The Georgia Wonk is exceedingly proud to announce a new partnership with Rooster O’Connell, the (infamous) author of the iconoclastic “Dispatches from the Mojo Wire.” Mr. O’Connell will provide his subversive and incendiary commentary every Sunday. He also insisted that we point out that “This arrangement is only going to work if you gutless bottom-feeders grow a spine and actually get some blood under your fingernails.” The Georgia Wonk editorial board has agreed to take this under advisement.
A new home. Welcome to me, I suppose.
Der Fuhrer and Slick Hilly, one last rumble this Tuesday coming. I say “last,” but that’s a cruel joke, of course. Nobody expects this to be over. The Oathkeepers certainly don’t, and they’re probably going to be responsible for a good chunk of whatever trouble we can expect to see.
That’s not fair. I actually have a good degree of sympathy for those guys. To paraphrase a great American philosopher, “Say what you will about the tenants of militant Constitutionalism, at least it’s an ethos.” You don’t see too many Oathkeepers posting Pepe memes.
My original plan for Election Night was to withdraw all of my cash holdings and sit in the middle of my living room, away from windows, whilst I cleaned my guns and waited for the world to end, but a gunsmithing error has turned my MSR into nothing but a hunk of aluminum and hardened plastics. Now I think I’ll drink expensive whiskey and celebrate the end of the Republic.
Depressing. Dreary. Unnecessarily bleak. There’s no reason to believe in the imminent collapse of America, other than a series of very convincing international trends. I still adhere to my old timetable of five years, give or take–not only will that give us enough time to see if we’ve actually implemented Paris, but it will give me enough time to consolidate my holdings into land, chickens, and gunpowder.
One of the jackbooted fascists at the Georgia Wonk editorial team has tapped me on the shoulder and hissed at me to “consider a more optimistic tone.” I’m optimistic as hell, swine! I’m the one who’s going to be forging knives in my backyard when your kind are sharpening your teeth in the slave pits. I have purged all imperfection and artifice from my body, while you choke yourself with sweeteners and toxins. I know the exact date, time, and circumstances of my death, and I’ve made my peace with it. Have you?
That’s scared him off. On to real business!
That was a lie, of course. There is no real business. The world holds its breath right now. This is a liminal moment. We stand on a threshold, and I would not be surprised if the entirety of international trade slows to a trickle, then stops entirely during the hours leading to the final vote count. The world has turned its many eyes to us, and they wait, as we do, to see what our next move will be. They want to know what will happen to the empire.
I could tell them, of course. It’s the same thing that happens to every empire. In the long run, you’ll never lose money betting on a fall.
Categories: Dispatches from the Mojo Wire