Oh, SHUT UP. SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP.
Every time one of you people speak, you embarrass the rest of us.
Not that my pulpit can do much – and I have remained relatively quiet and sanguine about you so-called “Tea Partiers”- but something very small has broken not just my camel’s back, but also any sense of decorum I have left for you idiots. You want war? You want confrontation? While most other progressives and liberals are content to wring their hands and fret, I am now nearing the point where if it comes to a fair street fight, I’ll be happy to throw punches into your gelatinous guts.
Why do you get all the airtime? I’ve had enough of listening to your crackpot horseshit. It’s like the inmates took over the nursing station and figured out the public address system. Someone needs to take you down with tranquilizer darts, chain you to your own couch, turn on “The Rockford Files” and force-feed you Double-Stuff Oreos until you go back to being the harmless morons you once were.
You are not allowed to use terms, theories or historical events YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. You throw around the words “fascist” and “Nazi” and “Austrian economics” without any motherfucking sense of what those words mean, or who those people were. You can’t be reasoned with, because you begin the argument so far away from baseline reality that “common ground” is a sick joke.
Hell, your actual name is a testament to how little you understand history. Do you have any sense of what the Boston Tea Party was about? At least you don’t dress up like Injuns when you go to your rallies, but it doesn’t stop you from blaming every other race on earth for your own problems.
And your sickening rallies, with those putrescent signs – you rail against government, call Obama “Hitler” and speak in assassination rhetoric… even though your rallies are held on government-funded lands, which you drove to in your government-buttressed American car, on roads paved by the government. Oh, and you’re able to shout at your rallies because the government controlled the tobacco companies long enough to keep you from throat cancer, and your kids don’t have flesh-eating bacteria because of the Center for Disease Control, and you’re not at work because unions invented something called the weekend.
Truth is, you wouldn’t last one hot second if your paradigm-destruction fantasies came true. Sure, you might be fine with your canned food and your rifles for a few weeks, but after that, you’ll be writhing outside your home in dehydrated agony, covered in sores, with nobody to help you (because you shot your neighbors).
Honestly, I think that’s a place all of you deserve to go. You need your own country. We’ll carve out a part of America that’ll be all yours, and to make you more at home, we’ll shape it like a discharged firearm! I once offered up American Coastopia as a way to cope, but now I’d like to offer you Tea Partiers your own home: Gunland!
Yes, in Gunland, you don’t have a government, no taxes, no census, and nobody telling you what to do. You also have scabies, drink toilet water, and you’ll have to barter your girls for emu meat. Roads don’t actually go anywhere, and it’s hard to cool off when the beaches are covered with crude oil, syringes and human ears. But at least you’re not being bossed around by “Hitler” anymore!
In Gunland, might makes right, and “being too smart” is punishable by quartering. You’re allowed to quarantine the gays, and fire on “suspicious-looking people” near the border, because God will surely sort them out. You will have fun with your Austrian economy (as soon as you learn to pronounce Böhm-Bawerk) and you will grow old with calluses earned from a lifetime of bootstrap-pulling (well, not that old, as your life expectancy will be about 47).
But I’d be careful. There are some pretty awful influenzas going around. And killer bees from Mexico. And you’re right in the path of the most powerful hurricanes in the world. As much as it pains me to say it, stranger, if the finger of God comes along and flicks Gunland’s humanity asunder, you made your choices. You’re on your own, assholes.