My Patronus is Joseph Kony

Today I saw a clip where Gary Johnson argued against spending money to combat climate change because the sun will eventually engulf the earth.

Finally, a pragmatic political plan I can get behind.

I have another window open and I’m watching a video of Syrians digging a dead child out of rubble. I’ve forgotten how I got here. It’s not impossible to find out. I could go into my browser history, but I won’t.

The other day I wrote a terribly shitty poem about things I cannot change and I deleted it in frustration because the conclusion was bad and wrong. It involved Superman intervening in unjustified slayings of people of color. Haha, “unjustified,” as if there is a category of justified slayings. Even now it creeps in, that deference to authority. Maybe there shouldn’t be such a thing as a justified killing of civilians. You’d think we have the tactics and the technology to avoid this. What happened to the Popular Science articles of the 20th century where we read about nets and expanding foam and soundwaves and lasers? Even then, they’ve found ways to kill with Tasers. It wouldn’t matter.

Now my screen is full of the “pick three fictional characters that make you” meme and I’m seeing the narcissism come out full force. There’s some self-deprecation, to be sure. The regular jokers are making themselves something pathetic or absurd, then some people are eschewing irony to hit it head on with Sherlock Holmes or Batman or Han Solo. If we all wanted to be honest I think we’d be Girl #4, Dead Pimp, and (uncredited).

Believe me, I don’t hate memes. The best part of meme is that it’s “me” twice, and that’s something I can dig. The worst part of being a horrible narcissist, though, is feeling unacknowledged and helpless when it doesn’t pan out. Pagliacci joke, roll on snare drum, curtains.

There used to be a time when I thought the complainers, the whiners, they (we, me) were going to save the world. Come on, guys, we were Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in 2006. Some of you were Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in 2011. I remember watching in rapt attention on my netbook between college classes as New Yorkers marched through the streets and made noise. Something was going to happen. We were abuzz. Maybe this is it. Maybe it’s time.

It’s always time though, isn’t it? Time to brush your teeth, time to go to work, time to keep your mouth shut, time to pay those bills, time to sleep, time to fuck, time to shit, time to die.

The other day I watched protest streams online and they have this cool feature now where people’s comments scroll by in real time. It was fascinating to see the amount of people calling for the deaths of the protesters and then, two or three clicks away, I could be on that person’s profile. Standing on the deck with their wife. In a swank party full of white people. On a boat. On a tropical beach. Again and again.

I wanted to find someone, anyone, to report to their manager at Target or Burger King but I don’t think you’d be shocked to find out that this was not the target demographic. They were self-employed, some in offices, some in hardhats, mostly white but not all! Perhaps that was the most useful and revealing, that affluent business-owners, or even hard working middle class men (and I say men because it was men), mostly white (but not all) were suggesting vehicular homicide or machine gun traps.

Because in the end, it’s about race, but it’s about money, it’s all about class, and it’s fucking complicated.

I used to link to the twelve point plans of smarter dudes but no one reads that shit so I won’t bore you, because I can do that on my own. I’ve been ranting about the banjos (what did that instrument ever do to you?) and flags (barf) around here and people from greener pastures keep pointing out to me that it’s more pernicious. It’s not so obvious, but it is. It’s neither and both. Since we need analogies now to understand anything (Skittles: taste the painbow) I compare it to the American body having a full blown case of every-orifice herpes. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable on the lip, sometimes it’s a barnacle hanging off the asshole, but it’s always fizzling beneath the surface.

This week when American iconoclast Noam Chomsky, hero of the Patchoulians, told everyone to take two minutes (twelve hours) and go vote, the Democrats and moderates added that to their sales pitch, which has previously been a mishmash of bullying and caterwauling. I understand the concept of the political whip, and I won’t argue against its necessity. When I recently witnessed two Latinas discuss Trump, one solidly supporting him, and one on the fence saying, “If he didn’t act so crazy,” believe me, I felt it. Oh, what did they have in common other than their ethnicity? Six-figure incomes.

Even then, I am absolutely exhausted by being beaten over the head with this choice we must make when our government, our governments now are responsible for what is happening right fucking now. Are you happy now? The current candidates didn’t come back in a time machine to bomb hospitals but they are entrenched in the economy that does and they’d love to jump on that saddle and bomb more of them. They didn’t retroactively cause black men to be shot in the streets just for living, but you sure can argue that they’ve had a hand in setting up a society where that happens. See also: dat refugee situation! Now I’m in it, though, and your brain is tickling! Talking point, talking point, talking point, talking point, line those fuckers up and go to war, but you’ll end up in the mud and trenches and your brain will be eaten like rats gnawing into the bloated bodies of Tommies and Huns.

The algebra of change has always included pain as a factor, and there isn’t enough in the right places. There’s enough in front of me in this glowing box. If I stare at this square long enough it seems like this is all there is, the box, nothing but the Unholy Rectangle shooting The Fucking Truth directly onto my retinas. Out there, though? Out there the movers and the shakers “don’t go online” because they’re too busy making shit happen.

Then, the ones that do check in occasionally are busy telling you to die in the street. Click on their profile and they will undoubtedly be backed by white sand and palm trees or holding an automatic rifle while wearing a Dad’s Against Daughters Dating t-shirt, or all of the above. I mean you, as well, because it’s not me. They aren’t telling me to do anything but unbox and sort 600 lbs of magazines.

Maybe the problem is that we’ve bought into this fable where we live to be old and grey and we hold our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren on our knee, and that’s the hustle. That’s the lie, the secular pearly gate we want to stand in front of, and what is real is that we die alone. Whether it’s the bathroom floor or a hospital bed or in a car or on the street, we die, we die, we die, and owning twelve houses in different states isn’t going to get you on enough transplant lists to beat death, Mr. Jobs.

So here it is, the nihilism of Gary Johnson. Fuck it, for real, because we are all going to die. I’ve been waiting for this candidate my entire life. Move over, Bern. Here’s the Change we’ve been waiting for. No Hope, because we all know that hope is a mistake.

Gary Johnson for President: We All Gotta Die Sometime.

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