HI FRENS!
IS ME, DWUNK ED! But can ya blame me when there’s a delicious bouorbon in the cocktail cabinet that screams “DRINK ME” every time i walk past it? No! You can’t! You’re not my real mum!
Anyway how are you? Like really, how ARE you? Are you ok? Are you good? If so you’re probably like me. I’m good. I’m ok. I’m drumk. Be like me.
But the world is not ok. The world’s on fire – literally, figuratively, metaphysically, hyrdomaticly. Billy Joel’s rewriting We Didn’t Start The Fire for 2025, and it’s already 25 verses long.
And I don’t have much to say about it. I’m awash with anger, frustration, sorrow, horror and alcohol. The latter not doing much to nullify the former.
Anyway the point is, I’m broken and it’s partly Joe Biden’s fault.
Cast your midn back, dear readerer, to July of last year when he finally, reluctantly withdrew from the election. He immediately endorsed VP Kamala Harris and gave her a mere 107 days to win the election. That’s when I went All In. I was officially Committed. I read the articles. I shared the memes. I watched the debate. I read the posts and wrote the posts and listened to the podcasts. All the podcasts. The Bulwark, Pod Save America, The Rest is Politics, If You’re LIstening, The Weekly Show with Jon Stewart, The Axe Files, NPR Politics; I listened to ALL of them. Watching a champion emerge from Biden’s shadow and deliver body blow after body blow to a bloviating rotten pumpkin was exhilarating, and for a few short months I actually believed the world could be better. Would be better.
Woodford Reserve premium small batch. DAMN that’s a good bourbon. Smooth, velvety and high proof. Not as high proof as the evidence against the Orange Toddler in his four criminal indictments, mind you, but still pretty heckin’ good.
So anyways I was well aware of what so many of us could see: that the Tangerine Tyrant would, if elected, do exactly what he said he would do. And it was also painfully obvious that the one thing he said he wouldn’t do – Project 25 – was the one thing he was definitely going to do. It was clear that Trump 2.0 would be the same as Trump 1.0 but with less blundering and more targeted arseholery. But they voted for him anyway.
And it broke a part of me.
The part of me that takes an interest, that cares, that wants to fight and shout and call for justice and compassion and knowledge and reason… it just broke.
There are too many horrible things happening that out of self-preservation I’ve had to shut the world out of my life. For the past few months I’ve taken only a passing interest in the avalanche of cruel Executive Orders, the gutting of the US public service, the scrapping of USAID. I’ve not read the articles about Israel and Gaza, or the Kremlin Gremlin’s war in Ukraine. I’ve thankfully not seen or heard much from P. Dutty The Petulant Potato. Because I don’t know how to cope with all that awfulness. I can’t help feeling useless and powerless.
I’ve always been a believer that you pick yourself up and get back in the fight – but i don’t have any fight left in me now. I just don’t have the emotional bandwidth anymore. I’m tired of humanity’s lack of humanity. I don’t have any optimism or words of wisdom or burning need to fight back. The anti-Chumbawamba, I have been knocked down and I’m going to stay down here for a while.
And I know that’s my privilege. I can afford to bury my head in the sand because – at least for now – I’m not in any grave danger. I’m a straight-presenting comfortable white guy in Australia. I’m in a very safe, but temporary, bubble. And I know that this security will not last.
But nor will my isolation.
Nothing is forever. I’m sure before long I will emerge from my insular cave, blinking in terror and rolling up my sleeves. I hope it will be soon – I do not like hiding behind my privilege. I am racked with guilt about running away from bad things. But I’m exhausted and exasperated.
And I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that too many Americans couldn’t see the bleeding obvious. I’m sorry that so many people are going to struggle, are going to hurt, are going to die. I’m sorry that I haven’t done enough, and that I’m not doing more. But most of all, I’m sorry this bottle is empty. That was such a nice drink. Look after yourselves, good people. Then, if you can, look after each other. Things are going to get a lot worse, but for now we can still enjoy cheese and chocolate, and booze and boobs.