(This is a repeat from yesterday however, since Heather has written on the same topic, I thought to piggy back. My satire was written about 5 years ago with a few add-ons. I reconken to be the Charlie Chaplin to the MAGA movement as Chaplin was to Hitler -- kinda. And it comes from my book "Donald's Vanity Tantrums." Please enjoy it if y…
(This is a repeat from yesterday however, since Heather has written on the same topic, I thought to piggy back. My satire was written about 5 years ago with a few add-ons. I reconken to be the Charlie Chaplin to the MAGA movement as Chaplin was to Hitler -- kinda. And it comes from my book "Donald's Vanity Tantrums." Please enjoy it if you can.)
Fred Jackson and the Second American Revolution
(Homage to Donald Trump’s ‘Proud Boys’ and Others)
Fred Jackson was a proud rebel in The Great Northern Militia Alliance. He and his wife Ruth were often found hosting summer neighborhood barbecues. They easily found new supporters for the coming war to take back America. Fred stationed himself at the pit and handed out chicken legs drenched in homemade sauce to new, unsuspecting recruits -- kinda like a politician on election-day would do; promising a chicken in every pot. Talk of big government, guns and revolt would come later.
Fred and his cohorts believed themselves to be the direct Anglo-Saxon descendants of America's 18th century rabble-rousers who tossed bales of tea into Boston harbor after news of the British Stamp Act reached these shores. But tea-toddlers, they weren’t.
He was proud of his new-found abilities to recruit and had recently been promoted by the Alliance to the rank of sergeant of his own local militia. Wasting no time consolidating resources, Fred collected everything from boxes of canned food to crates of assault weapons. All were discreetly stored away in basements and underground bunkers in his local neighborhood.
Strategic plans were soon under way as this historic moment arrived, the moment to take back America. A secret, unnamed Northern Alliance militia representative from high up the chain of command visited one evening to give a short pep talk to the men and their wives in the basement of Jackson's home.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mysterious commander said, “the time has come to act. We must stop the tyranny and treasonous actions of our government. Today we take action. We will starve the beast into submission. We will bring the entire nation to a screeching halt by whatever means are necessary. And we will un-steal the election. You know who I’m talking about; the great populist himself, codenamed, “OrangeFatso.””
“Yep”… they screamed in unison, “Save our leader, OrangeFatso.”
He jabbered on like this awhile longer and then said something about how it was one's duty to avoid payment of taxes like they did in the Boston revolt.
A rebel in the audience was overheard mumbling that, “Maybe them damned liberals wouldn't be so bad if we could just shoot a few.” as he cleaned and oiled his weapon. After the rousing speech ended, the mysterious speaker made way out of Fred's hatchway as quickly as he had arrived and was driven off into the night before anyone could ask questions.
The next day, Fred called for another drill. The basement was a good place to train without attracting attention. His supportive wife listened from upstairs as she tapped her foot to the muffled sounds of her husband's marching orders.
During the drill, Fred's wife heard her husband cry,
"Oh no… not again. I told you not to march forward in the cellar."
"Ruthie honey," Fred yelled from the basement, "Billy bumped into the wall again and now has a nose bleed. Quick, get me an ice pack."
One thing that should be noted about the division of labor between the men folk and their women; it was written in the Northern Militia Alliance's “Code of Conduct” that men would do the fighting and the women would play supportive roles – just like in the olden days of the founders. Their women were as important as Betsy Ross – who is thought to have sewn the first flag – was to the cause of revolt.
The country of Fred's birth was no longer recognizable to him. Waves of foreigners had migrated across the unprotected southern frontier. His leader had often spoken of building a really high wall to keep out the hordes. The government, Fred believed, was overrun with big-spending liberals and nanny-state socialists. Fred even thought that his own past president of the United States was born in another country.
“He wasn’t born here. You know he owes his allegiance to the United Nations,” cried Fred.
Encrypted communiques were now being sent and received with increasing frequency throughout the “Alliance.” The days of waiting had drawn to a close.
And so it came to pass. The militia teams began assembling. They gathered along every mountain pass and byway. They took positions beside bridges and waterways. Fred's platoon prepared to assault its assigned mountain. This really was only a big hill but these rebels had a tendency to magnify everything around them including the importance of they’re mission. Their watches were synchronized.
Sergeant Jackson finally gave the order to charge.
“CHARRRRRRGE!” he screamed.
The men began their long, wild, rickety-split charge to the top of the assigned hill. Fred held his assault rifle in the air with one hand, and with the other grabbed his pants before they slipped down below his protruding belly – an unfortunate victim of too many beer-drinking strategy sessions.
Well they whooped and hollered for so long that soon most of the militia troops were out of breath. By the time they reached the summit, the sergeant could be heard cussing' (at no one in particular.) He wondered if he had rushed up the wrong hill. His GPS repeated, “recalculating... recalculating...” His phone vibrated on his belt and he quickly grabbed it and listened intently.
His head turned slowly downward as he stared at his mud-caked boots. His heart was pounding. He was breathing fast.
“Yes sir, I see. But when are we...? Win the hearts and minds, first? But...OK, I’ll inform the men.”
The sergeant ordered roll call and sadly told his men that not only did they seize the wrong hill, but the unseen generals had decreed that this was only a drill. The real revolution was yet to come but now, without the element of surprise. Dejected, they began to hobble down the green hill.
Then suddenly, Sergeant Jackson received another message. This time, he could hardly contain himself. Something new had just happened and word was spreading like wildfire. His fingers quivered as he responded:
“I’ll tell the men right away.” The sergeant rallied the now exhausted rag-tag men around him and excitedly yelled,
“All hands to Burns, Oregon. The government is assaulting some ranchers. The Bunkerville boys from Nevada are leading the counter assault. I'll be driving out at first light if anyone needs a ride.”
Fred finally made it home in his Ford pick-up truck while still sweating from the long charge. His dear sweet Ruthie waited at the half-opened door as dusk settled in.
“Come in my hero. I made your favorite hot soup for you.”
Fred stumbled in and sat at their kitchen table and slurped down the refreshing food. He then went straight to bed without explaining anything to his worried wife about the disappointing details of the false deployment.
Fred dreamed about the new revolution soon to sweep the land of his birth – the land he hardly recognized any more. And he dreamed that his name would one day be enshrined 100 years from now, along the nearby interstate highway where he lived. The sign would read: “The Sergeant Fred Jackson Expressway: Named for a Patriot of The Second American Revolution Who Stood His Ground and Helped Take Back America.”
Then Fred farted and repositioned his head on the pillow as he slept like a baby all night long.
(I’ll be sitting at a table in front of the White House next week passing out my book. I’m doing all I can do. And I’ll bring my guitar to perform my selection of compositions about Trump including “The Shit Hole Song” found on my YouTube channel under “Catman Bill — Hartford, Connecticut)
(This is a repeat from yesterday however, since Heather has written on the same topic, I thought to piggy back. My satire was written about 5 years ago with a few add-ons. I reconken to be the Charlie Chaplin to the MAGA movement as Chaplin was to Hitler -- kinda. And it comes from my book "Donald's Vanity Tantrums." Please enjoy it if you can.)
Fred Jackson and the Second American Revolution
(Homage to Donald Trump’s ‘Proud Boys’ and Others)
Fred Jackson was a proud rebel in The Great Northern Militia Alliance. He and his wife Ruth were often found hosting summer neighborhood barbecues. They easily found new supporters for the coming war to take back America. Fred stationed himself at the pit and handed out chicken legs drenched in homemade sauce to new, unsuspecting recruits -- kinda like a politician on election-day would do; promising a chicken in every pot. Talk of big government, guns and revolt would come later.
Fred and his cohorts believed themselves to be the direct Anglo-Saxon descendants of America's 18th century rabble-rousers who tossed bales of tea into Boston harbor after news of the British Stamp Act reached these shores. But tea-toddlers, they weren’t.
He was proud of his new-found abilities to recruit and had recently been promoted by the Alliance to the rank of sergeant of his own local militia. Wasting no time consolidating resources, Fred collected everything from boxes of canned food to crates of assault weapons. All were discreetly stored away in basements and underground bunkers in his local neighborhood.
Strategic plans were soon under way as this historic moment arrived, the moment to take back America. A secret, unnamed Northern Alliance militia representative from high up the chain of command visited one evening to give a short pep talk to the men and their wives in the basement of Jackson's home.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mysterious commander said, “the time has come to act. We must stop the tyranny and treasonous actions of our government. Today we take action. We will starve the beast into submission. We will bring the entire nation to a screeching halt by whatever means are necessary. And we will un-steal the election. You know who I’m talking about; the great populist himself, codenamed, “OrangeFatso.””
“Yep”… they screamed in unison, “Save our leader, OrangeFatso.”
He jabbered on like this awhile longer and then said something about how it was one's duty to avoid payment of taxes like they did in the Boston revolt.
A rebel in the audience was overheard mumbling that, “Maybe them damned liberals wouldn't be so bad if we could just shoot a few.” as he cleaned and oiled his weapon. After the rousing speech ended, the mysterious speaker made way out of Fred's hatchway as quickly as he had arrived and was driven off into the night before anyone could ask questions.
The next day, Fred called for another drill. The basement was a good place to train without attracting attention. His supportive wife listened from upstairs as she tapped her foot to the muffled sounds of her husband's marching orders.
"Left...right...left...right...left...right...left...right."
During the drill, Fred's wife heard her husband cry,
"Oh no… not again. I told you not to march forward in the cellar."
"Ruthie honey," Fred yelled from the basement, "Billy bumped into the wall again and now has a nose bleed. Quick, get me an ice pack."
One thing that should be noted about the division of labor between the men folk and their women; it was written in the Northern Militia Alliance's “Code of Conduct” that men would do the fighting and the women would play supportive roles – just like in the olden days of the founders. Their women were as important as Betsy Ross – who is thought to have sewn the first flag – was to the cause of revolt.
The country of Fred's birth was no longer recognizable to him. Waves of foreigners had migrated across the unprotected southern frontier. His leader had often spoken of building a really high wall to keep out the hordes. The government, Fred believed, was overrun with big-spending liberals and nanny-state socialists. Fred even thought that his own past president of the United States was born in another country.
“He wasn’t born here. You know he owes his allegiance to the United Nations,” cried Fred.
Encrypted communiques were now being sent and received with increasing frequency throughout the “Alliance.” The days of waiting had drawn to a close.
And so it came to pass. The militia teams began assembling. They gathered along every mountain pass and byway. They took positions beside bridges and waterways. Fred's platoon prepared to assault its assigned mountain. This really was only a big hill but these rebels had a tendency to magnify everything around them including the importance of they’re mission. Their watches were synchronized.
Sergeant Jackson finally gave the order to charge.
“CHARRRRRRGE!” he screamed.
The men began their long, wild, rickety-split charge to the top of the assigned hill. Fred held his assault rifle in the air with one hand, and with the other grabbed his pants before they slipped down below his protruding belly – an unfortunate victim of too many beer-drinking strategy sessions.
Well they whooped and hollered for so long that soon most of the militia troops were out of breath. By the time they reached the summit, the sergeant could be heard cussing' (at no one in particular.) He wondered if he had rushed up the wrong hill. His GPS repeated, “recalculating... recalculating...” His phone vibrated on his belt and he quickly grabbed it and listened intently.
His head turned slowly downward as he stared at his mud-caked boots. His heart was pounding. He was breathing fast.
“Yes sir, I see. But when are we...? Win the hearts and minds, first? But...OK, I’ll inform the men.”
The sergeant ordered roll call and sadly told his men that not only did they seize the wrong hill, but the unseen generals had decreed that this was only a drill. The real revolution was yet to come but now, without the element of surprise. Dejected, they began to hobble down the green hill.
Then suddenly, Sergeant Jackson received another message. This time, he could hardly contain himself. Something new had just happened and word was spreading like wildfire. His fingers quivered as he responded:
“I’ll tell the men right away.” The sergeant rallied the now exhausted rag-tag men around him and excitedly yelled,
“All hands to Burns, Oregon. The government is assaulting some ranchers. The Bunkerville boys from Nevada are leading the counter assault. I'll be driving out at first light if anyone needs a ride.”
Fred finally made it home in his Ford pick-up truck while still sweating from the long charge. His dear sweet Ruthie waited at the half-opened door as dusk settled in.
“Come in my hero. I made your favorite hot soup for you.”
Fred stumbled in and sat at their kitchen table and slurped down the refreshing food. He then went straight to bed without explaining anything to his worried wife about the disappointing details of the false deployment.
Fred dreamed about the new revolution soon to sweep the land of his birth – the land he hardly recognized any more. And he dreamed that his name would one day be enshrined 100 years from now, along the nearby interstate highway where he lived. The sign would read: “The Sergeant Fred Jackson Expressway: Named for a Patriot of The Second American Revolution Who Stood His Ground and Helped Take Back America.”
Then Fred farted and repositioned his head on the pillow as he slept like a baby all night long.
(I’ll be sitting at a table in front of the White House next week passing out my book. I’m doing all I can do. And I’ll bring my guitar to perform my selection of compositions about Trump including “The Shit Hole Song” found on my YouTube channel under “Catman Bill — Hartford, Connecticut)