Behold the grim visage of QAnon and rampant Trumpism. Gaze at the avatar of the new Dark Age. Yes – it’s the Capitol Hill Fur Baby, the MAGA Viking, the face-painted Moon-howler assembled from spare parts discarded out back of the loony bin, the New Fifteen-Minute-Famer dubbed hilariously by the Twitteratti as “Bikini Chewbacca”, it’s – it’s – well, who, exactly? Who is this guy?
The pity of it is that he’s so well disguised he probably isn’t immediately recognizable to any but his closest fellow insurgents, making it possible that his escapades yesterday on Capitol Hill won’t haunt him for the rest of his pointless life. The idea drives me to distraction. I’m desperate for vengeance. Yes, vengeance. Mere Justice simply won’t do the trick. Not now. Not anymore. My calmer friends, trying to talk me out of my tree, have been trying to persuade me today that insisting all of these morons should have been shot dead in their tracks – those not set aside for an educational public execution next week, at any rate – is a little, I don’t know, extreme. Maybe a little harsh. Reactionary, even. Arguably counterproductive to the goal of promoting human decency and the rule of law, which are, they imply, the very values I’d undermine in my haste to uphold them by summary violent means.
They’re dead wrong, of course, but suppose I play devil’s advocate here and concede the point. Is it too much, then, to at least hope that yesterday’s insurrectionists are prosecuted for their crimes? Is it untoward to wish that they all lose their jobs, and are shunned from now on by polite society? How about if they all get kicked off of Netflix, Twitter, Facebook, Amazon and the like? Perhaps barred from watching the next season of The Mandalorian? Maybe we could revoke their Air Miles? Is that too mean-spirited? Something should happen to these A-holes, shouldn’t it?
There must be consequences. I have to believe it. Especially for you, Hairball. Yes, somebody knows who you are, Chewbacca. Those guys standing next to you, the ones too stupid to conceal their identities, they know. They can be found. Once nabbed, trust me, they’ll flip like flapjacks. Your day will come, Horny-Head. God as my witness, I’ll see you caged like the zoo creature you made yourself out to be. I hope they feed you on sawdust and uncooked rooster feet.
This goes double for Donald, his nutbar sidekick Giuliani, his crazy conniving lawyers, and indeed his many enablers in the Capitol itself, many of them last seen standing there last night in the well of the Senate spouting pieties and reaffirming their commitment to democracy, peace, order, and good government. Black eyes to you, Lindsey Graham. You too, Mitch. Hey, Josh Hawley – you sordid little weasel, you foul little bucket of self-promoting hippo dung – may this be your brand for evermore. May they print it with your obit. May it be your downfall, you soulless sack of shit spiced with intolerably overweening ambition:
I’m sitting here vibrating with rage, waiting for the reckoning due all of these sinners against democracy, the Constitution, the rule of law, and everything I hold dear. Christ! What if it never comes? What if they all skate? What if Ted Frigging Cruz is number one with a bullet in 2024? What if Donald never sees the inside of a prison cell? How, oh how can it be?
Why must the Universe torture me so? Why does it set me on fire while letting the criminals prosper?
For the love of God, at least give me Chewbacca’s head on a pike, can’t you? It’s the bare minimum I’m owed. The bare minimum, I say.
UPDATE!! He is identified! My buddy Leonard tells me he’s Jake Angeli, a.k.a. the “QAnon Shaman” – the QAnon true believers have a frigging shaman! Of course they do! Looks like he’s a minor celebrity in some circles, and that I’m almost in the minority not recognizing the dummy right away. OK. Good. Over to you, law enforcement. Don’t let me down.