The Great Firesale

Raw, Pure and Uncut Edition

I think one of the most salient points of Donald Trump is that with him you’re entitled to your own reality, even if it doesn’t have a shred to do with the real world. It’s a carnival of subjective truths, a free-for-all where every lie is valid as long as it sells. Meanwhile, the Democrats, in their infinite arrogance, insisted, No, no, no—you’re only entitled to our reality, the one stamped and approved by exiled blue-check experts and focus groups. 

Republicans? They understand chaos better: “Sure,” they said, “make your own reality. Believe what you want—deep state conspiracies, flat earth, whatever. Just hand us the keys to the car.” And when they inevitably wreck it? They point a crooked finger across the aisle and say, “Well, this is all the Democrats’ fault. It’s their reality…If they hadn’t made such a mess of the road, we wouldn’t have crashed in the first place.”

It’s the ultimate grift. The GOP weaponizes the freedom to believe in nonsense, turning every delusion into a scapegoat, while the Dems can’t decide whether to play the authoritarian nanny or the out-of-touch moralist. Either way, the car’s already wrapped around a tree, and the passengers are too busy arguing over whose imaginary map was better to notice the engine’s on fire.

And there it is—the American experiment reduced to a flaming wreck, spewing smoke and lies into the stratosphere while the whole carnival grinds on, a lunatic parade of suckers and charlatans. This is no longer politics; this is full-contact psychosis, a vicious blood sport where facts are just another sucker bet at the midway. Somewhere out there, Thomas Jefferson is clawing at the inside of his coffin, desperate to escape this three-ring hellscape of spineless bureaucrats and shotgun-wielding yokels.

It wasn’t the Republicans only who wrecked the car, not at first anyway. No, the establishment, that greasy bipartisan machine of think tankers and beltway lifers, had already sent it careening off the road years ago. Endless wars, gutted factories, financial crises swept under the rug with taxpayer cash—it was a demolition derby run by Ivy League technocrats who swore they knew better. By the time the wreck hit the ditch, the wheels were already coming off, and the smell of burnt oil was everywhere.

And that’s when a new breed of Republicans showed up, smelling opportunity like vultures on a fresh carcass. Just like the old GOP, they didn’t bother fixing the thing; hell no. They climbed in, took a few joyrides to squeeze out the last fumes in the tank, then jumped ship and started stripping it for parts. Tax cuts for the rich? That’s a door panel. Deregulation? That’s a catalytic converter. Social programs? Rip out the wiring and sell it for scrap. Meanwhile, they kept shouting, “It’s the Democrats! They drove it into the ditch!” while quietly pocketing the proceeds from every stolen bolt and stripped gasket.

But the Democrats weren’t innocent bystanders either. No, they were the ones who’d been insisting all along that they had the only map to drive by—the map approved by the consultants, printed on glossy focus-group paper, with no room for detours or dirty roads. They refused to admit they were lost, even as the car swerved wildly between lanes, plunging deeper into disaster. When the crash came, they stood there shell-shocked, yelling at the passengers to believe harder in their reality. “It wasn’t our map,” they insisted. “It was the wrong kind of roads! It was sabotage!”

And so here we are—nothing left but the wreckage and the scavengers. The Republicans are already halfway down the highway, hauling a trailer full of stripped parts and pilfered dreams. The Democrats? Still standing at the crash site, arguing over who’s more qualified to file the insurance claim. The establishment itself? It’s the guy who owned the car dealership, chuckling from a safe distance while signing off on another lease to some new sucker who doesn’t realize they’ve just bought a lemon.

The tragedy, of course, is that the car—the great American jalopy—was ours. It belonged to the people. But the people never even got to drive it. We just sat in the back seat, watching the madness unfold, while the grifters and opportunists took turns behind the wheel, laughing all the way to the bank. And now we’re left walking, miles from anywhere, with nothing but the memory of what could’ve been and the faint hope we’ll stumble across something better down the road.

Trump didn’t just break the machine—no, the bastard hot-wired it, ran it straight into a ditch, then sold tickets to the aftermath. “Come one, come all,” he roared, “to the greatest freak show on Earth! Bring your alternative facts, your rage, your pathetic little grievances! Everything is true, and nothing is real!” And the people ate it up, gnawing at the bones of their own sanity, frothing at the mouth for another taste of that sweet, uncut chaos.

Meanwhile, the Cheney Democrats stood slack-jawed on the sidelines, wringing their hands and clutching their precious rulebooks like priests at a Satanic orgy. How did things hot so messed up, they ask themselves. They tried to sell order and I-rationality to a mob hopped up on conspiracy Kool-Aid, and when that failed, they turned to sanctimony—like lecturing a junkie while he’s shooting up. “Don’t you see?” they pleaded. “You’re ruining I-democracy!” But the crowd just laughed, drunk on the absurdity of it all, and kept tossing lit matches at the gasoline.

And the new Republican shock troops—microwaved with a side of Benzedrine, peddling shock therapy, the last refuge of the damned. They’ve got the playbook open, scribbled on vodka-stained napkins from Boris Yeltsin’s favorite dacha. It’s the greatest firesale since the gutting of the Soviet Union, and these new Republicans are salivating at the thought. The blueprint is clear: turn the wreckage of America into a smoldering playground for oligarchs, a gleaming casino where the house always wins and the only currency left is desperation.

No, these grinning bastards are in the ring, gleefully spraying kerosene on the bonfire. They know the con better than anyone, know exactly how to ride the wave of madness all the way to the bank. “Keep screaming,” they whisper to the mob, “keep tearing it all down. We’ll be over here, looting the coffers while you fight over scraps of the truth.”

The establishment got us into the ditch, but these grinning vultures? They’re not just scavenging for parts—they’re gearing up to sell off the whole thing, piece by piece, at a steep discount to the highest bidder. Public lands? Auctioned off to oil magnates and real estate speculators. Social Security? Privatized and handed over to hedge funds. Education? Gutted, then sold back to the people as a subscription service. They’ll package the whole damn thing into some slick PowerPoint, call it “freedom,” and laugh all the way to the Cayman Islands.

And the mob? Oh, the mob doesn’t even know they’re the merchandise. Keep them distracted, keep them screaming, keep feeding them delusions of grandeur while the real theft happens in the shadows. “Yes, yes,” the Republicans whisper, their voices dripping with practiced sincerity, “you’re taking your country back. Believe what you want—deep state, stolen elections, pedophile pizza parlors—it’s all true if it makes you feel righteous.” Meanwhile, they’re gutting the place so fast the walls don’t even have time to crumble.

The Democrats, bless their hearts, are still trying to play hall monitor in a school that’s already burned to the ground. They’re busy scolding the mob for not wearing their seatbelts while the Republicans are hotwiring the firetruck. “This isn’t how democracy works,” they cry, clutching their policy briefs as if reason will somehow stop the looting. But the Republicans don’t care about democracy—they care about the spoils. They’re oligarchs in training, tearing down the old house so they can sell the rubble at a premium.

And this is where the real tragedy lies: the people. The people who were promised a seat at the table, only to find out they were the table all along. Their pensions? Gone. Their homes? Repossessed and flipped for profit. Their futures? Leased back to them at usurious rates. It’s not just a con—it’s a goddamn heist, the greatest transfer of wealth since the fall of the USSR, and the mark isn’t just the working class; it’s the entire American experiment.

So now we stand at the edge of the bonfire, the flames licking higher, the air thick with smoke and lies. The new Republicans are already counting their winnings, their hands greasy with the spoils of chaos. The Democrats are still clutching at their maps, lost in their own hubris, unable to understand why no one’s following them. And the rest of us? We’re left staring into the inferno, wondering how much longer it will burn—and whether there will be anything left to salvage when it’s all over.

The great American road trip is over, my friend. The engine’s blown, the tires are slashed, and the map’s been torn to shreds by rabid partisans. All that’s left now is the long, slow burn of a country too stubborn to admit it’s already dead in the water. And somewhere in the distance, you can hear the faint, maniacal laughter of a nation that sold its soul for the promise of winning.