You really want a civil war?

You can find a lot of dummies on the internet calling for another civil war, and I’m not ruling out that possibility, but when you think about it for even a split second, your eyes will involuntarily roll into the back of your skull to never return as a long rope of drool hangs from your mouth to the floor, because, once you allow your brains to be filled with the vision of a gross, American dum-dum with a bazooka crawling across the roof of a Pizza Hut so he can get the jump on another group of gross American dum-dums who have dug a foxhole in front of a Walgreens engulfed in flames, you begin to realize you went too far, and you allowed your imagination to reach peak American nonsense… again, not that we can’t reach such peaks of utter nonsense.

I mean fucking look at us, look at our lives!

But if power grids and the internet crash, and someone blows up the Pringles factory, then your common, run-of-the-mill American (and yes that includes all you counterculture fuckheads pretending you’re somehow above “the normies” when all you really are is played out, middle-of-the-mall bullshit) will lose their minds with fright and die right then and there.

“I can’t post a picture of myself with my dick inside a can of Pringles to the ‘gram, because the gosh-darn civil war is at my door! Why, god, why have you forsaken me!” (Falls over dead… shits pants)

Parts of this city lost power for like three days, and you idiots lost all mental control, railing against the plight Mother Nature had put you in while sucking Wi-Fi from a coffee shop, but I’m supposed to believe you would have the gully to handle a flamethrower while some bubba was coming at you with a Kalashnikov and high on Big Brother-approved pharmaceuticals, as all of society crumbles around y’all? You gonna be able to flame-roast that corn-fed, beefy boy before he pumps boxes of bullets into your chest cavity? You, who post memes all day bragging how you just spent the last six days in bed playing “Red Dead Redemption 2”? You’re gonna be just fine lobbing grenades into a Hooters made into an enemy stronghold with black soot smeared on your face and a bandoleer wrapped across you?

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If so, and you’re nodding that “Yes, indeed you are the John Rambo of Germantown,” then let me ask you this: For Thanksgiving aka How-Our-Ancestors-Moved-To-A-New-Land-And-Butchered-Everyone-And-Everything-In-Sight-As-Soon-As-We-Got-Here Day, why didn’t you start with the chud side of your family? Like, kick in the door on Turkey Day and lay waste, blow your Uncle Terry’s brains all over the pumpkin pie before he even has a chance to explain why we should be spending more time, deep in the woods, raking fuckin’ leaves to prevent forest fires. ‘Cause you remember the old adage about the first Civil War, right? Like how it was “brothers killing brothers,” so rock ‘n’ roll baby! Bust a whole banana clip worth of caps into your grandpa Buchanan, send him to hell for his sins and leave none living Nanna? Blam! Aunt Rose and her little dipshit kids making a MAGA wall out of Eggos? Blam! Kapow! Bang-bang! Little Becky home from university? Swoosh! Knife in the forehead! No more liberal arts for little Becky, as you slow motion walk away from the exploding house. ‘Cause let’s be real and talk about the casualties of Civil War Part Fuckin’ Two… who dies if you get your war, if the national mood suddenly changes to “kill-crazy rampage,” instead of “American oaf sits on his unremarkable ass and binge watches ‘Rick and Morty.’”

You die. I die.

Your little snotty kids die. Our friends die.

The whole show goes up in flames as soon as every dullard with a grudge is given permission to machine gun up everyone they have a beef with. It ain’t gonna be a two-sided war. It’s gonna be out-and-out mayhem from top to bottom.

Now, enjoy your holiday of bloodshed, you fucking monsters.

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