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Brother Can You Spare a War?
Note: Usually, this Substack publishes a main essay that’s free for all, then a follow-up digging deeper, and usually angrier, for paid subscribers.
However, given the level and number of threats on my life and livelihood after my essay about Charlie Kirk, in which I said nothing fucking wrong, I’m posting this main essay under a paywall, just to avoid another enraged anthill of bullshit so soon. I like sleeping through the night. It’s fun. This isn’t a permanent change, I’m just a little cagey after last time. Thanks for understanding.
I loved roller coasters when I was a kid. And I mean loved. What’s not to be completely fucking hyped about when you’re nine? Adrenaline, loud noises, crazy lights and music, speed, and the weird awesomeness of feeling like you’re in danger while knowing you’re actually totally safe, you paid money to ride this ride, and your mom is waiting outside the gate with your funnel cake and a shitty toy from the fishing game.
As an adult, while my brain still thinks FUCK YEAH LET’S DO THE DEVIL’S COLON, my body now knows full well how it feels to be seriously injured, knows it’s mortal and machines are fallible, and it’s no longer a blithe and bonny idiot made of bubblegum, stem cells, and superballs concerning the answer to the equation of speed + gravity + fragile sack of talking blood. So I always think I want to, and then when the ride tips over into freefall my stomach tenses up so hard for the impact it’s sure is coming that it physically hurts. I still go. Obviously. My kid-self internalized roller coasters are awesome don’t be a wimp just as hard as my grown-up self has internalized but I do not wish to ow.
But it’s not the same.
And more importantly, my love of roller coaster was always firmly rooted in the idea that I wanted to ride the ride. The restraints were for my safety, I had cleared the height requirement, we came to the carnival on purpose to do this, and if I chickened out while waiting in line, I could just leave and go pet a goat or something.
But now we’re all strapped into Donald Trump and Pete Hegseth’s janky fucking 19th century Imperialism-a-Whirl, the restraints are to keep us from doing anything about what’s about to happen to us, nobody is tall enough to handle this shit, and if we don’t want to do this anymore because the loop-de-loop track is clearly shredded, shooting sparks into a pile of dry leaves, and ends in a fifty foot drop into a puddle of spent nuclear fuel, well, too fucking bad for us, the operator sold the control board and drank a fifth of Dr. Prepper’s: Supermeth Splash.
These fucking people.
