It’s 2007 and you’re some 18-year-old kid riding around on patrol in Iraq carrying a Colt M4 carbine. You just wanted to go to college but didn’t have the money, so you enlisted. Now your AM General Humvee hit an IED, most of your left leg is somewhere in low-earth orbit with the Iridium satellites and the General Electric MRI scanner in Germany will show that your brain now looks like the inside of a Taco Bell Beef Meximelt. You’re gonna go home with PTSD and permanent disabilities, get hooked on Purdue Pharma Oxycontin and then heroin (ironically, courtesy the parallel war in Afghanistan) with no hope of effective treatment and shoot yourself in your shrapnel-disfigured face with a Kel-Tec PF-9 before your 25th birthday. What did you get in exchange for 55, 60 years of quality life? “Thank you for your service,” a two-year-old son who’ll never know you, a flag for dear ol’ mom, and a 4×8 plot in Arlington. That is, if your family knows somebody who can get a prole like you a spot
Why? To make the world safe for democracy, of course! And by that, we mean “so companies like Exxon Mobil and Halliburton could show the increase in quarterly profit assuring that their CEOs got those sweet, sweet 7-figure bonuses.” And so the Masters of the Universe can grift their bit. And, don’t forget; We. Always. Enhance. Shareholder. Value. (For the right shareholders, of course.)
Now it’s 2020. But instead of just energy securities, we’re stacking the entire portfolio while diversifying into even more craven lines of depravity. Today, we’re demanding the voiceless risk death choking in frothy pools of their own bloody sputum in order to serve the “pent up consumer demand” that brings money in the front door while the government pays prisoners 30 cents an hour to unload refrigerated trailers full of taxpayer-dollars in the back. Because Fuck You. We gotta make sure the paper tens of billions stay tens of billions because they’re just as important, no…more important to my toxic-as-a-Love-Canal-Dioxin-Sandwich masculinity than my teeny sad, soft little white sclerotic dick that hasn’t been truly hard since right after I made my second wife get that massive boob job during the George H.W. Bush administration that likely led to her death from complications of lupus back in ’96. (Whoops! Who knew? Definitely not Mentor, which made the implants…) And goddddamn, my money is better than a cock harder than a split-rail fencepost dropping a load like a Lockheed Martin/Raytheon GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided bomb lighting up a school bus full of Yemeni kids! It brings me a nearly sexual pleasure to watch motherfuckers’ souls become credits on the ol’ balance sheet.
We’ve built a system that rewards and even demands that pathology. We’ve built and installed a fucking psychocracy. Donald Trump is just their mouthpiece, the one from the frat who got the gig running the Government Affairs Division of the whole twisted Enterprise. They’re all fucking unfathomably dangerous psychopaths, and America loves them. We adore them. They are our favorite sons! We lionize them. They can do no wrong! That’s what’s wrong with us. We want these criminally bloodthirsty, incomprehensibly greedy psychopaths in charge. We lap up the blood that runs off the altar as they as they hold up their dripping, crimson sacks of cash for all ‘Murica to see. We cheer and beg for more. And we will provide an endless supply of fodder in the form of the old, the weak, the poor, The Other in order to satisfy our masturbatory fantasies of someday standing on the dais with an obsidian knife and a pile of bodies at our feet.