There is a spectre haunting Arkansas – The spectre of Bobbunism!
You guys are going to have to bear with me. I’ve been reading 19th century political literature of the socialist persuasion every night while I wait for the girls to get out of the tub, and it has only cemented my realization that beardy Europeans have had this shit figured out since forever. You may or may not have had this epiphany twenty years ago in community college, so if I start acting all Philosophy 101 on you here, give me a couple of weeks to get it out of my system.
One time I caught Buddhism for a fortnight. It was like one of those lingering colds that hang around so long you get used it, as if hacking every few minutes is just the way it is now. Eventually you’ll wake up one fine morning, take a deep breath, and realize you’re well. That’s how Buddhism left my body. I still bear some of the scars, like when I mentally chanted Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo through an entire root canal, but I’m mostly clear.
Bobbunism feels more terminal. I’m probably going to carry this one until I kick the bucket. I may not always have the strength to keep it up in the face of adversity, but it will certainly boil under the surface when its not raging in a full-on outbreak. I’m pretty sure I just mixed penis and herpes metaphors, but is it really mixed?
I admit “Bobbunism” doesn’t look quite right as a word. It sounds fine, but the double “b” makes the “bun” stick out too much and I’m afraid it will lead to mispronunciations. “Bobunism” is probably more accurate to the way it sounds, but I’m afraid people won’t catch the long “u” sound. “Bob-unism” doesn’t work either, though, because the hyphen chops it up and people will place too much emphasis on the “-unism.” Here lies Bobbunism, dead in the water right where it was launched because it just ain’t right.
I’ll probably stick with Space Communism. Branding this thing seems weird and against the concept. I was tempted, briefly, to write a kids’ version of the Communist Manifesto, but they’re better off reading Rainbow Fish. I’d also be struck with quite a dilemma on the off chance I were successful in this endeavor. Would I redistribute the wealth?
“Oh, it’s not that much money,” I’d say, “especially not compared to all these filthy billionaires. Hell, if you look at it from a scientific standpoint, I have barely any money at all! Look at this chart. Here’s Putin up here with $60 billion and here I am waaaaay down here with $2 million, so tiny I might as well keep it. I mean, until everyone else lays down their property, I might as well keep mine. I won’t do the world any good living in a box, no siree! Simon & Schuster just contracted me to do a version of Capital!”
I’m going to stick to navel gazing, dreaming about Star Trek, and insulting people who actually do things. I mean, all these protests for women or the workers are doing a lot of good for working women who can’t afford to take a day off. Sure, you stopped your Range Rover at Starbucks on the way to the meeting and tipped the single-mother barista a dollar, but you aren’t quite seizing the means of production, either.
I’m not an emotionless drone. I get why that statue of a little girl facing down a bull on Wall Street moves you. Thing is, it was placed there by an exorbitantly wealthy woman who wanted to make a point to her rich friends. “Women can be Wolves of Wall Street too!”
We have to do better than this, guys.
I can’t talk much, though. I got some new contact lenses yesterday and all I can think about is how weird I look without glasses and how I’ll clean these things after the fall of civilization. I’m pretty sure there won’t be saline solution for sale in Bartertown, but there might be a purveyor of spectacles. I’m also convinced I’m hideous now, probably because I haven’t seen my face without frames on them for fifteen years. No one else seems to mind or even notice so far, but the situation did prompt me to ask Gina how she didn’t flee in terror the first time I unveiled this monstrous visage.
I’ll be rolling face-full-of-nose from now on. There’s no equipment to break up the monotony here, folks. It’s gonna be all eyes and ears and unwanted body hair from here on out, or at least until the bombs drop.
I should have faith that the post-apocalyptic ophthalmologists will not only be socialist but well equipped. I imagine Dr. Johnny Eyecare will roam the wastes handing out contact solution and dispensing weed for your glaucoma. Some time later, they’ll erect a statue of him in the rubble at the end of Wall Street. He’ll be performing an eye exam on the little girl with one hand and flipping a bird over his shoulder with the other, towards the place where the bull once stood.
The citizens of Wall Town will tell the tale of how Dr. Eyecare melted down the bull to make frames for the people of New Manhattan. His monument will gesture toward that empty spot, inviting anyone who wishes to step into its place to get fucked.