Del Margo Satire Weekly
OFF DECK | TULSI'S CAVERN
Del Margo Satire Weekly
Neon News
Neon signs blaze across the front of a building resembling Del Margo, seen from the street like a fever dream with a power bill.
All I’ve got are coins, but a parade is rolling in, complete with a cage fight that promises a full scale image disaster.
The windows are gone, replaced by glowing billboards, and the hedges hum like oversized screens buffering the future. USA Shares, Intel, and a few other tech titans beam out ads for:
Cage fights, city morale pending
The upcoming Kennedy movement, mystery included
The Squeaky Wheel Hollow Tank Brigade race, traffic rerouted by Ice himself
Note: Turning points may include not letting the Grammys anywhere near this one.
P.S. Still hunting for Tom’s Cava Bag. Coins accepted.
Pasture Chronicles
Once upon a time, Datsun 510s and Mercury Capris ruled the middle class imagination. Brands with an S curve swagger lived rent free in our rearview mirrors. Then came a certain mountain that looked vaguely presidential, and a certain man who decided he could not quite fit the silhouette.
All he wanted was to say he conquered it. A redacted legend drifting through fog. “Not pertaining to the White House website,” they insist. Nobody remembers ordering it, yet somehow it arrived anyway. Like a stalled motor licking flames, you pause. Do you burn your hands trying to restart it, or step back and let gravity finish the lesson?
Meanwhile, the lapdogs nod. Premium value. MAGA style. Burning coal. Flags lifted just high enough to scrape asphalt and call it heritage. 2025 stamped on hood emblems in permanent marker.
When the dog bites.
When the bees sting.
Step lightly on the ice before the Proud Boys lace up. Pardons have expiration dates.
Now they do not feel so redacted.
Bike Era Dispatch
Woman’s style frame. Big tires. Throttle on the handlebars. Exacted okay.
A 5hp Briggs & Stratton lawnmower engine bolted onto suburban LA ambition. Careening downhill: reckless, because my brother never made it that far after coaxing it to life. Finally, I took off.
A drive-by image in motion—feet off the pedals, gravity doing its work, finger pointing at the throttle, praying the neighbors aren’t watching.
TJ Baden CreatorHuman ™
Satire survives in the glow of neon, the hum of small engines, and the memory of mountains better left un-humped
OFF DECK FOOTER | Clean Cut Version
We’ve got bratz.
They’ve got botz.
AI grew up fast. A trillion dollars ago, we could still drink the water.
Now they won’t even let us near the MOLTBOOK.
Stay sharp. Count your coins.