Hurt and disillusioned, I’m giving up and just going the hell on to bed.
I have sat quietly here for the past hour or so, straining for any hint of the brash martial sounds heralding the first engagements in our Second Civil War out there within the great American night, as has been loudly predicted for this Independence Day by red-faced racist shout-monkey Alex “InfoWars” Jones.
Alas, nothing.
Not so much as a single scream of “libtard” or “MAGA” echoing in the divisive distance. Just a few stray bottle rockets popping off here in the neighborhood to briefly rouse the dogs, who bark a bit, then renew their grumbly slumber.
This is like childhood and Christmas all over again, with a bed-headed me in hiding behind the pungent Douglas fir, awaiting the arrival of Santa, dear Santa, only to spy my old man in his boxer shorts sneaking into the family room with a flashlight and a box of presents, before scarfing down the Suddenly Illusory Old Elf’s waiting cookies and milk. In my memory, my dad will belch, though that may be a later addition.
And just like that, now adulthood is ruined, too.
So thanks, Alex Jones, you chucklefuck windsock, you cheap monster. If Santa existed, I feel certain he’d beat the shit out of you with a whole sack full of coal. Clean coal, of course, since that doesn’t exist either. And cheap irony, in the absence of our fleeting dreams, is worth its weight in imagined gold.
Fair is fair, Jones. Cuz in my pretty pretend world, you don’t have a place, either. Ho, ho, ho.
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