As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
The diver seems confused, so I continue to describe our current election: 9/11 ANNIVERSARY, COUGHING, ABANDONED SHOE
Uncertain, he holds his spear-cane before him. I press on with more hand signals: RACISM WALL, TIMID NEAR MEXICAN PRESIDENT, LOUD WHEN HE'S GONE
I brush aside an eel, continuing my hand signals: DESTROYED BY MODERATELY SCATHING COMEDY SEGMENT
The diver relaxes and thoughtfully taps the glass in front of his chin. Encouraged by this, I elaborate with the universal signs for: VIRTUAL REALITY DOOFUS, WHITE SUPREMACISTS, MEME MAGIC
He urges me to continue, and I oblige: EMAIL SERVER, BENGHAZI, COVER UP BY SOMETHING AWFUL CIA CABAL
My hands begin to tire. Dragging the heel of my foot along the ocean floor, I write: GHOSTBUSTERS REMAKE, MILO, ALT-RIGHT
As I scrawl the final letter, my boot clanks against something buried just below the silt. It's a treasure chest full of doubloons! Excitedly, I lay the gold pieces in a pattern to spell out: INCITE VIOLENCE AT RALLIES, OPENLY SUGGEST ASSASSINATION OF OPPOSING CANDIDATE, OFFER ALL JOB RESPONSIBILITIES TO POTENTIAL VICE PRESIDENT
He scoops the gold coins up into a bucket. I resume my universal hand gestures: EMAIL HACKS, STILL DICKIN' BIMBOS, UNCOMFORTABLY LONG IMPRESSION BY JOHNNY DEPP
The diver tugs on a rope connected to a bell somewhere on the ship above. As the bucket is pulled up, he nods at me to continue so I do: BLACK LIVES MATTER, BLAME BLACK PRESIDENT, BIRTH CERTIFICATE
We begin to grapple with a monstrous octopus-like creature, its gnarled beak snapping at my hands as I do the signs for: TACO BOWL, AGITATED PHOTOSHOOT EAGLE, DISHEVELED DOCTOR
Just as we are about to lose consciousness in the grips of the octopus' tentacles, a great whale ridden by Poseidon comes along and consumes the foul monster in a single chomp. The diver holds me in his arms, and as blood dribbles from my twitching mouth I signal: PLAGIARIZE FIRST LADY SPEECH, SCOTT BAIO, MOCK PRISONER OF WAR AND DEAD SOLDIER'S PARENTS
Up above, the ship's crew set to work, cranking a wheel to reel in the tubing connected to the diver's suit. As he is jerked upwards I slip from his hands and continue: DEMOCRAT STRATEGY - GO WITH MOST DIVISIVE CANDIDATE, SAY ZINGERS LIKE "DANGEROUS DONALD" AND "TRUMPED-UP TRICKLE-DOWN"
The deep sea diver's iron-gloved hand futilely reaches out to me as he is pulled into the inky blackness that borders my immediate surroundings. I frantically do the signs for: KILL ENEMIES' FAMILIES, SUSPEND DUE PROCESS, BLOW UP IRANIAN SHIP IF THEY TAUNT US
A soft light from the giant clamshell grows brighter. The portal to my own time is opening. I pause to consider, then make one final hand signal to the diver who is now little more than a faint shadow, knowing there's little chance he'll see it: THINK I'LL STAY DOWN HERE
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
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