For the past several years, a strange and horrifying force had moved swiftly across the planet, transforming every man, woman and child into a liberal. Except for Neville. Somehow he had been immune. Now he was the only conservative left. A braver man would have put a bullet through his own head, but Neville had become a slave to his survival instincts and tried to go on with life, such as it was.
Neville had just finished his chores for the day. He had tricked out his home into an impenetrable fortress to keep liberals away. He covered his walkway and front steps with NRA membership cards. He dug trapping pits in his front yard using bongs as bait. He taped up his windows with enlarged photos of Katherine Harris and Karl Rove. Now, safely barricaded inside his home, there was nothing left but to wait until dawn and for the possibility of fresh hope.
“Neville! Come out, Neville!”
It was his neighbor, Ben Cortman, taunting him from outside his window again. Ben and Neville had been friends once, before Ben had become one of them. They enjoyed discussing politics and were often in agreement on most issues. But over time Neville began to notice changes in Ben’s political outlook.
“I think Al Sharpton makes sense,” Ben had said once. Neville had let this pass, but it wasn’t long before Ben starting exhibiting other signs like reading Noam Chomsky and wearing Che Guevara T-shirts. “They were 50% off at Urban Outfitters,” Ben had said defensively. Urban Outfitters?! Christ, he should have plunged a stake through Ben’s heart right there!
Neville poured himself another Scotch, stumbled into his chair and closed his eyes as images from the past ran through his head. How did things ever get this bad? he thought. Despite Republicans winning more elections, the government had gotten bigger and bigger. Conservatives came and went, all claiming to be “in the mold of Reagan” but they all turned out to be Big Government globalists.
However it came about, it left Neville all alone to find the cure for liberalism. He had a laboratory set up in his basement wherein he would experiment on sedated liberals. It wasn’t difficult to sedate a liberal — most of them were pretty well sedated already. He would strap them down and expose them to conservative thought — slowly at first with Dennis Miller, then gradually working up through Rush Limbaugh to William F. Buckley. Unfortunately nothing seemed to reverse their infected minds. Neville even managed to shock a few into comas with toxic levels of Ann Coulter.
Suddenly a rock crashed through Neville’s window and he was jerked back to the present. The sounds of a huge mob emanated from outside and were getting louder. Neville peered through the peephole on his front door. There were hundreds — no, thousands of liberals outside his house!
The air was pungent with marijuana and incense. Some of them were holding signs that read “Impeach Neville” and “Give Peace a Chance… Except For Neville, Kill Him!” Others were huddled in a circle amateurishly playing acoustic guitars — the first few chords of the same Supertramp song over and over again. Still others were brandishing lattes and screaming for Neville’s head. This was it, Neville thought. Tonight they hoped to take him down!
“A surge?” said Neville aloud, and he began to laugh at the irony.
Suddenly the front door came crashing down and liberals started pouring in. Neville grabbed his shotgun and readied himself. There they all were, standing in his living room: union leaders, university professors, newspaper journalists, Hollywood celebrities, MSNBC personalities, Daily Kos bloggers — all staring at him and licking their lips in anticipation of the feast. Chris Matthews couldn’t stop giggling.
Keith Olbermann forced his way to the front of the crowd and lept at Neville, screeching like a wild panther. The blast from Neville’s shotgun split Olbermann’s cranium in mid-air as his body hit the floor and quickly began to rot. Evil spirits billowed out every orifice. As Neville fumbled in his shirt pocket for new rounds he failed to notice that he was being approached from behind. Before he could even turn around, everything went dark for Robert Neville.
Neville woke up after what felt like days. He found himself in a holding cell. A crowd was murmuring outside. He looked up and saw that he had a visitor standing over him. It was Oprah Winfrey.
“Listen to me, Robert,” she said. “They mean to execute you. They’re terrified of you. They hate you and they want your life.”
“Couldn’t I just register as an Independent?” he asked.
Oprah shook her head. “It’s too late for that. They found your Sean Hannity beer cozy. They’d never believe you.”
“I thought liberals didn’t believe in capital punishment,” said Neville.
“They don’t,” she replied. “They’re going to perform a late-term abortion on you.”
“I’m 47. That’s pretty late.”
Neville stood up and peered out through the small window of his cell. He could see thousands of liberals outside, chanting. The new people of Earth. Neville sighed and turned back to Oprah.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready to meet my maker. What happens next?”
Oprah turned to the jailor and said, “Have Senator Kennedy pull the car around front.”
(…What? Too soon to go back to Kennedy jokes?)