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Dancing On America’s Grave

Washington is a fucking zoo. The entire town seems to be teeming with almost demonic energy that’s usually reserved for Third World capitals hours before the fall of some CIA funded cannibal despot. We have had fucked up presidencies before, about 44 of them if memory serves correctly, and the temptation is always rich to proclaim the current bastard the worst, but the Donald is a very special flavor of fucked up and his ADHD appears to be contagious. For the first time in centuries, the crumbling ghettos surrounding the District of Colombia look downright pristine compared to the cracked ivory white domes that have long cast shadows across their project courtyards. If you look real carefully through the purple haze of the Sour Diesel and Sherman Hemsley of Potomac Gardens you can just barely see a teary-eyed Mike Pence in a West Wing window, dreaming of someplace that’s green.

All across the vast expanse of Trump’s America this chaos is spreading like lice. Peep through the blinds of any given ranch-style rambler from Pittsburgh to Peoria and you’ll witness tableaus straight out of a Flannery O’Connor novel. Grotesque creatures ranting and raving across the dinner table at one another over their supposed loved ones’ refusal to despise the right villain in this sick Southern Gothic horror story of a country. Brothers at war with brothers over two sides of the same foul oligarchy. Republicrats or Dempublicans? Crips or Bloods? Kind of grants the concept of ‘White People Problems’ a sick new irony. How much for a room at the Gardens again? I desperately need some sleep and even gunshots beat the sound of gnashing teeth and cable news.

Meanwhile, Donald Trump and his Botox poisoned limousine liberal nemesis, Nancy Pelosi, continue to play one side of the country off the other, shutting down our crooked federal government over some fictional crisis manufactured in the middle of the fucking desert. Prison guards and TSA gropers are expected to sexually violate the public without a paycheck while Trump bets his staffers $6 billion that he can piss over that 12-foot wall.

This madness has also spread across the globe as it has become increasingly apparent that those good old Gestapo days of American primacy are numbered. In no arena is this more apparent than that blood-soaked sandbox the limeys declared Syria. On any given day, at any given second, the Administration Who Couldn’t Shoot Straight takes as many as 63 separate positions on that awful place. Pull the troops out. Leave the troops in. Protect the Kurds. Fuck the Kurds. Kill Assad. Throw him a surprise party. Arm ISIS. Bomb the shit out of them and then arm them again. Declare them dead as disco. Declare disco alive and well. Then a bomb goes off in Manbij and we start the same hysterical search for answers all over again.

Put some more troops in. Pull some more troops out. Put some more troops in then you shake them all about. Every option appears to be on the table in this satanic hokey-pokey, from Hydrogen bombs to calling in the Babadook. Every option aside from just minding our own goddamn business, that is. Trump may be the first president in history to have generals and oilmen alike quit his team for being both too violent and not violent enough. All the while, the First Orangutan makes a melange of conflicting sweetheart deals with every despot in the desert who agrees to allow their sacred sand to be violated by another gaudy golf course.

Ultimately the final position of this delirious regime-change-regime’s kaleidoscope Syria policy has been rendered largely irrelevant by the fact that it has become painfully obvious that they don’t have the slightest idea of what the fuck they’re doing there anymore. They just keep throwing around bullets and bombs and bails of Benjamin’s and pray the bodies stack up in the right direction while Putin dances the Barynya on our shallow grave. As said above, it’s very fashionable to blame this smoldering train wreck on Trump and for plenty of solid reasons. He’s an arrogant, impetuous, whore who is stone blind to the big picture. But the egg didn’t lay the chicken. Donald Trump and his spastic brand of imbecile imperialism are the byproducts of a savage dynasty in decline, the feces created when a doomed superpower devours itself whole. We have never seen a presidency like this before because we have never seen an empire so colossal collapse so completely. Trump is Nero times twenty, stuffing his fat fucking face with Big Macs while the growing flames leap ever closer to our crumbling capital’s city limits.

I say all of this without the slightest twinge of dread or even good old fashioned Spenglerian pessimism. Quite the contrary, I join the long fucked people of this world in rejoicing the death of this twisted creature called America. After raping every man, woman, and child he could hold down for the last two-hundred+ years, seeing Uncle Sam on his knees, bleeding in the doggy position, surrounded by dick-swinging Slavic mongrels feels like a site for soar eyes. Even better, it feels like a fantastic opportunity for something truly democratic to take that cunt’s place. Even united, BRICS and Eurasia have just enough strength to push Humpty Dumpty off of his border wall but not enough to take his place. In this short window of time between the fall of one empire and the rise of another, anything becomes possible. The whole world becomes a great big blank slate for the stateless dreamers among us to make our philosophies into fantastic realities. Look at what Rojava and Chiapas achieved in the blind spots of western civilization. Now imagine that the whole world over. What color do you wanna paint the White House? What do you want your nationless anthem to sound like? The possibilities are literally endless.

Buck up, dearest motherfuckers. We’re living in the ruins of Ozymandias. Here’s where we get to make things right. Come and dance with me on America’s grave. It’ll be little red communes for you and me.

More articles by:

Nicky Reid is an agoraphobic anarcho-genderqueer gonzo blogger from Central Pennsylvania and assistant editor for Attack the System. You can find him online at Exile in Happy Valley.

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