Hold up, the truly confusing thing to me is the rating for these on goodreads. It’s super low, like 1.2…but like…I feel like it’s pretty honest right on the cover about what it is. So who is buying this book called MAGA HAT ROMANCE, reading it, and then like “1 star, hated it”?
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I just went through a few of the 88% 1star reviews. It looks like 3 hate the concept to 1 love the concept but the writing and editing are awful.
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it’s free, and there is dogpiling?
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I think you’re right, reading them now. People are pretty shocked and offended that there are a lot of stereotypes in it…so…that’s disconcerting.
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I’m digging in hard. And if I currently had kindle unlimited I’d be thirty pages in
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My rule is I keep reading reviews until I find one that genuinely makes me laugh. Did it:
" The price of being able to read has never been so high."
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Ugh
Reviewed in the United States on January 30, 2022
I could barely fap to this.
150 people found this helpful
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Bahahahahaha
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@Smacky the reviewers think a teenager and or male wrote this. Maybe this is why big teenager hasn’t been doing his schoolwork? If so, how much is he making?
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I would love it if this were true.
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Reading the reviews, I got the sense people thought it was satire and it was not. I admire the person who was like “tell me more about Mike’s truck. It is only described as “nice””.
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It’s Wizard
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Oh man. I do have kindle unlimited.
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Please pirate it for me.
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If you tell me how, I will make it happen.
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I loved that one.
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chapter one
CHAPTER ONE A red blur greeted Ricki from inside the rapid transit trolley car as it whizzed past and came to a stop. She adjusted the waistband of her low-slung jeans and took her place at the front of the throng waiting on the platform. Inside the car, not many were preparing to exit. She hated it when large events crowded the ridership on her line. This one, a Trump victory rally coming just weeks after President Trump’s inauguration, explained all the red, making her hate it even more. She braced herself for the inevitable pushing and shoving, even though the thought of getting anywhere near one red-clad rallygoer, let alone be surrounded by them— The doors opened. She leaped forward, determined to make this car. Her destination was the same rally as many of the passengers she loathed. She had to get on now, before she lost her nerve and changed her mind about attending. Riders spilled out, thwarting Ricki’s progress. Room in the car was disappearing. And then, an opening. From experience riding the line, Ricki knew just how to time her next move. She hunched down small, ready to shoot the gap. But a hulk at her left elbow stepped into it. “Nooooo!” She grabbed the hulk’s arm and tried to squeeze past. The hulk stopped, then smiled when he saw her. Immediately, he stepped out of the way, blocking a wall of bodies. He ushered her forward with a gallant gesture. “Ladies first,” he said. Ah, a redneck. The kind that drew her automatic disdain. Ricki scowled. For good measure, she used the toe of one of his steel-capped work boots as a stepping-stone and set her elbow in the vicinity of the hulk’s ribcage. Men like this only existed in the world of her father and brother, who were holdouts to a version of masculinity that was rapidly disappearing. According to fourth-wave feminism, most of the rest should have been reduced to blithering apologetics by now. Still, it was handy to have her way cleared. She stepped inside and searched for a strap or grab-room on the overhead bar. But the hulk hadn’t finished. “I insist.” A single empty seat remained. He continued to block the swell of commuters while he pointed at the seat, smiling at her to take it. Behind them, she felt many sets of eyes, all trained on that seat. What was he trying to do? This type she could dispatch with ease. “You’re holding up the show,” she said. She grabbed hand space on the bar and glared at him. “Oh, you do talk.” He was still smiling. She looked away, not knowing how to respond. In that second, Harold slithered between them and parked his butt on the empty seat. Harold was a regular on the line, like Ricki. Normally, she did her best to ignore him, but today she gave him a fist bump. “Atta boy, Harold,” she said. The rest of the car laughed as the train moved. “Loser!” came a voice. It wasn’t clear who the shouter was targeting. Harold sat with his knees closed, the very image of detoxed masculinity. He wore a black watch cap. A scrawny beard feathered his jaw. Ricki thought he was simply repulsive. He’d struck up a conversation with her, once, quietly suggesting they meet for coffee sometime, a topic she’d firmly quashed. She’d spent her entire graduate program perfecting the art of rejecting men. In this, her final semester, she could, and sometimes did, give lessons in it. She hadn’t sat through a single miserable date in ages. In fact, she hadn’t had a good date, either, but that wasn’t the point. As a feminist about to graduate with a master’s degree in gender studies, dating was a mark of shame. She’d had a few dates during her undergrad years, all of which began and ended in complete awkwardness. Across the narrow center aisle, crowded with bodies, the hulk rumbled his disapproval. “Huh-uh,” he said. “You defile the memory of my grandfather.” So, he was upset she didn’t fall for his guy-games. She was about to cut him down to size verbally, along with his grandfather, but the purpose for her rally-attending mission made her clamp her mouth shut. She might need this guy later. He’d already furnished her with some juicy man-hate; fodder for the blog post she planned to write for her blog, Petra’s Parlance. Unlike some of the other passengers, his wardrobe gave no indication of his destination. She didn’t know where he was headed. He wore a white, button-down shirt, the kind with the embroidered pony, like her father wore. The shirt was tucked into a pair of work pants with no belt. His heavy work boots were hulking and oversized, like the rest of him. A dusty imprint remained on the toe where she had stepped. She kept her attention on him, mostly because of the way she was facing. His reach up to the overhead bar was easy, relaxed. His head nearly touched it, and his elbow was bent at a comfortable angle. She stood a head shorter—she had to stretch all the way up to reach. He was trim and fit, despite his size, with workingman’s hands, large and rough, and his face was handsome in a rugged, rather than pretty, way. She glanced at Harold and immediately saw the difference. Man vs. Boy. The man wore his hair in a Kennedyesque, frat boy cut, a feature she loathed, even though it was the same style as her dad. Did he also hunt? She swept away the thought. Her father’s passion, if known by the Sisterhood, might have her application for membership revoked. Ricki couldn’t bear to risk rejection from the university’s most prestigious feminist activist group. Her last task remaining before her entry into full membership was to attend this rally and write a blog post about it. Then, after Friday’s membership tea would come her long-promised reward to herself—a tattoo she’d wanted since she was a kid. The festive mood on the train lifted her earlier dour spirits. If nothing else, these red-clad cultists had enthusiasm on their side. For a fraction of a second, she even looked forward to the rally. Then she remembered who she was; and her reason for going snapped her back to the present, and her mission. When the trolley stopped, she was at the door, the first passenger to step off. She wanted to get a good seat.
chapter 2 and 3
CHAPTER TWO In this venue of perfect fools, Ricki decided, she was the Wise Mother. But it was a low bar to meet. All around her sat the alt-right dupes, each one a replica of the next, and all engaged in an absurd dance of handshakes and backslaps. These people were the locus of injustice, beneath contempt. The Sisterhood must see this. She pulled out her camera phone and snapped away at the incoming crowd, capturing some T-shirt and spandex-clad women. They smiled and waved as they passed. Ricki smiled back. She laughed inwardly at their ignorance of her motives. She began to relax at how easy this was. She chose a seat in the front row near a set of risers occupied by the media. They were a mass of cords and tripods with cameras, all manned by techs trying not to trip over the stylish, on-air personalities. She wondered what it would be like to have to cover someone so offensive and full of hate. From here, she had a clear, though distant, view of the podium, with good lines of sight to the floor activity amidst the alt-right masses. “Is this seat saved?” She would at least feign politeness. The spot was in front of a gaggle of suburban-type women—all well-coiffed and manicured. Who’d elected a pussy-grabbing rapist for their leader, over the most well-qualified candidate who happened to be a woman. The woman next to the chosen seat patted it and smiled, glancing at Ricki’s green-toned, platinum pixie. “It’s all yours, hon,” she said. “Thanks,” said Ricki and sat down. Hon. When was the last time she’d been called hon? Sometime in high school, by the nurse, probably. She pulled out her phone and tapped in a few notes—Hon. Misogynist. Disrespect. Lack of awareness. Ricki sat back in her cushioned seat, taking in the upbeat crowd. She actually marveled at how different the mood was here—an almost infantile cheer. It was such a contrast with her own side’s crowds—always accompanied by shouting and rage that often spilled over into violence. Rage. Rage and anger had become driving forces in life, expressed by her one cosmetic indulgence of black nail polish and lipstick. Oh, and the hair. Green, her choice today, all served the rage. It fueled her activism against a world in a state of perpetual injustice. But rage was not the face for today. Especially not with this bunch. Rage was as out of place here as her hair and makeup colors, but so far, the makeup and hair hadn’t caused more than a glance. A cheer sounded across the arena. Two younger men carried one elderly man down the stairs and to his seat. A standing ovation on both sides of the aisle accompanied them. Ricki turned to the trad wife next to her. “What’s going on?” She pointed. Her seatmate studied the situation. “A veteran,” she finally said. “They do it a lot. WWII, Korea, Viet Nam maybe. The president loves to introduce them at rallies.” She turned her attention on Ricki. For the first time she took in her hair, then her face, then glanced to her black painted nails. “This your first rally?” So, people attend these more than once. “Yes,” she said. Veterans. People she almost never thought about. Veterans were certainly not people she and the Sisterhood openly celebrated. In fact, more than a few of them showed an open contempt that shocked even Ricki. Veterans, and even the police, she’d been taught growing up, were among the best and bravest Americans, even though no members of her family had served. Her friends ridiculed the notion of putting your life on the line to protect the country, and she’d always gone along with that attitude. And even though Ricki did not quite share it, she would never openly challenge their belief. The woman was perky and cute. Her nose wrinkled when she smiled. “Welcome! Glad you came. I hope you have fun here.” “Sure,” said Ricki. “It’s great.” She wondered how she could ask the woman about Blacks, gays, intersectionality. Nothing in her persona, her dress, or her casual conversing gave Ricki any clue to her views on race or injustice. In fact, for the nearly full hour Ricki had been inside the venue, she hadn’t had even a glimpse of what she came to see. She decided to take a walk around the place, go racist hunting. She turned to the lady. “Excuse me.” She stood up slightly and put her hoodie on the chair. “I’m going to walk a bit. Could you save my seat, please?” The woman, a redhead, smiled and stuck out her hand. “Of course, what’s your name?” Ricki wondered if she was shaking hands with an actual racist. “I’m Ricki,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Ricki, I’m Marilyn.” The woman patted the seat of Ricki’s chair. “See you later.” A promenade that separated the lower from the upper seating levels ringed the arena. Ricki strolled it, watching. Up above, seats were filling in quickly. Below, on the floor, swarmed almost unbelievable numbers of security. Some were venue employees in orange T-shirts, manning each section of seats, directing rallygoers here and there. One group, all dressed in identical, khaki-colored polos with matching work pants and sturdy black boots, caught Ricki’s attention. Ricki made her way back to floor level to get a closer look. They were fascinating to watch. All were young and muscular, even the two women she saw, and all but one of the men had full sleeve tattoos of varying designs. The women’s tattoos were less prominent, but still visible. Ricki looked closely at the designs. She hadn’t quite decided yet on her own tattoo design. She watched one woman in particular. Olive-complected, she had coal-black hair pulled into a tight knot, large eyes heavily lined in kohl, and sensual, full lips. She was tall and shapely, beautiful, and very tough looking. Ricki doubted she would have much trouble taking down ninety percent of the attendees in the place. There were far more men in the corps—they were mostly just muscle-bound. Ricki wondered how they could run or jump. Their biceps and shoulders stretched the shirt material nearly to the ripping point, and their thighs resembled tree trunks. The posture of both the men and the women was spine-stiff straight, and they walked with a confident swagger. They seemed not at all distracted by the booming music or phased by the raucous crowd, now engaged in making an endless “wave” loop circling the arena, with people laughing like hell. Indeed, the security detail were intent on each other, keeping each other in sight, greeting each other when they passed. They watched the crowd closely, weaving among the folks standing on the floor in front of the podium. She decided to go back up to the entrance lobby and find the restrooms. Uncertain of where to go, and a bit disappointed she hadn’t spotted any overt racism, she was shocked when she turned a corner and nearly collided with a group of college-aged youth, several of them persons of color. Just as shocking were the whites in their midst. At least two of the group wore red MAGA hats. They all carried rally signs. It shattered her expectations. She’d ignored the sprinkle of Hispanics, Asians, and Blacks in the crowd as she waited in line earlier, thinking them merely outliers—betrayers to the resistance cause. But this, up close and literally in her face, she could not deny. As she tried not to gape, they stepped around her, pleasantly, smiling like the rest of the racists. One of them flashed a thumbs-up sign, what she’d been told was the president’s secret sign to the whitest of his base. It would have made sense, except it was one of the Black youths who flashed it. She walked on, and then saw a stand that said Resolve Gun Club and Rifle Range. Ah, pay dirt. No guns in sight, though, just signs and literature. But how to approach them? She walked up to a nearby table with T-shirts for sale and pretended to inspect the merchandise. Eventually, there was only one man with a full beard standing behind the gun club table. He smiled and touched the brim of a black felt cowboy hat. “Good day, little lady,” he said. “Would you like to become a member?” She shook her head. “No,” she said, “but I have questions.” “Ask away!” “I’d like to buy an assault rifle.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s an assault rifle?” he said. He wasn’t smiling. Ricki did not know what to say. Was he joking? “Well,” she began, “you know, an assault rifle.” He stared at her like she was crazy. “No,” he said, “I don’t know.” Then she saw a poster of one, right behind him. It was a black metal rifle, bold and wicked looking. The sight of it made her hate juices flow. “There.” She pointed. “Like that.” The man turned around and looked. He began to laugh. “Oh, that’s what you’re talking about.” He looked at her more closely. “That’s an AR-15. The AR stands for ArmaLite Rifle. You want to buy one of those?” She nodded slowly. “Yes.” “Well, first you have to pass a background check.” Background check? She wished she hadn’t started this. “Honey,” he said kindly, “have you ever taken a firearm safety course?” “No.” “Have you ever shot a gun before?” “Yes,” she said. “I’ve hunted with my father and brother, but that was a long time ago.” “Okay.” He seemed to regard her a bit more seriously. He handed her a business card. “I suggest you start with the safety course. We offer them at the range, for free, through the NRA.” The club logo and contact info were on the card. “You can find out more here.” Ricki looked at the card, hiding her disappointment. She halfway hoped he would tell her how easy it would be to obtain the hated rifle; offer some kind of insider loophole information she could share with her Sisterhood friends and on the blog. “Thanks,” she said. She had a sudden idea. “Hey, can I get a picture with you?” The man looked puzzled but shrugged. “Sure,” he said. Happy to have one small thing work out to her advantage, she recruited a passerby to snap a picture. The black rifle poster made the perfect backdrop, though it lacked the cachet of blatant racism. It would be proof of her attendance. Maybe she could find someone else to get a photo with. “Thanks,” she said. She walked away, then turned back to wave. He had his hands on his hips and was looking at her, with a slight air of suspicion. No racists yet, but guns. She was getting close. She decided to go back to her seat, strike up a conversation with her seatmate. Perhaps her friends might spill the beans on their certain racism. All she needed was one. And then she stopped. It was another man, walking toward her, with a Democrats for Trump T-shirt. A traitor! From her own party. But at least they could find some common ground in the party. It didn’t seem she needed to have an excuse to talk to people. Everyone was exceedingly friendly, even kind. Feeling nearly desperate for some validation of her original theory that she would find the true hatred on this side of the divide, she approached him. “Excuse me?” She stuck out her hand. “My name is Ricki.” The man shook her hand. Like every other person in the place, he had a warm, friendly manner, completely open and sincere. “Hi, Ricki.” “I saw your T-shirt, and I was wondering, would you mind answering a few questions?” “Are you a journalist?” She wasn’t. Not really. “No,” she said, “I’m a graduate student, but I’m a Democrat, like you.” The man’s smile grew bigger. “Welcome,” he said. “Ask away.” In this hall full of people who were complete aliens to her, Ricki was not sure how to phrase her questions, or what to ask first. But, as a Democrat, he could, she hoped, clear up some misconceptions. “So, you voted for this guy?” The man looked down at his shirt. “Trump?” he said. “You betcha. He’s taking care of the country, us, the little guy, like no other president, ever. So, yes, I voted for him. Good day, Miss.” Miss. Good day. What was with these men, anyway? She thought of the “ladies first” redneck in the trolley car. Were they all like this? “Wait,” she said. He turned back. “Yes?” “Aren’t you afraid of being called racist?” The man threw back his head and laughed. “If that’s the worst thing I’m ever called, I’m doing pretty well.” What did he mean? “Yeah, but you’re here, with these … people. You’re one of them.” “One of what … racists? I’ll get a tax break with more take-home pay; add to my kids’ college fund. Because of him I can quit my extra job. We are planning for my wife to quit her job and stay home to raise the kids. We’ve talked about homeschooling. So for us, the numbers are way, way better, know what I mean? If that makes me a racist, well, so be it.” Numbers may not lie, but she hated listening to this guy. He was spouting the talking points so ridiculed by the media. She had nothing but contempt for these people for voting with their pocketbooks. She steeled herself for what she knew was coming. “I’ve lost friends over supporting this president, but, like I said, my family is doing way better, and I can see a bright future for my kids.” Beneath her skin, Ricki felt a flush of anger. In front of her stood a major traitor to her party, his party, the resistance, their movement, the very country itself. This man was standing up for a proven racist, by his own admission, by not denying it. By cavorting at this rally, and happily, with people who had voted for one. He pointed toward the arena. “Those people want to raise their families and be left alone. They’re not going to hurt anyone.” He touched the word Democrat on his shirt. “It’s these people. These people who are hurting the country. So, Miss.” He touched the brim of his MAGA cap. “Now you know why I’m at the rally. I hope I’ve answered your question. Have a good day.” He walked away, leaving her shocked by his speech. What he had told her was the truth as he saw it, but to Ricki it was doublespeak meant to cover up the intolerance of the marginalized. She leaned against a wall and looked hard at the people rushing past her, all smiling and laughing, getting seats, crowding around the souvenir table. It was a display of diversity she seldom saw anywhere. More men were at the gun club table. Several young men were engaged in conversation. Smiles, laughter, arms waving and big gestures—the sort of things she despised about men. More worrisome was the lack of material for the blog post she had to write. She had encountered almost nothing of stereotypes and would be forced to embellish the gun guy and the suburban housewife seatmates. The rest would have to be conjured up. She took out her phone to take shots with her camera. While she thought she wanted to get random and candid photographs of the people here, for her blog post, it was difficult to stay true to the stereotype attendee. Women, of all colors, sizes, and economic levels, were everywhere. In fact, there must be at least as many women, if not more, than men. She captured on screen a group of typical white guys, four in number walking together. They wore matching T-shirts. Upon closer inspection, she was disappointed to read Firefighters for Trump. Could she make something out of white male firefighters? Better than nothing. She snapped a pic, with little enthusiasm. But her biggest problem, she realized, was eliminating young people, Asian, Hispanic, and Blacks. Nearly every frame contained minorities—the marginalized. She managed to click off a few totally white frames, but not nearly as many as she had expected. When she heard a huge roar from the crowd, she hurried back to her seat. It was her last chance, she thought, to find proof in the pudding. And that pudding would be Donald Trump. Surely, there would be plenty of angry propaganda when he came out on stage. Ricki had a good ear for the alt-right’s dog whistles. She would listen carefully to every word the president said.
CHAPTER THREE If the Republicans didn’t use the word God so much, thought Ricki, they might be worth listening to. To help pass the time, and also to gather material for a clever lead-in to her blog post, Ricki decided to count the number of times the president used the name God in his speech. Even with the warm-up speakers—politicians, campaign personnel, and other public figures—God was freely invoked. If she also counted the Pledge of Allegiance, and the two black women now leading the crowd in prayer, Ricki might have run out of fingers for counting before the president even took the stage. She wondered how the Star-Spangled Banner escaped without the mention of His name. In her own activist experience, Ricki could not recall anyone on her side using God as Supreme Being, guiding force, or higher power, although she had heard the name taken in vain. Many times. Ricki bowed her head for the prayer and stared at the tips of her toes. She could not help but peer up at the two black women onstage. The sight was even more unsettling than the diverse crowd of attendees she’d encountered earlier. If Trump was a racist, if his supporters were racist, then why were these ladies given such a respected role? Even more puzzling was the lack of reaction of the people in the audience. Nobody, except her, seemed to think this was anything unusual at all. She glanced sideways at Marilyn to find her prayerfully engaged. Her eyes were shut, her hands folded. Her lips were moving slightly, her head nodding. Ricki was discreet enough to wait to address Marilyn until they finished praying. “Who are those women?” she asked. “Diamond and Silk,” she said, without taking her eyes from the two retreating figures. As the raucous applause died down, Marilyn finally looked over at Ricki and grinned. “Two sisters from North Carolina. They’re famous supporters, since 2015. Aren’t they great? Everyone loves them.” Ricki didn’t know exactly what Marilyn meant by 2015. Perhaps it referred to the early campaign. But a bigger mystery was the prominence of these two women of color, before what was supposed to be a racist crowd. Along with other jarring sights at this rally, it didn’t match up with her definition of racism. But if she had to define racism, Ricki was not certain that what she saw here would fit. She pushed the thought away. That was impossible. The idea that these folks did not hate people of color or were not homophobic, that they accepted diversity, simply conflicted too strongly with her worldview. Hers was the anti-racist and tolerant bunch. The people she sat with now were the haters. Not only did they hate whoever did not look like them, they were uncouth and uneducated. Marilyn, for instance. Marilyn’s zeal for anything and everything happening at this rally was getting on her nerves. Didn’t the woman have any self-awareness? Did she realize how she was broadcasting her bigotry with her constant arm-waving and fist-pumping? And she didn’t even apologize for all the times she bumped Ricki’s shoulder when she jumped up from her seat. Ricki sat back and sulked. She considered leaving the venue, except that she was on a mission. There must be another explanation for what she had been witnessing. Something simple that explained away the contradiction. Of course there was, but that was not her concern at the moment. Her purpose today was to blog about the rally, increase her readership for Petra’s Parlance, and fulfill her final requirement for Sisterhood membership. Membership far outweighed in importance these assaults on her senses, these seeming anomalies. She must be willing to sacrifice for the sake of her side. There was nothing to do but wait for the main event. It came quickly, almost unexpectedly. When “Proud to be an American” boomed through the speaker system, the crowd went to its feet. The roar as the president walked onstage was overwhelming. She sighed with relief. In an hour or a little more, this circus would come to an end. In the meantime, she would pay attention to the man who was, perhaps, the person she most loathed in all the world. She brought up the Notes app on her phone. She wanted to get some good quotes. It took some time for everyone to quiet down. He began with remarks on the size of the crowd before moving quickly to bash the media. That Trump and the press had a hostile relationship was something that Ricki knew well. Every night on the news the press fought valiantly against the president’s attempts to suppress reporters from informing the public of his malfeasance and corruption. It disgusted her that he actually used his contempt of the media to fire up the crowd. “You see these people,” he said, pointing his finger and sweeping his outstretched arm in front of him. “Back there. The fake news. If Pocahontas and Sleepy Joe ever had a crowd like this, the dishonest media would be turning their cameras every which way, letting the viewers see the audience. But with me, they keep the frame tight and square on me, so the viewers can’t see that we have standing room only inside, with many times more watching outside on the Jumbotrons.” The crowd booed on cue. Ricki, unable to help herself, looked at the media risers. The camera operators did not take the bait. Their lenses remained frozen in place, trained directly on the podium. As the boos sounded through the arena, the president shook his head in disgust, then he stepped back from the mic and strolled the stage, taking in the crowd. Someone started a chant of “U-S-A.” He seemed totally at ease. In here, surrounded by his sycophant supporters, there was no failed administration and no chaos in the White House. The threat of imminent indictment simply did not exist. She’d been waiting a long time for his indictment. It seemed everybody was. But he did not appear at all to be a man about to be perp walked from the White House in handcuffs, locked up, with his fortune, his life, and his reputation in ruins. Indeed, he joked, smiled a lot, and even engaged in banter with the audience. The venue was filled with a rock concert-like atmosphere. It was another thing Ricki saw but could not believe. This guy was a crook? He must be, she thought, after all the media and her friends told her this night after night. It was one of her and her roommate Karen’s favorite topics of discussion. But here was the 2020 election in plain sight, with not even a whimper of a charge. But then, what did she expect? He was a billionaire. Therefore, untouchable. At least so far. But there was one thing Ricki was forced to agree with. Even though many of her Sisterhood colleagues reviled the military, Ricki felt a wellspring opening up at the president’s support of the veterans. For sure, it was a true crowd pleaser. Her applause for this one was genuine, whereas before, her reactions were carefully timed and calibrated. Ricki checked her phone for the time. The president had been on stage for nearly an hour. She sat tight, still listening, although she was beginning to scan her notes and add to them. Her notes contained an arsenal of material from which she would tease out the coded language and stretch the truth just enough to spin into a damning blog post worthy of going viral. Ricki congratulated herself when the president finished. She checked the time again. She was in no hurry, with the exits now clogged with rallygoers. She continued to type out notes, and made a call to Karen, her roommate, to tell her what time she expected to be home. She would try and make the 10:00 p.m. trolley.
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