Dear American People

Dear American People
by Debaser

Dear American People,

Despite all evidence to the contrary, this is not really a political piece. Well, I mean, okay, it is going to be a political piece, but not to the degree you might suspect. I mean, I'll admit that the prospect of the next four years kind of scares me a little bit, but I'm not so far gone as to realize that my visions of a blighted nuclear wasteland where I have to headshot mutants with my Desert Eagle before I can sit down to a breakfast of dehydrated Freedom Toast is more the masturbatory fantasy of a man feeling too confined by society and his own inhibitions than it is a realistic intuition of my future. I'm hardly a democrat, and after, saying the word “liberal” I'm contractually obligated to make one of those faces like Thurston Howe III used to when contemplating charitable action on Gilligan's Island. So it's not so much the election itself that cause me to lay awake at night soaking my Sailor Moon bedsheets with enough sweat to blot out years of accumulated protein stains. No, it's what the results of the election say about us .

To better illustrate my point, let me provide some examples. It was early 2001, during one of my many lengthy terms of unemployment, I was watching Kids WB and drinking Jack Daniels straight from the bottle, (as is often my wont), when my program was preempted for a Presidential speech. Li'l Charlie, the orphaned English immigrant who stops by twice a month to sweep my chimney in exchange for “bangers & mash” (i.e., whatever crap I can rummage from the refrigerator and boil within an inch of its life) happened to walk in at that moment and, wiping the soot from his eyes with a grimy finger exclaimed “Blimey! You yanks sure elected an idiot for President, din'cha?”

I shrugged. “Look, kid, you were bedridden with the rickets during the election, so you don't get it. Gore was worthless, and his running mate was the world's only Nazi Jew. We were given the choice between a nondescript moderate Democrat and a nondescript moderate Republican, and I'm not even going to go into all the Florida nonsense. I mean, it's not like we elected Margaret Thatcher or something, now is it?” That seemed to shut Lil' Charlie up, but I punched him in the mouth, just to be certain.

Later, in late-2002 I was visiting one of Canada's many fine gentleman's clubs when one of my fellow patrons decided to engage me in conversation. “Nice tits on that one, eh?” he asked, tipping his bright red mountie hat to me. I simply nodded, more intent on trying to convince a passing dancer into giving me a lap dance in exchange for a fistful of TGI Fridays “Fun Bucks”. Still, my friendly Canadian was persistent. “American, eh?” I nodded again, while signaling the girl that I'd throw in the 5 Chuck E. Cheese prize tickets I'd won at my little cousin's birthday party. “Shame about that Patriot Act, eh?” He asked, still intent on engaging me in conversation. Since, by that point it looked like my quarry was about to request the assistance of a bouncer, I decided to rise to the bait.

“I'm not really that concerned about it, to be honest. It's kind of a bugaboo.”

“Oh, really?” he responded, with obvious surprise. “If I were you, I'd be concerned aboot the potential abuses of privacy and civil rights. Every night when I retire to my igloo, and settle in with Bessie, the polar bear I legally married earlier this year to watch Kids in the Hall , I give thanks that I don't live in a country as fearful and backwards as America. We'd never allow a law like that to pass here, just because it happens to have the word ‘Patriot' in the title.” He nodded with smug satisfaction, then added “Go Leafs!!!”

I shrugged. “Look, it's just kind of a crazy time right now, y'know? I'm sure if someone blew up that one two-story building you guys have in Toronto, you'd do some silly things too. We'll violate the civil rights of a few Arabs and Mexicans, some people in California will grouse a bit, and the whole thing will turn into a historical footnote.” Disgusted with the conversation, I went out into the parking lot so I could make a go of soliciting Stardust on her way to her car.

Then came the war in Iraq and all the popular support that got. During the early days of the war, I'd get in almost daily arguments with Hans Franz, the East German black marketer from whom I frequently purchase lesbian scat videos. “Ja,” he'd say to me, “you warmongering Americans and your illegal, unprovoked wars. The international community is against you! Now is the time on Sprockets when we dance!!” He concluded, before allowing himself a victory dance to the incomprehensible techno variant that was always blaring from the boombox he kept as a constant companion.

“Oh, go suck your schnitzel!” was my usual response. But, if he happened to be wearing a particularly obnoxious mesh tank top on that day, I could sometimes be goaded into arguing with him. “You don't seem to get it. For one, Saddam is a douchebag who you'd be happy to be rid of if you and your little French catchers weren't just posturing for the sake of the smaller countries in the EU. B: either Iraq's got some pretty heavy duty biological weapons going on or we're being intentionally deceived by our government in a way that's just about unthinkable. And third, have you heard about Howard Dean? He's smart, passionate, and gaining all sorts of grassroots support thanks to a savvy internet campaign. I bet we'll elect him in '04 and then we'll sort this mess out.”

“Besides it's not like you're one to talk. I seem to remember a German leader who engaged in some deceit and unsanctioned, unprovoked wars in his day. What was his name again?” Then, if the smell of his leather pants was making me especially nauseous, I'd tap my chin like I was trying to remember something before really rubbing it in. “Oh, that's right; his name was Otto von Bismarck . Compared to what Otto von Bismarck did to unify Germany in the nineteenth century, this is nothing!”

But then Dean made the mistake of looking a little foolish on TV one time, so instead you all insisted on Kerry as the Democratic candidate. But I kept faith. Then it turned out that, not only were the no “WMDS” but the evidence the president had stuck to was basically fraudulent. And there was little outrage outside of the usual sectors. Opinion polls barely blinked. But I kept faith that you, the American people, would come through at crunch time. Every day, some smug jerk on the internet would point to polls where people still thought Sadam was connected to 9/11. “But, obviously only idiots would even bother to respond to those polls!” I insisted, my faith in the populace unwavering. Political ideals aside, we weren't going to reelect someone who botched an economy and two wars no matter how warm and safe his zealot-like faith in his own infallibility made us feel. Were we? Of course we weren't!

But then we did. By a pretty healthy margin. Oh, and we gave his party even more control of Congress. Well, the next time someone asks me (a conservative rhetorically or a liberal ironically), why I hate America, I'll just say “because America made me look like an idiot.” Thanks a lot, America.

In closing, fuck you.

Until Almighty Siva Destroys this Impure World to be Reborn Anew,

Your Ever-lovin' Brown Eyed Debaser


About the author: Debaser has brown eyes and has never "lost it" on public television.



British people also boil things, then eat them.



Debaser wrote the most popular review in Trotting Krips history.


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