Gabamania Runs Wild
August 3, 2011

Courageous. Inspirational. Patriotic. Cunt.

These are all words - okay, except for one - that have been used incessantly in reference to Gabrielle Giffords since they rolled her into Congress Monday night so that she could proudly endorse the continued demise of the United States. I made clear back in January, shortly after she got her skull blown across a Safeway parking lot, exactly how I feel about Giffords and all of her brethren in the Parasite Class. Needless to say, casting an unneeded vote in favor of expanding the leak in an already sinking ship is not courageous, inspirational, or patriotic. It’s just cuntish.

Unable to escape into the deep, deep wilderness these past couple weeks, I was consequently unable to escape exposure to the “national debate” (read: scripted distraction / unmitigated horseshit) over the looming “crisis” that would result from Congress’ failure to reach a debt compromise. While there were a few voices echoing truth from the wilderness, the typical tens of millions of American oafs sat on pins, needles, and their own cellulitic asses, wondering what the future would hold, and praying to Jesus Christ - only begotten son of the Founding Fathers - that “our leaders” would put together a plan and “save the country.”

These patrons of Federal Theatre experienced much of the same discomfort felt by countless six and seven year old children in 1991, unsure what Hulk Hogan’s fate would be when he challenged the Iraqi-sympathizing Sergeant Slaughter at WrestleMania VII. Fortunately for me at age nine, I knew the whole thing was a fucking work.

Professional wrestling has some of the highest ratings in the history of cable television. Even if you don’t like it, you’ve seen it.  You get it. You know the routine. It’s ridiculous, and you can take it or leave it. So we can be certain that a large percentage of the questionably cognizant citizens that interpret politics as reality also understand the farcical nature of pro wrestling. How, then, they fail to see the similarities between fake ‘rasslin and any political point of contention spotlit by the media is indicative of some type of Hulkamania-induced brain maldevelopment.

The good guy has the upper hand. The bad guy has the upper hand. This political party is winning. That political party is winning. Whoa. The tides are turning. It just might go the other way. Back and forth we go. They’re hitting all their marks. Ooh, false finish! That was close. Body slam! Controversial public statement! Whoa, another false finish! Oh no! The referee has been knocked unconscious! The bill failed to pass! Let’s hope the match ends before we’re out of time! Let’s hope there’s a resolution before the country defaults! Yea! Nay! One! Two! Three!

It’s over, it was meaningless, we all looked silly, and it was a financial loss for everyone but the performers.

The only thing missing from her entrance Monday night was cheesy thematic music and the voice of long-time WWE announcer Jim Ross shouting, “My Gawd! That’s… that’s… THAT’S DOUBLE-G GABBY GIFFORDS MUSIC!” If we laced the Capitol’s water supply with anabolic steroids, C-Span and WWE Raw would have been indistinguishable from one another on Monday night. Who care’s about a failing currency? The Ultimate Warrior is back!

But here’s the difference. Vince McMahon doesn’t steal my money. Triple H won’t put me in a cage for growing a plant he doesn’t like. The Honky Tonk Man has never issued me a citation for successfully crossing a street whilst not within special painted stripes. And I don’t think Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka much cares if I cross state lines with unpasteurized dairy. “Rowdy” Roddy Piper might have something to say about it, but he still wouldn’t claim authority to punish me for such a heinous act. In other words, the WWE does nothing to deny my self-ownership. It’s up to me to decide whether or not to patronize the WWE. It cannot use force to compel me to meet its demands. If I don’t like it, I don’t buy it. If enough people feel and act the same way, WWE ceases to exist.

Government, on the other hand, is a living, breathing, monstrous denial of self-ownership. It’s representatives, henchmen, and business partners exist exclusively to perpetuate themselves at the expense of productive individuals - such as the Honky Tonk Man. The government steals my money. It will cage me or kill me for pursuing self-ownership. It claims authority to punish me for whatever it dislikes and denies my right to decide if it’s worthy of patronage. It uses force to compel me to meet its demands. I can opt out of the WWE. I cannot opt out of the State.

Fortunately, if enough people felt the same way - that government wasn’t worth buying - and acted on it, government, too, would cease to exist. Unfortunately, the same tens of millions of slobs that recently tuned in to the Congressional Shit Show legitimize government by encouraging it to cage or kill anyone that doesn’t similarly succumb to its whims. We enslave ourselves and cheerily clamor toward the cotton fields of the State plantation.

The only question that remains is: Whatcha’ gonna do, brother, when corporatism, and the most pervasively controlled society in the history of the world run wild on you?

The answer, of course, is to grab your ankles and welcome it with open ass. But first, give a standing ovation to Gabby Giffords for not allowing a bullet in her brain to stand in the way of her “service” as a noxious government cunt.

In the words of Iron Mike Tyson... reptilian motherfuckers.

“It’s just like pro wrestling. In front of the public we hate each other, we're gonna rip our heads off - but in the locker room, we're all friends."

Are you suggesting professional wrestling is fake?

"I'm suggesting politics is fake."

- Jesse Ventura