and everyone behaved as if they were celebrating her finally quitting her factory job so she could start a family now that her husband was home from the war.

During the cigarette break time, Bertha stepped over near the line for nachos and collected herself. They were just a bunch of kids! What was she worried about? She and Stew had some grandchildren and none of them had amounted to much- what threat did these young’uns pose? Her hand began to ease some of its tension. Al the announcer was back. The game was beginning again, and the win was $500. Bertha could taste the flavor of that win- it tasted like gumballs and renewed dreams and Stew’s grateful kiss laced with scotch, the only time her mouth touched the stuff. Maybe he would come with her again, even if he wasn’t ready next Tuesday. It could be the Tuesday after that. It could be five Tuesdays from then. She didn’t care. She just wanted her husband, and his winner’s spirit, back at that church gymnasium, and back with her. She took her seat. It was the layer cake round- three rows all filled- top, middle, and bottom- no other dots colored in- so that the winner’s square, her square, would resemble a cake with three layers. She would call it Stew’s cake. She would bake him a three-layer cake and decorate the top like a bingo card, and she would write “I won! For my Stew!” in the boxes allotted her. It would be a perfect fit, and he would love it.

And then she heard it. Two squeals like tortured sows ringing out from the side of the gym, one of them shouting “BINGO!” for the other who couldn’t even get the word out, who instead gurgled something at high volume and sent a piece of shredded carrot flying across the table. It was that darn joke killer and the salad tosser, and the whole lot of those ornery trespassers erupted into hollers and hoots and the like. Bertha had had enough. Her hand was clenching her dabber so tightly that she had to pry her fingers off of it with her other gnarled hand, and her eyes blurred with tears of exhaustion and defeat. She and Stew had been bested again. She ached to get out of there, and for once she left before the end of the night. She hoofed the 5 and ½ blocks home, struggling for composure before letting herself in the kitchen door. Swatting gnats away that gathered determinedly by the outside light, Bertha found herself wishing she had some of their gritty fortitude. Maybe next Tuesday. But Bertha knew it would be many Tuesdays from then before she showed her fallen face at Our Lady of the Benedictine Saint. She twisted the knob and made her way to the cupboard, then the freezer, then the liquor cabinet. Her Dewar’s on the rocks in knotted hand, she shuffled into the living room to join her waiting husband.

Marla Depew
August 4, 2009