This pessimism has got me down. This administration has got me looking out the window wondering where we’re being taken. The sac of uncertainty over my head keeps me chasing the stream of click-bait soundbites of biased recycled news. Democrat or Republican, it doesn’t matter. The shit piles high regardless.
I smoke dope to cope, shrooms for the gloom, and molly to make you holler. Nothing seems to help. J. Cole quips there are three things you can’t escape in life: death, taxes, and a race. If you ain’t White and binary, good luck because the resuscitated orange blight we now call leader of the free world is erasing your history faster than you can breathe. I can’t breathe. But damn, I love the smell of eggs and insurrectionists in the morning. Free range never sounded so good.
Where are the Vonnegut’s reminding us that there are no good outcomes to war, fascism, oligarchs, deportation or Teslas. So it goes. Where are the Thompson’s telling us “when the going gets weird the weird turn pro”. As in surgical, authentic, and unwavering in speaking truth to power. Where are all the Gonzo artists out there?
You all thought Jimmy was too flaccid, a simple peanut farmer. You all hated the Bush’s and Muslims, and you barely let Obama speak his beautiful mind. But Biden was too old, Kamala a woman, and you let a bunch of billionaire dimwits take control.
Spare me the faux outrage. Carry on.