The last time Natalie Maines did something as controversial as publicly stating the obvious about the empire-building, economy-tanking Commander-in-Chief, we were forced to go a decade without a decent Dixie Chicks album. In retrospect, she probably should have been complaining about Emperor Dick Palpatine instead of the sad, doofy oil-painting puppet man whose rectum so lovingly accepted his deft, skeletal fingers, but I digress.
Now, the frothing rural lumpentrolls are heaving at the thought that the Dixie Chicks, that bastion of Southern stereophonic tradition, have shared a stage with Known Terrorist and Insanely Rich Black Person, Beyoncé Giselle “Guevara” Knowles-Carter.
It is not lost on us that the Dixie Chicks are the red-headed stepchild of country music, to be thrown out and yanked back into the fold at the whim of culturally American people who aren’t concerned about the street legality of ATVs or lawnmowers as long as there’s somewhere to attach the flagpole. The rural South rages in constant cognitive dissonance at the words “Dixie” (Yeehaw!) and “Chicks” (insert entire history of the subjugation of women), their brains broken beyond repair that such wonderful bluegrass country pop could be borne from the mouths and fingers of Opinionated Ladies.
When your Chairman sprang forth fully formed from the muddy banks of the St. Francis River, he was gripped by a similar love-hate relationship with the land that excreted him. How could something so beautiful and wild harbor such innate ugliness? I realize the very conflict that encapsulates the experience of The Awakened Southerner (#WokeSouth) is the same strife that sparked Chairman Bob’s righteous, galaxy-conquering rage and lust for Post-Scarcity Luxury Communism, BABY.
Bob Talbot 2016: FULL COMMUNISM, BABY strives for precision of language. We cannot communicate when the terms of discussion are not agreed upon. Often, when the dialectic spelunks into the fetid cavern of The South, it is expressed that “Austin is Weird,” or that someone saw a Confederate Flag in upstate New York. For this reason, we will refer to the geographical inconsistencies and viral nature of Southern culture as The Cancerous South, or The Malignancy.
It is often said that the Malignant don’t have culture. Well they do, but outsiders aren’t often compelled to sink their meaty fists into the festering pile of horse shit in which it is concealed. It doesn’t matter whether the Malignancy appropriated those dung-encrusted gems in the first place or they were the result of eons of carbon stank, swelterin’ heat and pressha’, or not, because now we’re taking them back. We’re taking them all back.
Banjos, bluegrass, and buttermilk, it’s ours now. We’re going to race souped-up death machines at the new Martha’s Vineyard Oil Dump and Combustion Colosseum, the only place on Earth where anyone will be allowed to burn fossil fuels and turn left for hours. We’re going to feast on sawmill biscuits and gravy off the rings of Saturn. We’ll blast Earl Scruggs as our Solar Sailbarges decelerate into Proxima Centauri.
We can, and will, cull from the dregs of the human race what is salvageable, what rocks and rolls, what feels like victory, what tastes like home. We will shout “huzzah” and “yeehaw” without guilt when the siblings of primal vocalization, long separated by hate, are united at last under the banner of Utopian Space Communist self-expression.
In two more slumbers you will be called upon to make the greatest decision of your meaningless existence. Educate yourselves, comrades.
Take up your Ticonderoga and fill that bubble with the grim satisfaction that while your scorched bones will rest in a post-revolutionary mass grave landfill, your children will vaporize themselves in high-impact power loss collisions with the moons of Jupiter, your grandchildren will dissolve in ruptured Venusian dome habitats, your great-grandchildren will have their minds torn from flesh and deposited into mechanical spacefaring husks, and your great-great-grandchildren will swarm the universe, self-replicating, gleaming, radioactive.
They will put down on soil not so chemically different from the ground that currently supports your slavery-calloused toes and plink the universal greeting. Spoken language is indecipherable across the void. Maths are concrete, but devoid of the passion that sparked our interstellar political revolution.
Music, no matter where you go, evokes a reply.