The upstanding, white, rural, patriotic, liberty-lovin’, hippie-hatin’, community has been left behind. Neglected. Taken for granted. How do you “Snapchat fiends” say it? Ghosted. I’m no college crybaby, these aren’t my “feewings,” these are facts, true as the guitar solo is long. And you know what else is a fact? Joe Pesci is trying to break into my goddamn house.
That’s right — ever since the beginning of the end (Nov. 4, 2008), Obozo and his merry crew of coastal elites have turned a blind eye to that core constituency of American Microwavable TV-Dinner Eaters (A.M.T.D.E.). But it’s not just the Logan County branch of the A.M.T.D.E. that feels this sweep of abandonment. No, not even here in the “booby trap” section of my local Dollar Tree can I escape the weight of liberal indifference towards my struggles.
But there is something else I cannot escape, something as invasive as the government’s reach into my pockets and as disturbing as the thought of a Warren-Biden-Clinton Cerberus. As summer nears, I know what horror must come knocking on the hand-built cabin my father worked his whole life on, died outside of, and was buried under. Daniel Stern and Joe Pesci have come to impart their socialist agenda on me.
Back in my bedroom, which used to be my childhood bedroom and is now my son’s childhood bedroom, I am preparing for the end. That which we’ve known to be true for a while now — that the follies of “HandoutWood” would catch up to us all, even the noblest coal canaries. And now they are here, here to turn over the smoke-stained couch at the heart of America and lay waste to everything that is holy and capitalistic. Here to leave nothing in their wake but a check from MSNBC to Obozo’s deep state covered in the jizzum of the American public. “Thanks for the ratings,” reads the memo line.
But Joe Pesci is gonna need more than a star on some sidewalk if he wants to enter this domicile. So let me lay it out for you, Joe — your options for trying to take what’s left of this once great nation from me.
Try entering from the front door. You’ll be greeted by more 12-gauge shells than my brother Eugene can count, all fired simultaneously from a contraption of young Gene’s own mind, called “Bambi’s Blindside.” Maybe enter through the kitchen then? Only if you want to step on dozens of Ma’s used morphine needles, and then face her wrath when she finds you’ve finished off the last of the ‘phine.
Say you do make it to the hallway. Well I’ve got a six-by-four foot, half-ton metal mold of our country’s prideful yellow, green, and black flag rigged to drop on you like the hammer of God.
And when you’re down on the ground, fewer teeth in your mouth than letters in “Goodfellas,” I’ll tell you what I told those non-Americans that voted for “Omambo No. 5” in 2008.
“Keep the change you filthy animals.”