The American Apocalypse and You

I can’t help but be amused when I see Americans describing the doomsday scenarios they see coming coming down the pike at them. Basically, so many of them just describe conditions that many people around the world are already living in.

“The stores will be empty, the power will go out, and there won’t be any internet.”

I do get how these aren’t good conditions. But they don’t spell the end of humanity.

The problem is that even given their land of plenty, Americans as a society are incapable of being civil and kind. So I can see how the prospect of returning to a more rudimentary existence must be completely horrifying.

If the internet goes out, Americans will probably revert to cannibalism within a week. In other countries, they pick up a book.

The cancer within American society has metastasized. Their violence, selfishness, and greed is about to run its inevitable course. As with cancer, the mutant diseased cells attack the healthy. Their zombie apocalypse is real and it is happening now; the zombies are running the show. Saying shit like, “guns don’t cause shootings,” or viciously ganging up and consuming others for minor deviations in their accepted modes of thought and expression. Spreading their sickness through their phones.

They are just about done. So it goes with empires. One wonders if the tin-shit Emperors of falling Rome rallied the massed plebs with promises of “making Rome great again.”


But so it goes. So it went.

So, as it is with these things, when we hear the bad news of the diagnoses, we offer our sympathies. Even for the chain-smoking drunk that has been an egregious bully, we still say the requisite magic words of sympathy:

“We’re so sorry America. It must be so hard for you. If there’s anything we can do to help (short of actually going anywhere near you, of course) don’t hesitate to ask.”

That’s the most important thing here: sympathy and empathy. It is sad. My heart goes out to individual Americans.

As with dealing with a cancer patient, we must express our sympathy even as we prepare an emotional buffer to insulate ourselves against their demise.

But just a friendly reminder to everyone:

Do realize that the internal spasms of the American police state are no more relevant to you than those in China, Brazil, Ukraine, Russia, and the multitude of other shitty places where shitty government goons brutalize their citizens on behalf of the elite.

The United States’ problems only seem more important because we have been programed to value Americans too highly. In this world, it is all too natural to think that an American voice is more valuable. That an American life is more valuable.

So when Americans scream into their self-created void, it is hard not to take it more seriously than we should. Americans are so profoundly narcissistic that they believe the collapse of their society signals the end of human civilization. Why wouldn’t they? To the average American, human civilization ends at their own borders.

However, just because Americans believe this, does not mean the rest of us should.

I get on social media and I see things like Canadians having arguments with other Canadians about the American Second Amendment and mass shootings.

Get a fucking grip! We’re a different country, you slack jawed morons! Stop culturally imperializing yourself! They might make a decent superhero movie and their TV is pretty fantastic, but you can end it there if you want.

All just an unfortunate side effect of sharing a language, I suppose. And I do understand the benefits of that far outweigh the petty annoyances. Back to back worldwide Anglo Empires have done a fine job of spreading English as the international language. The white, English-speaking first stage colonials (Canada, Australia, and New Zealand) have had nothing but good from it.

But still. Just because we can understand the internal squabbles of Americans, doesn’t mean that they have to matter to us. They don’t give a fuck what we think of them anyway; we’re just some nebulous hypothetical place to move if things get too bad in their homeland.

As though we want them. Like access to our country is just another inalienable right of Americans. I mean, why stop flexing your entitled sense of privilege at your own borders, am I right? Come on in! Let’s see if you can fuck up this place any worse that you did your first home. It’s not like your very ideas and modes of thinking haven’t completely polluted our language and culture already. Make yourselves at home, eh!

And to the Americans: carry on.

However, if your superiority complex has been wounded here, I recommend getting back onto the Fox short-bus where they have all manner of gold stars for your hockey helmet. Bless your little heart! Yayyyyy! U-S-A! U-S-A! We’re number one because we can bomb murder almost anyone we want and nobody can do shit to stop us! Yayyyyy!

The biggest bully on the playground is indeed the greatest in his own mind.

American Party

Being a citizen of a client nation of the American empire has always required a certain level of cognitive dissonance and culpability. How do we balance what is marvelous about America with what is evil?

It’s like America is throwing a fantastic barbecue party. There are clowns and a bouncy castle for the kids. There’s so much junk food! There’s live music! Booze! Drugs! Hookers! It is off the fucking chain!

Those of us who can get into the party are just so excited to be invited. We want to be there so much, we ignore that the land America is throwing the party on was stolen from people America murdered. That the food and drugs are paid for with blood money. That the hookers are sex-slaves.

Easy to turn a blind eye, though, because the party is just so much fun.

However, everything is going on around a big shed right in the middle of the yard. We’re all there enjoying ourselves, pointedly ignoring that shed. It’s not talked about. We don’t even look at it. It’s like it doesn’t even exist.

That’s Uncle Sam’s shed, by the way. America’s patriarch. The man who does the dirty work providing all the fun we’re having. That shed is Uncle Sam’s torture chamber, where he liquefies his victims once he’s done working on them.

The shed has always been there. It has always been in use.

But we all party on, doing our best to ignore it.

Now the party’s winding down, though. The sun’s coming up and we desperately need some real food, a long shower, and a deep sleep. Where’s my ride, anyway? The only people left here are the hardcore burnouts doing blow around the fire pit, listening to one of the hookers get sodomized in the bushes nearby.

How do I get home from here?

Oh, there’s Uncle Sam himself now. He’s wandered out of his shed, and he hasn’t bothered to change out of his “work clothes.”

That is a really nice, red white and blue leather apron, though. I wonder what kind of hide it’s made out of?