In order to see the doom we are facing during these trying times, one must venture out to find it. The American carnage is everywhere.
So drive I did along roads crowded with those fleeing with their families for anyplace but here. North and south they drove, west and east, seeking borders to cross before those borders are closed.
Because a wall is a blockage from either side.
And there they were, the desperate Americans, crowding shopping centers and grocery stores, jamming sidewalks in downtowns, red-faced in endless traffic, sensing no way out. Hoarding winter clothes and the last of the summer gear at half price; loading the last 24-pack of toilet paper, the final six-pack of paper towels into their four-seat SUV with wi-fi and surround sound; hauling out the last of the three-for-one canned soup, the last loaf of whole wheat bread and the final brick of Velveeta because it has been a long winter in the years of our nation’s collapse.
And there they were lined up for miles to grab the last parking space at the massive farm where they ran from the howling mobs hauling pumpkins and corn stalks, and bags of the last fresh tomatoes of the season because they know that if they know that if the debacle continues they will be scratching at barren fields, pawing at the cold dirt for that last potato and recalling the Irish potato famine or the last scene before the intermission of “Gone with the Wind,” when Vivien Leigh declares, “I will never be hungry again!”
And they look for a savior, someone who says, “Only I can fix this.”
Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? They turn their lonely eyes to you.
And the misery of them huddling at the corner taco stand, waiting in line for an hour, wondering all the while why there are not more, why every corner is not so adorned with the promised taco stands while the population goes hungry, texting their anger across the internet with scowling selfies.
And everywhere they crowded the groomed fields to watch their children play sports knowing the games are just practice for military exercises; knowing that only becoming Jennifer Lawrence armed with a bow will provide the measure of safety their off-spring will need to survive the impending attack.
And oh, the garage sales. The horror. Frightened countrymen selling their possessions for mere pennies, converting their goods to cash because only cash will have meaning after the fall.
So we prepare for the American Apocalypse. We feel the doom descending.
And then we remember that it’s a Saturday, and that’s what we do in the old US of A on a Saturday in the richest, safest country in the world.
We worry whether that bran muffin is gluten free.