2019, waiting for the flood

As we go steamrolling through the wall of 2018 to meet the “future,” some of us seem to have an urge to peer backward in an attempt to suss it all out and try to place the who with the what and the where with the why… and, bada bing, bada boom, here’s your year in review.

I’m not that stupid or bored.

2018 was garbage, and 2019 is gonna be a big ol’ bag of trash, too, so like, get used to it or fold. All signs are pointing to global warming summoning up the oceans to swallow us whole and take us back home to the bottom of the seabed from where we came, but glad to hear you got your kid the iPhone part 10 for Christmas. You’re a real-life Flash Gordon! Not that I’m out here saving the bumble bee from annihilation. I recycle, and I, well, I recycle, and that’s about it. Bully for me!

So, here we are at the end of another weird-ass year in America. The holidays, which are beloved and despised in equal measure and, more often than not, in the same breath, are upon us again, all red, green and fiery like Freddy Krueger on the slash path, which you can avoid like the plague and end up feeling sad and alone and broke, or you can swing yourself into it like Tarzan on a string of lights singing “Happy Xmas (War is Over)” and end up feeling sad and alone and broke. (Goddamn, I hate John Lennon).

Now, right before writing this, I saw an article that was discussing the extremely pressing issue of how vegans find animal crackers “problematic,” and I really could not think of a more dire topic for humans to drag into the light of day for discussion. The polar ice caps are all but gone, and, of all the terrible films from the ‘90s, it’s “Waterworld” that’s coming true, but let’s talk about fucking animal crackers, a bygone treat so fucking not on the radar or grocery list of anyone to such a degree I don’t even know where one can buy a box of animal crackers in the here and now. Are they sold in the same secret aisle as Tab and morphine laced peppermints that can only be seen by someone who was born during the painful throb that was the Great Depression? We are gonna be driving jet skis into battle against one another in order to protect our pontoon homes in like two years, but let’s fight over animal crackers and evil Christmas songs like a bunch of fuckin’ loudmouth morons doing everything we can to call attention to ourselves, because this is America, where everyone is gross and dumb, and there’s no washing this stain off no matter how Lady Macbeth you get with it.

If I were Santa Claus, the only thing I would be bringing everyone for Christmas this year is a big, fat punch in the mouth because, congrats, American humans, we blew it, yet again. It’s like we’re the Washington Generals just out here losing every game in a spectacular fashion. The rest of the world dribbling circles around us and dunking in our face every single chance they get. Like, I know we are not a smart country, and being obnoxious idiots is our long trusted brand, but maybe, just maybe, we can try to do a little better next year instead of bulldozing butterfly sanctuaries and locking children in cages to die. Certainly, there is something we can do other than that, or we can just go bowling and wait for the ocean to come plowing through our front door.