Aubrey Nipple felt just a wee bit resentful of the Russian girl punk band, Pussy Riot. A talentless group of musicians that had nevertheless been catapulted onto the world stage just because they'd defied Vladimir Putin and spent time in a Russian prison as political dissidents. Aubrey was jealous of their gulag. Who did he have to protest? Barack Obama? The Tea Party? It simply wasn't fair. How about the Supreme Court? Now there was a pussy riot all set to explode. Could this be his break? All those old white guys did look like members of a Soviet politburo. Clarence Thomas, too. Clarence Thomas especially. Great protectors of "religious freedom," slapping virtual chastity belts on women.
Aubrey smiled, thinking how certain radio and television stations refused to say the word "pussy" when referring to the band. Hadn't it always been that way with him? Teachers, neighbors, officials, strangers — they'd all stammered and mumbled when addressing him, as if there was a curse, some kind of voodoo in pronouncing his name, saying it aloud. Nipple, nipple, nipple! he'd wanted to shout. Pussy, pussy, pussy!
All at once, Aubrey felt inspired. His great song, the anthem that would rock the world. His own personal "Give Peace a Chance."
Aubrey grabbed his pen and his acoustic guitar, strummed a few chords, jotted some words, thrilled by his inspiration. His father was going to be so proud of him...