“Yeah,” you say. “But you’re a comedian. Trump’s going to be great for you!”
Excellent point. I’m sure the other dudes in the gulag will love my whimsical take. “Who else has a crust of bread stashed in their jacket cuff?” I’ll say. “This guy knows what I’m talking about!” Then I’ll do my closer about stealing boots off a dead guy.
Overstating things? Almost certainly, but in my defense, we are in uncharted territory and anything goes now. You know that high school friend who’s always posting misspelled rants about libtards and sharing memes about colors that don’t run? He’s president now. That guy won.
There is a non-zero chance that the inauguration speech will include the “Suck It” gesture. Can a secret service Suburban roll coal?
And my side, the aforementioned libtards? We’re still busy working through everyone’s feelings. Lotta bloggin’ going on. Lotta bloggin’. We keep getting wound up. It’s so easy. Every tweet generates a fuckton of thinkpieces, and then thinkpieces about thinkpieces. And then we yell at each other for not being the right kind of liberal. And then someone says “intersectional.” And someone else says “problematic.” And the old guy in the corner says “proletariat.” Then there’s the next tweet and we get wound up again. Dashiell and Lillian would be ashamed.
Meanwhile, The Retarded Forces of Doom* march on. It’s like, how many animated gifs do we gotta make?
The cabinet is slowly being filled with the scaliest of lizard people and somehow, the weirdest part of all is that we’re all crossing our fingers and praying that Mitt Romney will step up. He was grown in a vat underneath Provo and he looks like the dad in a 1950’s sitcom and goddammit, wouldn’t that be nice right now? Just a solid guy in a blue blazer looking disappointed in all of us?
Right now, there are Native Americans and stinky hippies and bona fide American Veterans putting their bodies on the line in North Dakota. Are they right? I don’t know. Will it work? I don’t know. Are they doing something I’m too chicken to do? Goddamn right they are. But while you and I are busy tippity tappity typing away, they’ve got the guts to get shot with a water cannon, and we’re going to need a lot more of that. I can’t go to Cannon Ball, but I can D’Arce a racist in a red ballcap on the Orange Line if I gotta.
Fight smart, train hard, pick your battles, back each other up, and encrypt your shit, hippies. We got miles to go before we sleep.
*Stolen shamelessly from this song by King Hell.