“Marx and Engels focused too much on the social class war between the Proletariat and Bourgeoisie–Instead, unfathomably left behind the 21st century social class crisis: the uprising of the Simps.”
–Brandon M. Suffel
Let’s hear a warm welcome for those who’ve just joined the club. The simp club,–to be exact. And what have Marx and Engels gotten wrong this time? Those two old senile, economic liberating lusters… For Marx and Engels both have never experienced the gruesome task of finding love in their time. So what if they tried today? Especially with all the new and savvy technology available to us, it must be easier for them to fill a void they’d never opened up to us.
The night was already late, it was one of those winter nights where you weren’t so sure if it was cold or not, since it was above 30 degrees outside and it wasn’t snowing but you knew the ground was cold and the air still stung a pair of freshly shaved cheeks. I still hadn’t taken one step outside, albeit I was afraid of what the egregious horror show the world had to offer. A recluse I am! But fortunately, two good friends of mine are stopping by for a night of drink.
And there I was, all cooped up inside on this very vague night. Soon Marx and Engels would arrive to help me write a paper on them, that of which was too boring and awfully challenging and flawed, I’d argue too many Communist ideals for me. I couldn’t and wouldn’t accept any of it, no way.
“Admire the Proletariat class and their struggles!”–touted Engels.
And Marx would constantly say, “abolish bourgeoisie property and return it to the working class!”
After this much exercise, I had nothing more but disregard for the paper and soon fell into a bucket of despair due to a lack of any progress being made in such a short period of time. Then there’s Marx and Engels who, already hyped up on lots of gin and not enough soda, had nothing more to offer. Maybe I should stay sober tonight because of a test I have in the morning. I know that if I drink too much my words just won’t flow how I like them too. I figure, if I’m going to drink tonight, the overall competition would be about who could out drink who; and though I have my own doubts in my drinking abilities, it would be boorish to attempt at beating any man with a personal vendetta for 21st century capitalist scum–and here I am, a capitalist scum faced off against two vindictive German ferrets.
“Are we making any progress,” asked Engels, who came across sullen; though always interested in my progress.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Good, you should join us for a drink soon, look at Marx over there having a great time. I have never seen him this, jubilant.” said Engels.
Yes, albeit if only he knew how his fight for class struggle against the capital hungry imperialists would inevitably fail. Only then, would a stricken uprising of the great American dream and an expansion of the top 1%, would indubitably flood the dreams at night of all young boys and girls because of Gamestop and Dogecoin.
I looked down at my phone and saw a notification from Tinder. I tend to ponder the app and find myself scrolling for nothing but attention, or the hope of meeting someone and never needing to use the app ever again.
Suddenly, an epiphany jarred my swiping. Why not get these two, half-drunk, 19th century born, imbeciles on the most favored dating app? Either I was mixing up a recipe for disaster, or I would be saving this recipe for future Stuart generations to come…
I called over the two, “Hey Marx, Engels, get over here.”
“Just hold on a second Thomosin, the Jets are getting clobbered and the commercial with John Travolta just turned on,” said Marx, who was distracted like a bratty child.
“What’s the plan Thomosin?” Engels asked, with slight innocence in his voice.
Though I was still eager about the prompt of an idea this corrosive, what could possibly happen? Could either of them lose their cool and go out of control from frustration, or was I going to lose either of them to a booty call? I hope it’s the second fluster.
As my own aspirations loomed towards hell, I was hopeful the both of them could score–and if they could–I could score too. I handed Marx my phone and gave him the green light. I gave Engels an opportunity to watch from afar; even though I trusted him the most.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Marx.
“Alright, all I want you to do is make an account, swipe right on what you like, and left on what you don’t. Have fun.”
“Got it. You’re on,” said Marx–and soon the first shot was fired, the horses had left their stables, and the infamous simp race was off to a start.