The Humorous Posterior

My Butt is a Fully Trained Marxist & Aesthetician

Seize the means of production and look good with my butt

If I’m honest, my butt has always leaned to the shlumpy left. Watching “the news.” Being nice to people. Ignoring the basics of grooming. Speaking admiringly about the Nordic socialist utopias. It’s all of a lefty liberal piece. My butt became a Bernie butt. But polite, not one of those rude Bernie butts. Until my butt got angry.

I don’t know what the inciting incident was, but my butt began talking about marching in Seattle, the cops this, the cops that. Complaining about billionaires. My butt has never met a billionaire. What does my butt know from billionaires?

“We are not going to Seattle!” I yell, “I have to work.”

“Wage slave!”

My butt bought IWW swag off Facebook ads run by sites with names like slavelabortees.com. This included a General Strike hoodie with a thin, black cat. I didn’t get the reference.

“Who is General Strike?” I asked, “Is he from the prequels?” Because my butt is obsessed with Star Wars.

My butt scoffed, “The prequels are not canon!” And of course they are, it’s just George Lucas was corrupted long ago by bourgeois ideology — “Just look at American Graffiti!” — so my butt doesn’t acknowledge the prequels. Still, the hoodie looks good.

My butt accidentally dialed Antifa Local 351 (Cincinnati Branch) on my cell phone. Four times.

My butt had no friends and was, let’s be honest, not very good looking. My butt watched compilation videos of make-over montages. “If I only was conventionally beautiful,” said my butt, “I could smash to wheels of industrial capitalism.”

My butt knew I was writing this, so I asked, “Which pronouns should I use for you?” My butt said, “None. Butts don’t use pronouns.”

My butt took off on a trip to Venezuela to visit some family. This was a surprise, because I didn’t know my butt had family in Venezuela. A few days into the trip I found some pamphlets showing that my butt had applied for and received a scholarship to the Manifesto Academy of Cosmetology, Dogma, and Ideology in Caracas.

Upon return, my butt hung up a shingle, Revolutionary Style, that offered “nails, hair, exfoliation, massage, revolutionary seminars and reading groups. Overthrow the capitalist overlords. Seize the means of production. And look good!” My butt was looking good. Almost sartorial.

All services provided by a fully trained Marxist and Aesthetician!

You could read the certificate on the wall. The place was packed. A lot of butts. Working class butts. Salt of the Earth butts.

My butt corrected me. “All butts are proletarian. You think there’s such a thing as an aristocratic butt? Or a bourgeois butt? Or even a peasant butt? All butts are workers. The Queen’s butt works just as hard as a tailor’s butt, even if the throne is softer than the work bench. There are no white collar butts. It’s all shitwork for us.”

My butt scares me. Where’s the revolution coming from? Inside the house. Or inside our pants. My butt is angry and skilled. Thanks to contrived good looks and beautician joie de vivre, my butt is attracting comely followers from all over the state. Pretty soon they will move beyond conversation, book clubs, and coiffure.

“Deeds, not words,” says my butt.