Hot take alert: I’ve had it up to the fucking gills with this election cycle. It’s not like this season is any less ethically gross and sticky than those that came before, but there’s something about listening to grown adults lob nursery school zingers at one another while making thinly veiled references to their weird dicks that makes me want to carve my eyes out with a souvenir Lady Liberty statuette. The only reasonable explanation for how we got to this point is that we were collectively roofied by insurgents from an alternate dimension who decided to take our world for themselves while relegating us to the darkest timeline. How else do you explain the meteoric rise of an ideologically bankrupt bully with the intellect (and hands) of a fucking fetus? How ‘bout the inexplicable triumph of a career politician with more skeletons in her closet than Anorexics Anonymous playing hide and seek? But without a doubt the most insidious byproduct of this entire dog and pony show is the effect it has had on our friends and neighbors.
For starters, the fact that people identify themselves by their candidate of choice as a point of pride is fucking LAUGHABLE. That’s the equivalent of publicly declaring yourself for “Team T-Swift” or “House Kimye.” Fucking newsflash: these people don’t give two bakery fresh shits about you. And sure, Hillary Clinton is a less embarrassing option than Donald Trump, but that’s like saying a slow disemboweling is preferable to being raped to death by a rhinoceros. You can tweet #ImWithHer or #MakeAmericaGreatAgain until the cows come home, but it’s the same meaningless, self-aggrandizing gesture as Instagramming a selfie with your little “I Voted” sticker. If you squawk about how voting is your civic duty then expect a fucking parade to preempt your exodus from the polling booth, this was always about your fetish for praise and never about patriotism. If that’s the case, you should just walk around wearing a badge that says, “I Sharted.” At least that way, people’s disgust with you is purely situational rather than self-inflicted.
And speaking of wet, hot shits that cannot be constrained, how in the fuck did Donald Trump get this far (and realize by “this far” I mean “within a billionaire’s microdick of the Presidency”)? The sociological underpinnings of this colossal middle finger to the Founding Fathers aren’t hard to understand. Donald Trump is the drunk uncle who polishes off a fifth of Evan Williams at Thanksgiving dinner and graphically simulates his “bitch of an ex’s” vagina with a partially eaten drumstick. It’s all a fucking hoot…until he sticks his dick in the turkey. And the stuffing and mashed potatoes. Then it’s a problem. Well, Donald Trump pulled out and nutted all over the pumpkin pie a long time ago, folks. What began as a mildly amusing sideshow act has mutated into a nationalist movement comprised of society’s last place finishers and metastasized to liberty’s bones. Trump took his talent for belching up chauvinistic vitriol and spinning it into xenophobic rhetoric, and ended up ushering in a new Republican party that’s equal parts cult of personality and Gathering of the Juggalos. But are GOP voters REALLY so stupid as to elect a shit-talking reality television star to the highest office in the country? This asshole couldn’t manage a strip mall Fashion Bug without declaring war on the falafel stand across the way—now there’s an orange-tinted finger I want hovering over the button.
What are you smirking at, Clinton fans? Y’know, up until a few days ago, I was all set to join you in keeping Donald Trump as far from the Oval Office as possible. Then came the DNC leaks. Clearly, Hillary Clinton feels entitled to the Presidency, and the Democratic establishment agrees. If Donald Trump’s campaign is two dogs humping on the side of the road, then Hillary Clinton’s “historic” jog to the White House is a high school campaign for student council president. Everybody expected the wealthy, popular white girl to win in a landslide, but then some badly dressed Jewish kid with crazy hair threw his hat in the ring and the student body got behind him because he wasn’t just another preppy failing upwards. What’s a presumptive nominee to do? Simple: stuff the ballot boxes. And after all this, not to mention tangible evidence of collusion, people are still on the white girl’s side? Look, just because you publicly declare your support for her doesn’t mean you get to sit with her at lunch; she won because she wanted it and nobody’s ever told her “no.” You just enabled her. If she were a Playboy model fat shaming people in the showers, you would’ve taken her out behind the juice bar and beaten her to death with her own Ferragamo pumps months ago. Backing Hillary Clinton doesn’t magically make you progressive and feminist, it makes you meat for her capitalist army. And she’s glad to have you, sucker.
And don’t think I’m going to let Bernie Sanders off that easily, either. I was a supporter. I defended him from Clinton fans who alleged “narcissism” when he refused to leave the race and endorse Hillary. I believed in Bernie because the political movement he ushered in was bigger than himself, and he lost me the day he rolled over and showed The Clintons his belly. I didn’t bail because Bernie backed someone I find morally repugnant, I stopped listening to him because it became clear his words were just stale, butterscotch-scented vapors leaving his lips and disappearing into the ether. If Sanders were truly advocating political change on the scale of revolution, he would’ve accepted Jill Stein’s offer to take over the Green Party ticket. If building a better America were Bernie’s undying mission, he wouldn’t have endorsed a person he called “unqualified” to do just that. If Bernie cared about his voters, the common people and all the activism he inspired, he wouldn’t have extinguished the flame of that enthusiasm just to satisfy the flat-assed legislation jockeys in Congress. His endorsement was never the difference between President Clinton and President Trump, no matter what the pundits tell you. Bernie is a severed head on a spike outside DNC headquarters, a sign to abandon all hope, those who would dare challenge the establishment.
So, what’s the bottom line here? To put it bluntly, your vote matters about as much as ten pushups before an all-you-can-eat butter and mayonnaise buffet. Get out and vote if that’s what tickles your taint. Just realize that while you’re making an informed decision based on your meticulously curated personal ideology, twelve assholes in Jeff Gordon sweatpants with nothing but Oxycontin and lotto tickets in their pockets are gonna squeeze into voting booths at the crack of noon and pull the lever for Donald Trump because they think he’ll protect their right to chuck Mountain Dew Code Red bottles full of pig fat at Muslim kids. Never fear, though. If the Clinton campaign’s past activities are any indication, the whole democratic process may well lapse into one big game of Whose Lie Is It Anyway, where the rules are made up and the votes don’t matter. So yes, I advocate staying at home this November. In point of fact, I recommend nonviolent revolutionary change—the many pressuring the few to fix this fucking country instead of using our tax dollars to play “pad the pork in the bill” with hookers—but I don’t trust the American people to abandon comfort for the sake of progress. So, the wheel keeps on spinning. Whether you choose to rock the vote or ride the pine, there will be a new president. But there will be no winners.