Title: Mad as Hell and Tired of DictatorsAuthor Tim Crestin
Look, I ain’t no professor. I’m just a guy who works with his hands. Welding torch, pizza boxes, grocery aisles—you name it, I’ve done it. I’m scrappin’ pennies for journalism school ’cause I still believe words matter. But lemme tell ya, right now I feel like I belong on another planet. This one? It’s busted.
Here’s the truth nobody wants to spit out: there’s always gonna be some two-bit wannabe dictator struttin’ around, puffin’ his chest, promisin’ he’s gonna fix everything. That ain’t the shock. The shock is how many nitwits line up to vote for him. The “big man” lovers, the angry mugs, the ones who think shoutin’ is the same thing as thinkin’. They hand him the keys, then act surprised when he drives the country straight into a ditch.
And Congress? Don’t get me started. Half of ’em are cowards, too scared of the uneducated mob to stand up straight. They hide behind polls and donors, pretendin’ they’re powerless. Newsflash, pal: if you’re elected to lead, you don’t get to play scared. You stand tall or you get outta the way.
I used to watch Hardball on MSN back when it meant somethin’. Back when journalists called out nonsense instead of recyclin’ press releases. Now MSN’s a rag, Congress is a joke, and the voters who should know better keep fallin’ for the same con.
I’m mad as hell ’cause democracy ain’t supposed to be this fragile. It’s supposed to be tougher than one loudmouth and a crowd of cheerleaders. But here we are, actin’ like it’s normal.
So yeah, I’m just a welder, a delivery guy, a clerk. But I know this much: if we don’t stop worshippin’ “big men” and start demandin’ courage from our so?called leaders, we’re gonna lose the country we keep pretendin’ we love.
They love dictators—big mouth, puffed chest, promises thicker than a cheap pizza crust. That ain’t the shock. The shock is the nitwits who buy it. And I meet ’em every day.
Guy at the gas station tells me the sun’s a light bulb. A light bulb! I says, “Buddy, if the sun’s a bulb, who’s changin’ it when it burns out?” He shrugs, mutters somethin’ about still playin’ Pong. Pong! We’re talkin’ astrophysics, he’s talkin’ about a dot bouncin’ between two sticks. That’s democracy’s voter base—people who think science is optional, but their high score ain’t.
Then there’s the kid with the jalopy, revvin’ it like he’s auditionin’ for Fast & Furious: County Fair Edition. He thinks stars are holes poked in the sky. Holes! Like the universe is a cardboard box. I says, “Kid, those are suns, billions of ’em.” He says, “Yeah, but can my muffler impress Jenny next door?” That’s his priority—horsepower that don’t exist and a girl who ain’t impressed.
Don’t get me started on the grocery clown who says climate change is fake ’cause it snowed last winter. He’s buyin’ strawberries in January, shipped halfway ’round the world, wrapped tighter than a mobster’s alibi. He don’t care about the planet. He cares about whether his chips are two?for?one.
And the moon? Oh, you’ll love this. One joker swears it’s self-lit. Says NASA probably installed LEDs up there. LEDs! Like astronauts went up with a ladder and a toolkit. Another genius tells me parachutes are designed to open on impact. On impact! That’s not a parachute, that’s a body bag with straps.
These mugs don’t wanna know nothin’. They’d rather argue pineapple on pizza than amendments in the Constitution. They memorize cheat codes, not civics. They chase the girl next door, not the truth. And when you try to talk sense, they look at you like you’re the alien. Some days I think I am on the wrong planet.
But here’s the rub: ignorance ain’t just funny—it’s dangerous. Laugh at the guy who thinks the moon’s got LEDs, sure. Roll your eyes at the kid who thinks stars are holes. But remember: these jokers vote. They show up at the ballot box, and they’ll pick the loudmouth who makes ’em feel big, angry, and important. That’s how the wannabe dictators slip through. That’s how Congress turns into a bunch of cowards, scared of their own shadows.
So yeah, I’m mad as hell. ’Cause if we don’t wise up, we’re stuck on this planet with nitwits who think Pong is cutting?edge, parachutes open on impact, jalopies are status symbols, and impressin’ Jenny next door is more important than protectin’ democracy.
Signed,
Still a citizen, still refusin’ to whisper