It’s an election year, as you know, and the demos, stupefied in aspic from too many years baking in front of a warm television screen, have awakened to the reality they have nothing, own nothing, save debt and perhaps a paltry 401k, the innards and working mechanics of which they haven’t the foggiest understanding of. Bereft of a truly social inclination or civic revelation once in their entire lives, now, now, after 50 years of showing up every four years to vote for shit after shit after shit after parading, mass murdering made for TV. shit, now, NOW they’re looking for a vessel intoning, emoting their deepest angst and fears. Fears of the nigger, fears of the rag-head, fears of the fag and trans who might — could — be allowed to pee next to ’em in the same rest room, fear of the Russian, fear of the Mexican, fear of the people who write their paychecks, fear of losing their guns.
They’ve come pouring like zombies out of exurban cul de sacs in SUV’s with ear buds plugged into electronic reflections of themselves. They’ve come crashing through screen doors of their double wides, tumbling down the steps, upsetting garden gnomes in the angry, desperate quadrennial lust for reification. Distopic hordes in headlong pursuit of leaders to whom they lend unquestioning, spasmodic support as their political shape shifters give form and substance to their inchoate rage – the toxic plasma of a herd’s fear and indignation. Cauterized of their own…