Ammosexual metrosexuals, metrosexual ammosexuals, and the tax-avoiding rich guys who love/hate them.
Thoughts on why this civil war hasn’t happened yet.
Also posted on my website.
Here’s how the South declared war on the North back in 1860:
Either it was Beauregard, or Tradd, or Saxby, or Saxton, or Colton, or Braxton — whoever it was, one of those tobacco-chawin’ plantation owners got an idea in his head. So he gathered all of the other plantation owners together to share his bit of inspiration.
“Gather ‘round, fellers…I got this idea in my head <spits chaw>…let’s git them poor white farmers <spits chaw> to go do all of our fightin’ against the North. <spits chaw> We can stay here and own our slaves — and take them farmers’ tiny bits o’ land <spits chaw> while they’re off dyin’ for us!!!”
And then the Civil War happened. And lots of poor Southerners died for the plantation owners’ cause. While the rich plantation owners took their lands.
Fast-forward to 2022: the desire to please the rich white men who hate them has never left the psyche of the less-wealthy, white American male.
One could stipulate that, in a way, the South won. Today’s biggest proponents of income inequality — besides its benefactors, that is — are the not-too-wealthy white people who enable the worst financial corruption.
And they’re only getting more servile.
Gotta own the libs somehow.
Now we find ourselves at the one-year anniversary of the January 6th Capitol riots. 365 days later, the wealthy Right-wingers still don’t have their “civil war.”
Wanna know why?
Over the past forty or so years, the 1% has stoked racial tensions in working-class whites. But the 1% also put themselves up on pedestals — used themselves as the main examples — in the propaganda campaign targeted to working-class whites. They communicated to their believers that wealth mattered above all else and no other goal is important.
Narcissistic, insecure finance-guys: you all managed to gin up the resentment and war-mojo in these Fox News-watching bigots. You sure did.
They sport chips on their shoulders that…while not nearly as big as yours, still: they’re pretty huge.
The problem is, their plans for this “civil war” mirror your own. Like wealthy chickenhawks, these folks don’t want to fight. Besides joining in a police-sanctioned pogrom or two, they’re not looking to man a foxhole.
They aim to dial 911 and cheer on their team from the sidelines — then figure out how to steal possessions and pieces of property from the “suckers” who bought into the war-b.s.. It’s all a scheme.
Rich bigots: they worship you. You needed them to love you. So you enabled their racist tendencies.
You empowered their unearned sense of privilege.
You stirred up their hate.
Only you didn’t create warriors or soldiers.
You have an army of money-loving chickenhawks.
Not ready to die for the cause, but more-than-ready to figure out their own angle to reap big bucks off of mass-scale suffering.
My hope for 2022 is that Ghislaine Maxwell opens up her black book and the names of hundreds of the country’s wealthiest men are in it.
Not like anything substantial will happen. But it will still be funny to watch those syphilitic pieces of shit sweat.
Read Part II. Also posted on my website. Riffing off of earlier posts:
• Operation White Privilege. 1/6/21.
• America will so rock at this fascism thing.
• The New Einsatzgruppen wants to talk fatherhood. Oh, boy!
• Before MAGA and QAnon, there was Doc.
• That one time Hitler almost shit his pants.
• Romeo Whiskey Tango
• Open letter to a selfie of my drunk-ass self, taken on August 11th, 2001.
I write fiction and have two dark comedies available, Fearkiller (Volume 1) and Notes from Trillionaire Island: Fearkiller (Volume 2), as well as Revolutionizer Alpha, the first book in a sci-fi series. I also wrote a story about God. It was weird, but then I decided to make the story and its sequel free. And all of the sudden, it didn’t seem as weird. Writing about God is much less weird when you write about God without charging money for it.
Here’s my professional site, my trade.
