Manifest Destiny

The US of A, baby, a chrome-plated behemoth sputtering on fumes of Manifest Destiny, and nostalgia, clinging to the delusion of its military-industrial phallus. A great power, it wheezes, chest puffed with ticker-tape parades and fighter jet ballets. But the circuits are fried, man. The real juice, the green, that’s the current coursing through its veins.. A great power, they screech, the military-industrial complex a screeching buzzsaw in their bellies. But dig this, man, this ain’t no Roman legion conquering the known world, this is a supermarket with tanks.

We built our empire on brand recognition, see? Coca-Cola, Hollywood, blue jeans – these are the weapons that conquered the minds of men. A technicolor hallucination projected through a cracked TV screen.  – these are the weapons that pacified the masses. Packaged dreams sold on credit cards, a sugar high that’s starting to curdle in the national gut. They pacified the globe with pop culture, a narcotic dream of endless consumption, the Whoppers and Subprimes, our flag a garish brand logo plastered on every mall and strip joint. But empires built on sugar highs crash hard, man, and the cracks are starting to show.

The real enemy, man, it ain’t some bearded dude in a cave. It’s the creeping entropy, the slow rot at the core. The supermarket shelves, once overflowing with shiny cans and brightly colored boxes, are starting to look a little bare. Some of that product, see, wasn’t rotated fast enough. Past its prime, reeking of decay beneath the shiny packaging. Ideologies gone rancid, policies festering with corruption. The “Made in America” promise is tarnished, a label slapped on products built with cheap foreign labor and fueled by mountains of debt.

The worst part? The people are still reaching for those expired goods, hypnotized by the flickering fluorescent lights and the relentless drone of advertising. The commercials still flicker, the promises of endless abundance, but the people are starting to see the static. Wired on cheap dopamine hits of instant gratification, are waking from the sugar crash. The “Innovation” aisle? Stocked with dusty prototypes and promises of a future that never arrived. The “Equality Yogurt”? Turns out it’s curdled, full of lumps and contradictions.

The machine sputters, gears grinding. They grab at dented cans of “American Exceptionalism” and wilted packages of “Manifest Destiny.” But the checkout line is getting longer, the cashiers robotic and indifferent. The conveyor belt of history keeps churning, and those stale products are about to get tossed in the bargain bin of forgotten empires. The military parades are a hollow echo, the fighter jets overpriced paper planes. The real power, the power to shape the world, lies elsewhere. This ain’t the fall of Rome, this is the flickering neon sign of a dying mall. A slow, televised implosion, the Muzak playing on as the lights go out. The US of A, a great commercial power, choking on its own product, a victim of its own hustle.

It’s a stench of debt, man, a rancid aftertaste of corporate greed. The natives, they’re starting to get restless. They see the sell-by dates flashing red, the fluorescent buzz making their heads throb. The tanks rumble down the aisles, a hollow echo in the vast emptiness. This supermarket empire, it’s built on rotten foundations, and the stench is finally reaching the checkout line. The US, a slow-motion train wreck of entitlement and amnesia, hurtles towards a future paved with broken shopping carts and empty promises. The chrome flakes, revealing the rusted chassis beneath.

The military phallus, once a symbol of dominance, now a limp reminder of a bygone era. The only wars left are fought with discount coupons and hostile takeovers, a desperate scramble for the last scraps at the bottom of the barrel. It’s a feeding frenzy, man, a scramble for the last fresh produce. The “Democracy” brand toilet paper’s already gone, replaced with a flimsy substitute labeled “National Security.” The “Healthcare for All” cereal? Discontinued.

This ain’t no glorious fall of Rome, this is a supermarket riot caught live on TV. The canned goods are flying off the shelves, the Muzak playing a frantic jig as the whole damn structure starts to shake. A fitting end, wouldn’t you say? It’s a horror movie, man, playing out in slow motion. The customers shuffle through the aisles, faces pale and drawn, their shopping carts overflowing with expired dreams. The tanks outside, relics of a bygone era, rusting in the parking lot, a silent threat that can’t mask the real danger – the slow, creeping collapse of a system built on rotten goods.