AWOL: Amerika Online, 2003


Why did I give my email to you?  When will your onslaught of Forwards be through?  The diatribes you send--they're nearly all inane.  Your millennial hubris borders insane.


Haloed in the glare of idiocy, your perfect holy whiteness batters my Inbox daily.


Your shrill rants parody themselves.


Two years of this now.  Two years!  How is it I read this trash?


It's true you've reached a sort of acme.  On this we agree, friends.  There's no need for satire of the arguments you send.


Why don't I just Delete?  (My fascination, no doubt, with the stunning nonsense you spout.)


Are these really adults?  People with degrees?  Are these really people who know how to read?


Your patriotism denies half of what you stand for.  Or think you do.


Did these people really go to university?


Often I think it's all just a sham.  Your every third word says you know it too. 


It's obvious even you hardly believe what you're saying.  No?


I read on amused at your world-transforming plans in the face of nagging fact.  Such noble ambitions!  But will you pay for it?


You will not, in these matters, recognize any facts at all.  Facts as such make for bad patriots since that hallowed day.  We are now under a new dispensation.  Everything the Chief calls for must be right.  Hurray!


Why don't you go back to your Cheeze dip and diet books?  Why don't you go back to your pool parties and barbecues and Oprah?


You should stick to what you can handle is what I think.


I'm amazed how flexible your stupidity is, the pliancy of your new Third-Millennium Gullets. 


I think you could each swallow an SUV in one gulp.


Crass, knee-jerk, fascist--I'm ashamed for all you've failed to learn.


And the opportunities you've had!  The opportunities, friends!


So what'll it be, dingbats?  How far you planning to take this charade? 


Planning?  You're planning nothing, I know.


You don't even sense what you're giving up.  Dumber than I ever guessed is the truth.  You think of yourselves as gods.  But your day will come.


I'll tell you what it amounts to, your nasty little coup.


Flag-waving haters of America, you're ready to raise up your own Holy Reich, a new nation under Moloch, without liberty or justice. 


Moloch?  Moloch and Mammon I should say.


And some day it will happen, friends, surely it will, that your own fat selves will fall afoul of the Machine you've set going. 


Yes, it will happen if you stick to your guns.  And lacking brains, your guns is what you'll stick to.


Flag-waving haters of America, bulwark of the new Cretins' Reich, the all-new nation of Sound Bites and Video Clips, just as you like it.


Is this what you want?  Is this what your Justice prefers? 


Everything tells me it is.  Everything says you'll get your desserts.


Two skyscrapers crumble in perfect symmetry, as if on cue, and none of you think to ask, to wonder.


You'll accept nothing but your own perfect whiteness in this business, your own flawless nose for justice. 


It's you who judge the world's fate after watching your twenty minutes of Fox News.


And you really can't see what's going on?


If there's a political unconscious it must be true that the 76% or the 59% or the 68% know somewhere inside that something is amiss.


O Middle Amerika, nation of Obese Cretins, grinning through a penumbra of Prozac--somewhere inside you know you're being duped.


You're being led by the nose--willingly.  It's what you've wanted all along, isn't it?


Infant dingbats of the new century!  The world blinks, stunned by your arrogance!


I find myself laughing at you in disbelief.


The future will laugh too, if a future is there to laugh.


Your need for entertainment is now absolute, O Righteous Ones.  You turn the whole planet into your own private video game. 


You sit on your sofas and play it.



--Eric Mader-Lin








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