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A man, tall and lanky, with the hint of muscle tone natural to a frequent runner, stands over a stove, gently stirring the contents of a pot. He is wearing a pair of well-worn, washed out gym shorts and an ancient, high school sports team shirt, ridden with holes, emblazoned with “Queen of Peace Golden Griffins.” His blonde hair is unkempt, his body posture naturally at ease, although it is evident he is focused intently on what he is attempting to cook. He dances slowly to an internal soundtrack no one else can hear.

His name is Caleb.


A dark-featured man, a few inches shorter than Caleb, but more muscular (due to three days a week at a CrossFit gym) and hairier (although with a recently manscaped chest), stands in front of the closet, holding the fold-open doors. He sports a closely shaved head and a look of utter confusion as he gazes into the closet. A pair of grey sweatpants is slung low on his hips, making it clear his frequent HIIT workouts have gifted him the much coveted “v.”

His name is Anthony.


(loudly, so Caleb can hear him in the adjacent kitchen)

Hun, have you been in the closet lately?


(with just the right amount of camp and sarcasm)

Darling, not since I was 21.


Cute. But I’m talking about OUR closet. The walk-in in OUR bedroom.


Honey. I’m sorry. I know I have to put the laundry away. It’s on my Sunday Funday to-do list— after WORDLE, day-drinking, and finishing this risotto before Dick and Bryan come over for Drag Race. It really is unfortunate he refuses to go by Rich or Richard.


I’m actually not complaining about the laundry. Something… weird is going on. Can you come in here please?



I can’t. I’ll burn the risotto. And the last thing I want anyone to call me is a fuckin’ donkey because I overcooked the risotto!


Fine. But, ummm… I’m not really sure how to say this. It appears our closet is now a portal to space.

Silence from the kitchen. 




Anthony, dear, we agreed we don’t fight the Sunday Scaries with edibles. We only enjoy those on vacation, Christmas Eve, and long weekends with arbitrary national holidays that fall on a Monday.



I swear I am not high. I haven’t even had a mimosa yet. Do you understand what I am saying? I am standing in our bedroom staring into deep space. Stars. Constellations. Meteors.


(trying not to laugh)

Is this a time-delayed reaction to dropping acid in high school while watching underappreciated cinema gem Space Camp with your best friend Eleanor?


Sweetie. Could you just PLEASE put the damn risotto on simmer and come IN HERE? I am not crazy.

Caleb lowers the heat on the stove, rubs his eyes, and takes a breath, as if steeling himself for the inevitable argument that will occur when it turns out this is just a passive aggressive way for Anthony to get him to put the laundry away.

He walks slowly into the bedroom, goes to stand behind Anthony and looks towards the open closet.


(mouth agape)

Holy shit. That’s fucking space.



I told you.


So do we go in?


Fuck no. If watching tons of sci-fi and space horror has taught me anything, not only would we float endlessly through space, but we would die within seconds from the cold and lack of oxygen.

But, seriously, what the fuck?


Maybe we’re dreaming? Maybe we drank a bad batch of Moet, and this is some type of reaction to rancid champagne? Maybe a contact high from the pothead next door? You know the one—the guy who looks like Jack Black in I Still Know What You Did Last Summer. 


(always the realist)

No. I think we just have a weird portal in our closet.


(suddenly excited)

Wait, wait, wait. What if it’s a portal to anywhere? Like, what if space is only one option? I could really go for some piña coladas on a Hawaiian lanai right now! Or that bed and breakfast in Vermont with the hot lumberjack owner who is decidedly bisexual after a few Heady Toppers. Wouldn’t mind being in the hot tub with him again.

OR what if we can travel through time?! I would go back to my first Communion and insist my mother not let me dress in that seersucker suit after I woke that morning with horrific diarrhea.



You wouldn’t go back in time to any other consequential moment?


Well, of course I’d relive our engagement after riding Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and our wedding brunch. Obviously. That goes without saying. Let’s try this shit out.


(raising his eyebrow, considering what the actual fuck is going on)

Fine. Could be fun.

Anthony pushes the two doors together and dramatically flings them open. Their closet is now just a normal closet.


Maybe you just need to like, reset, it? Open and close again.

Caleb is practically jumping up and down from his excitement. Although Anthony’s body language speaks to a certain level of suspicion, he smiles at how giddy his husband is. He recognizes if this doesn’t work, they merely just experienced a “glitch in the matrix.”


Anthony, although a well-credentialed, published author in a number of scientific journals, had accepted long ago that there are still things in the universe that can’t be explained. Like why Kraft mac and cheese tastes better when you’re drunk, why Disney World air just smells and feels better than any other air, and why skinny Italian guys are always the most well-hung.

Anthony decides to humor his husband. He closes the door and opens them slowly this time.



A crowded cruise ship. Loud EDM music plays on the main deck. Thousands of men, clad only in Speedos, are dancing in a giant cesspool of man soup. Some are doing bumps of coke. Others are taking turns making out with all the other men in their dance circle. A smell of sweat, poppers, and cheap rum wafts into the bedroom through the closet. There’s a banner hanging from the balcony – “Welcome to the 2022 Atlantis Cruise.”



Yeah, no. We’re not joining the Omicron of the Seas.

Anthony quickly slams the door and opens it again.



A quiet beach. Waves lap up against the shore. Men clad only in sarongs deliver brightly colored drinks to people in cabanas. A radio plays softly from one of them.

Caleb, excitedly, takes a tentative step across the threshold and smiles as he feels the warm of the sun on his bare foot. He pulls his foot back in and he shivers as it touches the cold hardwood floor. He sneaks a look at Anthony, almost pleading for them to try.

Someone in the cabana with the radio turns the volume up and the announcer begins their broadcast.


America has been officially declared COVID-free, and upon a mass information campaign, 99 percent of the global population has opted to take part in the pan-vaccination program. This vaccine is designed to protect all global citizens against any future variants of the deadly coronavirus and has showed promising results in protection against ANY coronaviruses.

After Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio, Lindsey Graham, Lauren Boebert, Kyrsten Sinema, Jim Jordan, and Joe Manchin were indicted on a number of felonies and federal crimes and expelled from their elected positions, Democrats were able to take control of Congress and pass essential voting rights, minimum wage, and universal health care laws.

Stimulus payments are expected to be sent to all Americans for the next 6 months as a “thank you” for their fight against COVID-19.

Additionally, federal law now allows for paid parental leave for all families, forgiveness of all student loans, anti-racism training in schools and federally regulated rent control and mortgage pricing, giving greater access to all families for affordable housing.


Caleb looks at Anthony and Anthony returns his gaze. It is evident they both think this may be a multiverse they want to live in. Caleb starts to rummage through their Speedo bin to find the perfect swimwear.



Now, onto election news. Since his reelection, President Trump has promised to sign a bill into law on his inauguration date—January 20th, 2024—that will allow him to hold the office of President for the next 10 years. He also plans to sign executive orders undoing any of the previously mentioned advances made by the Biden administration. Vice President Marjorie Taylor Green is set to address the nation on OAN from her office in the newly established Department of QAnon Legitimacy department in the Pentagon. Also on her agenda for the address, demanding all M&M’S be assigned legitimate genitalia, the government’s plan to distribute ivermectin to every household as part of her sweeping health care reform plan, and the government’s ongoing tax plan, named after Jeff Bezos, that will allow our country to finally address the serious issue of space lasers while also making sure billionaires don’t need to pay tax on their yachts.

Mitch McConnell has confirmed he has sold the third portion of his soul to maintain the deal with the devil that has allowed him to hold the balls of the American public in vice grip by changing the rules only when it benefits him, and then indignantly clutching his pearls and making grandiose statements about the “will of the American people” whenever the opposing party tries to do anything that will actually benefit the American people. The stipulation of this deal is that he will continue to look more and more like an ancient turtle genetically bred with the testicles of a wrinkly, 80 year-old.





Caleb grabs the door handles this time and quickly closes and opens them.



A nursery. A nursemaid looks over a crib. What sounds like a lullaby in German plays from a phonograph. The nursemaid hums along. Suddenly, the baby starts to wail. The nursemaid rushes to pick the baby up and comfort it.

She bounces the baby, holding it closely, whispering to it, trying to get it to calm down.

She begins to murmur the baby’s name “Adolf. Adolf. Adolf. Shhhhhh. Shhhhh. Kleines baby. Kleines Adolf. Shhhhh. Geh schlafen.”

A luger, for whatever reason, sits within reach of the men on a small side table.

Caleb and Anthony look at each other, eyes wide, mouths wide open.


Is… that… Baby Hitler?


DUDE. What the fuck do we do?!

Eric Mochnacz

A wizard of pop culture. A prince of snark. A delightful addition to any dinner party.

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