A FAKE NEWS Fiction: Ford Romania Adds Jobs; POTUS Takes Credit
Ford Romania revealed on Thursday that it is in the midst of recruiting 976 people to help support production of the new EcoSport at Craiova Vehicle Assembly Operations. An estimated 2,715 individuals are currently employed by Ford Romania in vehicle and engine assembly.
“Big announcement by Ford today. Major investment to be made in Romania, Pennsylvania plants. Car companies coming back to U.S. JOBS! JOBS! JOBS!” This is how a tweet from the barely-literate 45th President of the United States would almost certainly read if the aforementioned news were to reach his desk, which one can only assume is littered with crumbled fast food wrappers and crudely-drawn, half-finished sketches of Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders being beaten up by a super buff, caricaturized version of himself, a man who, in all actuality, is probably closer in stature to Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.
“Uh, Mr. Trump, sir,” an advisor would interrupt, scrambling red-faced through the doors to the Oval Office* mere minutes after the tweet went live. “That’s Romania, the country. You know. It’s in Europe.”
Met by the beady glare of the slack-jawed, raccoon-eyed president, the advisor—who, given the administration for which he would be working, would almost certainly be: 1) white 2) male 3) cisgender 4) heterosexual 5) Christian 6) prejudiced against anyone not fitting each one of the five aforementioned descriptors 7) an agent covertly working under Russian influence to undermine American democracy—would then likely say, “You know, Europe. The continent. The place…,” before pausing, trying desperately to think of how he could delicately phrase the information in such a way that the simpleton president would understand what he was attempting to convey without overtly seeming like he was condescending to a child, which the advisor would most certainly know the puppet president to be on every level but for that of the corporeal (excluding, of course, his hilarious baby hands), then, having recollected himself, finishing, “…where there are a lot of different, big countries. Like the Ukraine.”
The empty stare would distance another 1,000 yards, practically on another planet now, boring into its molten core in search of chocolate. The hideous, globby jaw would grow slightly more agape, as if attempting to suck the information from out of the air to process it more easily in the intestinal tract. The advisor would in that moment regret thinking that the supposed leader of the free world is an educated man, let alone one who has ever so much as read a world map.
“Italy? France?” Ever-increasing distance. “The place with the Eiffel Tower?”
Nothingness. Like the content of the advisor’s soul, of his moral core. Something might stir within him; could it be regret? Could it be the imperative to leave his position and go form a new, more fulfilling life atoning for all of his wrongs? Or might it be the bagel schmear he would have had for lunch? Was it off? He would assure himself that he knew that something about that schmear seemed funny.
“Germany,” the advisor would huff, barely holding in contempt for the diaper-smelling septuagenarian sitting before him. He would try desperately to pull his gaze from the wattle of flesh bundled up beneath the president’s face, which he would always observe with a disdain not dissimilar to that with which the narrator of The Tell-Tale Heart beheld the old man’s vulture-like eye. “It’s the enormous land mass that Germany is on.”
A light would then bloom behind those glazed-over eyes, and an almost indescribably loathsome smile would stretch across the president’s face like a crack spreading across the broken windshield of a decade-old Ford Focus.
“Ger…many,” he would stumble, made giddy by the sound of his own obnoxious voice. “Is that where Angela Snorkel is president?”
The advisor would then cringe as if absorbing a blow to the face, die just a little bit more inside, and repeat, “Angela Snorkel, yes.”
The buffoon president would roar in delight. “HA! Did you see where she wanted to touch me and I wouldn’t let her? Women always want to touch me. They just can’t help themselves, especially when I touch them first without asking and then remind them that I’m famous and I can just touch them whenever I want.”
The advisor, whose will to live would have by this point shriveled to little more than a thimble’s worth of the blackest ash, would hurriedly usher the conversation in a different direction for fear of emptying the contents of his stomach onto the $600 leather shoes that this gig paid for. “Mr. President. Please, focus. Romania is a country in Europe. Ford is not creating 1,000 jobs in a tiny, tiny part of Pennsylvania.”
Then something would happen: the president’s face would narrow, as if it were being sucked into the non-Euclidian whirlpool that is his shrinking mouth, which would pucker into a moist, pouty O-shape that the advisor could only mentally equate to something from which poop emanates. The beady eyes would narrow into near-non-existence, subsumed by the flesh bags beneath the beast’s eyes. His jowls would then seem to separate, parting and spreading and opening like an otherworldly flesh portal in a Cronenberg film, and from it would emerge a face.
It would be like the visage of the president, only impossibly smaller and slick with some viscous, clear discharge. Apart from the size, everything about it would be the same: the absurd way that it holds its mouth, the completely artificial fake tan, the bulbous jowl and the obvious desire to hide it at all costs. The advisor, half-mad and stifling a scream, would wonder if there is another president, smaller and smaller still, buried within that tiny face’s saggy cleft.
And then the face—the smaller face, the slick and dripping face—would speak.
“Why isn’t Ford creating jobs in Pennsylvania?”
Unable the stop himself any longer, the advisor would scream.
***
Moments later, a tweet would be issued from the desk of the President of the United States. It would read: “Ford bringing jobs to Romania instead of hard-working America? America good. Romania bad. America good. America. America. A̱͖me̥͠ŗ̪͇̩̞̬i̪c͕͇̭a͙͉.̷͈̯ ̜̩̥̠ A̞̟͎̩m̛̺̫̲̭̮̹̼͕̞e̴̥ŗ̶̧̝̣̭̗i̧̢̼̘̤̝͉c̰̝͚͓̲͜͝ͅà҉͈̱̳͙̪̘͇̠.҉̣̬͖̺̭̯̪̗͕ ̱̕͘ A̴̵̠̟̜̯͞m̸̸̢̧̦̘͙̼͈͙̼̟̮̳̪͙͈͕͠è̸̫͓̰͉͎̤̯̠̝̻̫̦̹r̛͡͏̷̡͍͕̪͕̬̬̠̙̯̙̝̪̳̰͉̣̙̖͉i͜҉̷̥̦̰̹̪̼̫͙̬̠̙̘͞ͅͅc͏̶̭̖̟̬̗̺̫̺̯͖̳͕͕̤͎͎͝a͜҉̣̳̠̼͈̟͘.̴̶̷̗̪͈̤̫̗̖̩̘̲̝̗̩̬͕̱͍͞ ̵̡͡͏̫̘͔̱̟̩͕̟͕̦̰̘͙̕ͅ A̖̩͓̙̘̲̮̜̟̺̻̩̞̞̺̘ͪͯͤ̿̑ͣ̾͐̆̇͗͘͡͝m̸̥̪̟͇̻̟͑͊̄͑̏̿̿̇̃ͦ̃͟e͆͗͐ͮͨ҉̴͘͡͏̼̼̙̹͎ͅr̹͕̟̩̭͚̠̹̩͎̥͎̹̣̃̏ͦ̿̊ͮ͒̎̆̇̑ͪ̃ͨ̑͜͝ͅȉ̢̧̹̫̹̳͎̣̹̼̳̩͎̻̹̜̤̺ͯ̈́̌̾̌͊ͤ̿̾̋̃̔ͮͬ̀c̴̶̨̢͉̻̣̮͓̫̭̬͖̹̐ͤͣ̉ͫͦ́̋͛̓̑͗̌ͭͨ̈̈̊̎à̴̡̝̗̲͚͇̲̱̪̫͔͎͔̱̍̓̓ͮ̔̆̅͆̇̌̄̚ͅ.́̃̂̈ͦͣ̾̊̃̅̏̒͊̾ͨ͠͏̸̗̜̺̣͚̣̙̮̤̝͢ͅ ̶̵͇̩̠͙̺͓̝͇͊̾́̿͋̌̂̽̋ͫ́̓̈́̀̊̓͋̀ͯ̕̕ A̴̢̨̟̭̠͓̣̣̥̠̙̲ͭͤ͒̋̎ͩ̎̇̓͗̿ͦͦͭ͑͛̈́͝ṁ̳̟̟̲̘̺ͨ̅̐ͪ̄́̔́́͠͝e͍̞͍͇̝̟̤ͫ͌ͫ̏͊̽̌̄ͥ͡ͅ”
Ford Romania will conduct recruitment through Manpower’s Craiova office. Ford Romania HR Director Marina Babară says that the selection process is expected to last through the end of July.
*Correction: In the third paragraph, I established that this fiction was taking place in the Oval Office. It probably would have been far more realistic to set it on the back nine at a golf course somewhere.
Kyle S. Johnson lives in Cincinnati, a city known by many as “the Cincinnati of Southwest Ohio.” He enjoys professional wrestling, Halloween, and also other things. He has been writing for a while, and he plans to continue to write well into the future. See more articles by Kyle.