Sarcasms & Musings by Doc Jeffurious
My feet planted firmly within the parentheses of what has been called late term Generation X, or to use the current lingo, the Xennials. This is not another bittersweet tale of “drinking from the hose!” Please? I know, I know, but hear me out. I have noticed there has been a slightly louder noise being made in recent days about the eccentric sensibilities of Gen X. Folks tend to only guess about our rigid, aloof attitudes, and they usually make things up when they cannot figure out the other things. It only adds to our mythos and actively frustrates everyone else. By and large, we are indefinable; we are on all sides of the spectrum. Straddling the culture, standing our ground. We will never give up the secret easily. The more folks who struggle with this truth, the more Gen X hides it. The Xennials, in particular, refuse to sit complacently in the little boxes that society creates for everyone.
I only mention this because I would like the perspective to be laid out early. The perspective is that of a man in his late 40s who grew up in the Midwest during the 1980s and 1990s. Not only in the Midwest, but also heavily enveloped by rural America. The dense rolling acres of agriculture and the oil business buffered us from reality. We existed five to ten years behind the rest of the country, the rest of the world. My peers and I grew up under the thumb of “conservative attentions.” Small towns were still self-contained and operated as their own little respective realms. The Democracy seemed content and happy.
Political affiliations were things for a specific pocket of people in town. The silver fox contingent, dig? They spoke out against each other at the Ruritan’s lunch meeting but bonded that night over copious amounts of booze uptown at the Elks Club. They summered together out at the lake. There was, however, still an attitude of “may the best candidate win” and leaving it at being a good sport above all. Being active in local civics was not the confrontational nightmare it is today. I met staunch Democrats and steadfast Republicans. They all golfed together, shared churches, and sometimes swapped wives. But neither had found a reason to declare their opponent, their neighbor, to be the scourge of our existence. It was polite and quaint compared to our current style, which is like a prison riot on a blimp crashing at the Super Bowl halftime show.
In the small-town terror of rural America in the 1980s, the Democrats and the Republicans were inert old people who rode through the Halloween parade in the back of a small fleet of shiny new pick-up trucks donated by Wilson’s Motors. Solemnly smiling and softly waving, they looked a little ashamed as the fire trucks blew everybody’s heads off with their horns. We would all drool a little as our ears bled, and we would clap for some reason.
Personally, I loved the Shriners. Those guys knew how to party! The little hats and those tiny race cars! They would drive up alarmingly fast, perform a circular formation, and then speed away frantically. The gas-powered engines would belch lead-rich exhaust right into our faces. Pure petrol emissions were steamrolled directly into our little heads. As a child, you had to be deliberate where you stepped. Those maniacs would run you down. They waved a banner that said, “Shriners. We race so kids can walk!” I often wondered what condition some of those kids were in when they initially met the Shriners. For instance, a solitary child jumping in the wrong direction for a gobstopper or some loose Tootsie Roll?
Minor brain damage, jarring physical injuries, and carbon monoxide poisoning were all parts of the celebration, the razzle-dazzle, and the cheerful pageantry on display. Ever so cosmopolitan, the Shriners would meet up at the American Legion after the parade and would drive their race cars through the front door of the place. They were all usually drunker than a monkey’s ass. Many of us cannot do math now.
As youngsters, we adopted the morals and principles of our salt-of-the-earth parents. Depending on the parents, we grew up religious, feeling superior, feeling inferior, some a little more Redneck, the passive elite…the NERDS and a bit more militant elitists…the JOCKS. A multitude of us started watching MTV and were lured into the entire global scene through music, fashion, and news. Suddenly, our world went from black and white to magnificent color. A large smattering of us were being primed to be smart ass, sneaky little shits due to the collective lack of active supervision. Uncompromising teenage drinkers, smokers, musicians, artists, and philosophers. We created our own explosions! Sometimes they were literal explosions. We drank, fired guns, and blasted Pink Floyd deep into the woods late at night with our ballsy Peavey Solid State P.A. system. We were the reverberations of the young adult culture leftover from the late 1960s and the 1970s. We felt the Animal House and the Dazed and Confused experience. We embodied it. Young, capricious, sophisticates who liked to blow things up. The last true generation of old rock-n-rollers, the last ones to get away with it.
Nevertheless! As American school kids, we were patriots of the story of America that they told us in our little grade school classrooms. Georgie Washington’s cherry tree, Betsey Ross sewing up our first flags out on her porch, smoking weed. Paul Revere’s “Rick Roll” through the night to warn neighbors about the dry sarcastic approach of the British, and of course everyone’s favorite genius, hedonist, and writer Benny Franklins. We bought the stories over and over as they were repeated over and over. They taught us that the first Thanksgiving was nothing more than a casual Thursday afternoon potluck barbecue and B.Y.O.B. The indigenous people brought corn and pumpkins. The settlers shot a few turkeys, then they set up the volleyball net, or something along those lines.
Then later, we were told that the settlers, well, kind of sort of had to exterminate at least more than half of the guests at that party because the settlers refused to share the land. That and the original occupants weren’t big on Christianity, as they had their own deities and spirits. As history has taught us, some of the original people were converted and lived, usually after watching their villages burn and their sons die. They got hep on Jesus just like that, I tell you, very cooperatively. Also, as Christian nationalism has taught us, because those “savages” were murdered by Christian settlers, we as a generation could feel confident in supporting the genocide committed by our forebears’ forebears.
As is my understanding and perspective, Christianity and Christian nationalism are two very distinct things. I always heard that Jesus was love, and so was God, but he was cranky about things. Understandably, put yourself in those omnipotent shoes because in the story, God created the world. Imagine that? That is some Heavenly heavy lifting. Tah hah! There was nothing! Then, oy… Earth and things on it. Beautiful things! He puts up a garden on one random day…let us say Wednesday, God is done; it is pristine, verdant, and plentiful. He says, “Hey! Do you know who would love this? A dude.” Thus, from the dirt came a dude called Adam.
From that point on, it quickly went more into the absurd. God was watering the azaleas one morning and noticed that Adam had been humping most of the rougher trees, and the crotch rot was biblical. So, God laid an edible on Adam. While Adam was passed out near the creek with the raccoons, God stole a rib. Then there was Eve! Right? Again, we all know the story and again can relate to God’s possible ongoing aggravation. This is more or less what Christianity teaches, paired with Jesus and his whole “love thy neighbor” schtick, and that whole “welcome the stranger” vibe. All such lovely notions, but they do not POP with the public. There must be some drama, some action, some self-spiritual flagellation, permission to judge the neighbors, and an intense emphasis on the punishment side. Kinky stuff.
I have noticed, and it may just be me, that according to the Christian nationalist viewpoint, Jesus is kind of an asshole. Respectfully. He seemingly enjoys extorting money from followers, shitting on poor people, packing a Glock, driving around in one of those lame ass Jeeps, and personifies the whole opposite of the Christian version of the story. God is ready to fork you into the eternal fire! Why? You are not anywhere near worthy to receive his Kingdom, fool! Where is your bulging bank account and 401k, you needy bastard? You’ve got to be down with “Big G” or else! You can trace the trail of combustible, pious bullshit around the globe. Take it from me, an ordained Reverend Doctor of the New Truth. Christianity and Christian nationalism are kind of the same, but not really.
Now back to our former patriotism discussion. I recall the time I had my first straight-up Republican “high.” It was 1985, and I was in the first grade. One day, the cover story of our Weekly Readers was an article about the upcoming Challenger shuttle launch. The crew’s 25th flight and on this mission, the astronauts were taking along a schoolteacher, Christa McAuliffe, into space. Mondo exciting stuff! Progress, The New Frontier, the space race, and all that fluff. A middle finger to the still communist Soviet Union. The Cold War was still happening, at the beginning of its death gurgle, mind you, but still was a reality.
The country at large caught lunar fever, which is rare here on Earth, you know? The Democracy enthralled stood by their own sides. The grip had us amazed. The hype was overwhelming. Our little school lives were ensconced, not only in witnessing history but also in participating in it. I recollect the morning of the event. On January 28, 1986, on a cold morning in Cape Canaveral, Florida, engineers began wheeling the massive shuttle launch structure down the tracks to the launching point. In those very moments, my World War Two surplus first grade teacher, Mrs. Knapp, steered a large television into our room on a low-geared squeaky cart. She was barely hiding her glee. She never smiled normally, but she had to keep it together to calm our chattering asses down. She plugged the TV in, dialed it on, and the burst of static that came forth made all our hair stand on end. The atmosphere was angry that day my friends. Sailors would call that … a bad omen.
The broadcast crackled alive, and there it was. The Kennedy Space Center seemed to sprawl out for miles. Decked out and ready to do some Space Truckin’, the crew was beginning to board the spacecraft, waving to everyone, to no one. The news crews wished them a bon voyage. Then the hatch shut. The launch was almost scrapped due to the chilly weather. But the technicians went ahead and techniqued. The flag went green and boogity boogity, we are going launching! Stay tuned for NASA-CAR Live, folks!
It was near lunchtime; I could smell the food coming from the cafeteria. At one point, I thought “Man, they better light the fuse on this thing soon. I need a grilled cheese and some rice pudding.” Probably the most inappropriate time in history to feel slightly, selfishly peckish. I am not proud. I have come to terms with it; you grow, you move on. Just as soon as the teachers shut us up, it was “T-Minus” time. The Challenger stood bulky and erect. Throbbing from all of the energy emanating from it. Flames began to fire up, and they were off. The ass end dipped slightly and shifted to the left; the ship abruptly sped upwards. With amazement on everyone’s faces, I began thinking, “It’s bean time! Hooray for me!” Again, my friends, I implore you, I am not proud of these thoughts. I have had many head injuries since then and the bright side to brain damage is so many of those thoughts have just…drifted away.
A minute or so later we all saw plumes of smoke coming out the sides of the main part of the rockets and shuttle and then…BOOM! Holy shit! The entire shuttle exploded and came apart in all directions. It appeared to have just initially vanished. Later on in life, I wondered about that moment. Perhaps our developing minds, having never witnessed anything so demonstratively horrible, just blanked out or treated it as a mirage? Suddenly in the foreground of the screen, there was a large ball of hot white fire spinning swiftly downwards towards the Atlantic Ocean. Later, we found out this was the part of the shuttle that contained the astronauts. Caught in the terminal velocity, they were pinned, strapped to their chairs, and probably still alive during most of it. Have you ever been in a large room and something so dramatic occurs that the oxygen leaves the space momentarily because it has been snatched by every single lung and held on to out of terror? It becomes an out-of-the-body experience. Then there is nowhere to look, except at each other. A grand sorrow had just erupted in The Democracy.
Mrs. Knapp slowly stood up and walked over. With a flash of blue sparks, she ripped the power cord of the ancient television out of the wall. Tears, thick, were rolling down her face. In a deep, ghostly voice and chin quivering, she announced to all of us traumatized students,
“Kids, it’s time to line up for lunch now.”
The remains of the crew of the Challenger were soon removed from the ocean floor. The Democracy was saddened. Together, we mourned. The Democracy tried to heal and embrace itself. We still lined up for the flag pledge every morning at school and tried our best not to giggle through the parts we might have forgotten from yesterday. The astronauts were declared National and International heroes. Obviously, kids of my age were never quite the same again. Later, it was discovered that the launch was a disaster due to a technical error. Perhaps lives could have been saved had they only gone with their initial intention of delaying the mission. Is this where all of our cynicism began? The Democracy had just failed its heroes. Our little psyches took copious notes. The final words broadcast from the Challenger were, “Uh oh!”—dark karma.
The Democracy covered its eyes, and for the rest of the decade, fractured slightly, and picking sides started becoming more stringent. Even in the hallowed halls of the Kiwanis Club, the debates became noticeably nastier. Not like the madness today. Locally, it was like watching a group of ballet dancers delicately hovering around and stabbing each other with dandelions.
We move the film ahead a few years. The Moral Majority still lingered, sizzling under the surface, trying to assume every seat in the room with one huge theocratic ass. The Parents Music Research Center (PMRC) began its pursuit to cleanse young minds of inappropriate music and lead them to a more appropriate kind of music, according to their particular tastes. They declared that heavy metal and punk music could influence kids to be depressed, suicidal, or plain moody and rebellious. Songs that were too sexy might cause the teenagers to discover their “parts” and their newly developed and available hormones. Rap lyrics were said to have influenced violence. They never mentioned country music contributing to incest statistics, though I am sure it was in their notes. The fissure in The Democracy widened as the argument between so-called Christian morals and artistic expression grew louder. The suppression of harmful matter in music, books, and movies was deemed to be tinged with the taste of censorship. The actions resulted in the “Parental Advisory” sticker being added to records. A warning for concerned parents about the potential mind rot that resided within its content. Just like a toothless, drooling hillbilly blowing into a jug, The Democracy started looking countrified and naïve.
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” – Samuel Johnson
With the election of Barack Obama in 2009, the rift in sanity between Democrats and Republicans broke in two, cracked, and snapped. The left and right sides of the spectrum developed into something more defined. It became a fork in the road; when shared consciousness became divergent and suddenly the terrain became pock-marked with fundamentalist argument. It had been eight years since the September 11th attacks. Neighbors that once held each other looked around and realized that they did not like their fellow citizens after all. The discussions grew fierier and more embittered. Countless people it seemed could not come to terms with the idea of having a black Democrat as the president. Many Republicans felt it was necessary to exact a revenge they felt was owed to them. Thus, enacting a strange kind of retribution towards those they held to be Un-American and contemptable. However, at that time “the fire inside” remained fairly curbed. The Democracy started expressing dunces from its huge pores.
The Rise of the Radical, Right Hee Haw Crowd
Conversely, a frigid day in January 2017 brought us a new, oozing dunce. A tangerine-tinted rich dipshit named Donald J. Trump was sworn in as president of the United States. So many panicked that day. So many were empowered and exulted. The Xennials, the masters of chaos, hitched up our proverbial panties and pulled up the cuffs of our pants, making ourselves ready for the mandatory excrement that we would soon be wading in during the upcoming years. We recognized the stench years ago. We were preparing to exist despite the attitudes and opinions of the burgeoning Make America Great Again (MAGA) cult. People began to see those red hats as symbols of a growing fascist ideology. Catering to the segment of the population that wishes everywhere was just like Branson, Missouri, or ostensibly existing within the dystopic aesthetic of a dark episode of Hee Haw. Whenever friends and family members started to wear those hats, it was officially “ick,” and the struggle started reaching new levels of the aforementioned “ick.” The Democracy stood at a dark, rutted crossroads and eventually stalled out from waiting. Even polling places started to feel sketchy. Picture it, you head down to cast your vote at the local Lions Club, only to arrive to find yourself among the maladjusted.
What some suspected became apparent in August 2017 during the Unite The Right Rally in Charlottesville, Virginia. A white supremacy hootenanny that included groups as silly as the alt-right and Neo-Confederates. Also “in the house” were the neo-fascists, white Christian Nationalists, several neo-Nazi groups, far-right militant groups and militias. Then, there were the counter protesters, collectively asking the question, “Aren’t these the bad guys though?” Reasonable people around the country realized that it was a legitimate inquiry.
Highlights from the weekend included rows of Aryan wannabes marching with tiki torches exclaiming that “Jews would not replace” them, the compulsive violence clashed between rally attendees and counter protesters. We saw young Heather Heyer murdered at the hands of some Hee Haw named Alex Fields Jr. driving a Dodge Challenger through a crowd of people. President Von Shitshimself’s response was that he was sorry for the protest but contended that there were “very fine people” on both sides. Pretty much reigniting the torches. Well and big surprise (sarcasm), Trump seemed okay aligning himself with the principles of the white supremacists. He was, after all, a supreme human being. Right? Right? Once that occurred to him, the bats totally left the belfry. The Democracy went monkeyshit coconuts! Both sides became the double dunces. Hungry for superficial reverence.
Now, Joe Biden. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I didn’t have the best for feelings for that one. Back in the roaring days of 1991, Joe Biden was the chair of the Senate Judiciary Committee, during the confirmation process of Clarence Thomas, who remains a rancid piece of scum. Anita Hill came forth and accused her former administrator at the Department of Education and the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission of sexual harassment directly. Joe Biden was this over-caffeinated, looming, white-privileged, condescending presence reigning over every lascivious minute of the hearing. Basically, he was being what my old Polish grandma called a “dzióbek,” peckerhead. So beautiful when it’s in the native tongue. Biden later apologized for his demeanor, but it was after years had gone by. It didn’t help me, first impressions you know? He got old. We all got old.
The Biden presidency began when somebody, somewhere, out east opened a box in a dusty basement. They reinvigorated him with some electrolytes and applesauce. Then they told him that he was going to run for President and win! Now, the Democrats proved that even necromancy is fair game when choosing a candidate. “Klaatu barada nikto!” Biden was chosen to be elected president. Don Pigsqueal became erratic and even more paranoid his glistening bronze turned to a slight purple. Within his constituency, there started a low, rumble, which evolved into a growl, and finally, the snarl. The anger seethed in the crowd on January 6th, 2021. Multitudes of red-hatted, tiki-torch-bearing, white supremacists and a core of Duck Dynasty sporting idiots arrived just to hurt people at will. Idealistically, they believed the election had been stolen from Donald Trump. Because he had been most emphatic about a band of marauding election officials that cooked the numbers for Joe Biden, and you know what happens when the stupid get mad.
At the apex of Trump’s speech, he ordered the crowd to “fight like hell for their country.” The heaving crowd took this as a prompt to march to the Capitol and wreck things. Many hit the hot dog stands along the way, slowing the mass of people but only slightly. They were soon at the steps, clashing with Capitol police, who tried to lock the building down. Meanwhile, members of Congress, including Vice President Mike Pence, who were there to certify the vote, were evacuated. The people broke their way in. Chants of “Hang Mike Pence” were reportedly overheard. The crowd looked for people like Nancy Pelosi, one shit on her desk, somebody smeared shit all over the walls then smashed and stole items. One of the Dunces had hit a new low. The Democracy watched all of these things and froze. Appalled. Powerless.
People were injured. Some, so badly assaulted, died of their injuries. There was an alleged drug overdose. It takes all kinds. The whole episode was regarded as a violent right wing “self-coup”. Americans actively hurt other Americans, engaged in wholly criminal vandalism, and tried to thwart some damned Daffy Duck imagined injustice by stopping the votes from being tallied. Masquerading as Patriots and crossing the fence well into insurrection. Testing out their ability to commit seditious conspiracy. Yikes, right?
The momentary calm started the morning after Joe Biden was sworn in. I arrived at my job with a slight kick in my heels. I knew then it was fleeting. But I still enjoyed the fresh air that morning. I made a mental note to remember that detail. I could smell it though. Just like when grandpa farts in the car, rolls up the windows and turns the heat on. Minutes of abject agony. Then he finally gives in, and the windows go down. It was that kind of relief, you could breathe, but there was still a trace of the odor in the air. Especially in the Heartlands, it was spooky.
We ambled our way through the Biden years with little aplomb. We knew what was stirring for the future. It loomed over us like a great danger. Trump had his trials, indictments, and eventual multiple felony convictions. Those with the knack of foresight knew that the media were building a supervillain. Not only did the bear feel poked, but he also felt his face being pissed in every day. Power is a drug. Moreover, disrespect is something that can’t be tolerated. Most rich pricks are free to dart off to private islands to escape. Not when you are President. You are servant of the public. We all understand this, correct?
So, there we all were meandering into the 2024 election season. Dragging our feet. I had heard the speeches, saw the rallies, an attempted assassination and it all had confirmed that my disappointment towards the revolving morals of the two-party system was real, and I had bottomed out. Meanwhile, the MAGA cult learned how to organize, typing, sending letters and the like, and some even learned how to read. The Democrats responded by doing the ol’ switcheroo. Biden was getting senile by the second, so the door opened and out stepped Kamala Harris. “Oh, Jesus Harold Christ, we have to deal with this now.” I am not against the idea of the first female president; it feels like a natural progress to me. Poor Kamala, she seemed rattled sometimes and then would just flash her wild smile. Many progressive liberals became flighty and insipid. In my opinion, she lost due to the wobbly support of the Democrat party. Voters entered the booths wringing their hands. Some puked. They closed their eyes and instantly bound themselves into prayer. This time all for naught.
Early Election Night totals told me all that I needed to know. I am a statistics guy. I learned stats at the off-track betting places in Southern Illinois during the late 90s. It has been useful! It helped me pass a college course. The numbers were coming in from all the votes counted and I knew where we were headed. Trump told his voters that he was their retribution. The vengeance had not been thwarted only casualties lay ahead. Donny Diaperrash squeezed his large haunches back into the White House. In my opinion, the Democrats had spent too much time juggling candidates and as the Illinois river rat saying goes, “They had shot themselves in the crotch” and you can’t stand right back up after a self-inflicted blast to the groin. Consequently, people start to doubt your ability to operate the collective gun.
What we have witnessed over the past twelve months, the ICE raids, Elon Musk gutting vital services, the cold demise of Charlie Kirk on a sunny day in Utah, the ongoing investigation into the Epstein Files, the malignant, narcissistic Authoritarian who wants to be President, and the government in overall turmoil. These are all symptoms of a defective Democracy one whose load bearing pillars of ideals are now rusting and thinning. Heaving left and right. The deepest convictions of what we were taught in grade school are the roots that need tended to so badly otherwise the whole platform might topple over.
A year later, leaning heavily up against the abstract of the flawed Democracy, many of our old dinosaurs are grasping tenaciously to the ass of the system that used to benefit old dinosaurs. It just so happens that some of those older dinosaurs are wealthy, greedy and evil. They have occupied a life where their money can control their environment. A few age brackets forward and that entitled mindset grows exponentially. The need to control will leak into dropping cash in all directions in order to buy official policies and influence from political leaders. What looks like a greater good solution falls into extremisms, according to both parties it seems. The Democracy is apparently absent.
So, this moment forward how can we find the escape button for the grim and overcast present? What clues must we discover in order to free ourselves from this particular panic room? People who are mesmerized now and then enjoy being ensconced in illusion. I am certain it has to be quite the high, not having to think for themselves or be able to ingest new information and adjust one’s view appropriately. That is a major hurdle in these times where it seems there are multiple realities existing on top of each other. The people of The Democracy still have the power to shape a hopeful future. Perhaps we should take a cue from our high school civics class and handle things civically for a change? Unhook ourselves from the large, raw politics and find common issue locally? It has been said that freedom requires responsibility. Personally, I like ol’ Jello Biafra’s viewpoint of “blowtorches up the ass” of our elected officials. Which means instead of hitting the polls and jerking off random levers in the booth, then heading home to fall asleep for the next four years can no longer be the national habit. We The People shall apply pressure to those elected until we see that the job is done. Also, learn not to buy all of the homogenated propaganda rubbish. That is our obligation to The Democracy. To root out all of the dunces and receive them just as they are, then tend to the cooperative calm. To constantly remind our “leaders,” and I use that term loosely, that we shall stand to ring the bell to declare that we are still stewards of the collective destiny. Amen.