Smoking Dope on the Hindenberg

We are helping engineer our own execution and funeral service. And we’re all nervous lest we don’t get it exactly right and keep our executioners happy. Taking a stand against this lunacy or suggesting a different, less self-debasing course of action have been eliminated as options, because they might make the hangman unhappy. We continue to place the noose around our own necks, to drink purple rat poison, to march obediently over the cliff.

We timidly argue with our owners every once in a while, but we don’t really do anything except “agree to disagree”and move on to our next lethal entertainment extravaganza. We prattle on about weight loss, how great we are, the latest sports scores, what Betty Lou told Susie about that conversation they had at the bar last night, our tanning booth adventures, and become uncomfortable and vaguely annoyed whenever someone has the temerity to broach a topic that actually matters. We are doing away with depth, systematically and completely. We manage to make vague connections occasionally , but we leave them there to rot in the glare of the neon beer sign as soon as we realize those connections might lead us to conclusions we can’t handle, or worse, ones we haven’t already been told are true. There is NO acknowledgment that more and more humans are considered disposable and will shortly become human detritus. The minuscule number of citizens who question the validity of The Way Things Are are ridiculed and rebuffed, or jailed. And thanks to our latest Oval Office figurehead, they can now be murdered if he thinks they should be.

“You’re being ridiculous. Relax.”Yes, you.

“We all have to do this so just shut up and stop being so cynical.”

“Stop being such a bummer.”

“It’s going to be fine. You’re being paranoid.”

“Oh you’re SO radical (with a condescending giggle)!”

Maybe we’re afraid that we’re one of the expendable ones and are too terrified to even acknowledge the thought. We probably should be.

In our schools, tests and quizzes are right now being created to give our children assessment material for every day of the week. Do we give a shit? Nope. We read fairy novels and research witches and goblins while our kids are being turned into zombies. We’re getting a whipping and Massa has generously allowed us to  go out and select the stick he beats us with. And we tremble with the fear that we won’t select JUST the right one, the perfect switch to lacerate us into an agony of joyful subservience. Because down deep, we LOVES De Massa! De Massa has already won, and we want nothing more than to be on the winning team. To hell with integrity and courage. We are little mini-Winstons, joyously awaiting the arrival of the bullet that will vindicate our valiant tormentor. The degree to which we truly don’t give a shit about anything that isn’t trivial is truly mind-boggling. We worry about which clothing to wear and completely ignore anything that isn’t immediately consumable.

“Me? I don’t watch the news. And I don’t read much of anything that makes me uncomfortable. Tee hee!”

These are our College Graduates. These are the ones who are capable of turning this thing around if they’d only stop powdering each others’ noses and slapping each other on the back, but no, they’d rather play mutual admiration games than come to grips with the fact that their society is a farce, that their lives are shallow and meaningless, and that the facade of popularity and hipness they’ve willingly been brainwashed to believe in is crumbling all around their pedicured hooves at an alarmingly accelerated rate. I met a kid recently who is pretty much shunned by her peer group. Why? Because she takes an interest in the world around her and the other kids consider her to be weird and boring. She is one of the few non-zombies in her tiny society, and she is ridiculed because of it. She’s too intense. She argues too much. I told her she should be happy she’s not just another asshole, but it’s hard to be growing up as a kid who has actual ideas in a cesspool of educated simpletons who think Orwell was exaggerating.

Me? I have a front row seat to the circus, as Georgie once said. I’ve given up trying to make sense of the daily idiocy people roll around in like puppies and smear all over each other. Can’t beat ’em, can’t join ’em (and I’ve tried,  believe me), so I guess I’ll just watch ’em drown in half an inch of water and wonder why the hell they don’t just stand up.