Rome, Burns: Check Your Facebook

When you are paying rent (someone else’s mortgage) for a dumpster, shipped on a self-driving truck, driven by a robot that stole a job from a third-generation legal immigrant.

The dumpster travels from California, actively-on-fire, to a Walmart in Louisiana: a storm comes, two storms at once and sends the dumpster floating into the Rio Grande by way of Lake Pontchartrain because the dam infrastructure failed, again.

The America most of us inherent is above all else a puritan-war-culture: the war on drugs, on terror, on crime and the poor. The purity: a self-pat on the back, to the O.G. gentrifiers, the mayflower mafia, turned military-industrial-corporation-complex. Who did they tell us the terrorists were again?

There are 100 senators and 453 congresspeople, and any given President in the Oval Office, marginally futile as a constitutionally written rule. A few hundred assholes and a couple hundred who do not entirely suck. (If we are gracious) They allocate the public money and enact policy and, as such, dictates a good deal of how you live your life, whether you realize it or not.

Add to that the 600 billionaires living in the United States and you have a little more than a thousand people, making decisions, all the big decisions, for 330 million of everybody else. Despite how it might appear from the other side of the rose garden gates, the guards don’t run the prison, the prisoners do.

Protest, surely. But, also, step back and work together on what comes next. Because, be it Trump or Biden, it is going to take more, much more, to outshine the influence of thousands of lobbyists and hundreds of billions in special interests. These pay-per-fucking-you-over folk, they work just down the street from the Capitol and have those dark money donations, blank checks, that serve as a permission slip: from that same class of one percenter that would rather see you piss in a jar than take a break.

Start by voting, if you are eligible, for fucks sake.