Americans first learn about slavery as children, before adults are willing to explain finance capital or rape. By high school, young adults are ready to hear about sexual violence as an element of slavery and about how owners valuedtheir property, but there’s no level of developmental maturity that prepares someone to grasp systemized monstrosity on this scale. Forced labor we can understand — maybe it’s even a historical constant so far. Mass murder too. But an entire economy built on imprisoning and raping children? One that enslaved near 40 percent of the population? Even for the secular, only religious words seem to carry enough weight: unholy, abomination, evil.*

The breeding program that resulted in the good old boy racial stock of Person County has been on full rutting display for this election. There’s been a suppurating rash of truckloads of pink-faced shit-for-brains flying Trump flags, Confederate swastikas, and Gadsden slave wharf banners barreling down the roads that must have been designed by some old planter’s psychically maladaptive spawn, or a crew of end-stage drunks trying to pave a way to the cheapest liquor house.

I saw one of them last Friday, hooting and swerving past the Democratic party headquarters. They must have run out of shit to throw out the windows because that’s about the only thing they didn’t hang out the window. Actual dick waving would have been redundant, as well as virtually indiscernable.

 

The puffy farmboys-without-farms faces I could see inside the truck already bore the unmistakable florid shadow of impending cardiac related death. A steady diet of the trash these fuckers eat- anusburgers from the “Cook-out”, pork halves, pork bellies, pork heads and pork nuts with a side of a 24 ounce bottle of sugar, topped off with a swig or two of the spittle off that ubiquitous wad of chaw that’s the hallmark of their tribe, would kill the healthiest of humans within a couple of weeks, but these shit-trousered relics can stagger though decades of quasi-employment before their heart lets go of a stream of goo that travels up their necks and leaves them no place to go but the blobshop where they wrench that face into the “looks like he’s sleepin’ one off” position.

They yelled at me, I yelled “Get a dick!” right back. But what I really meant was, “I hope when your fucking fat cracker heart explodes, you barely feel it.”

* https://psmag.com/a-future-history-of-the-united-states-2965a114f8ee#.39sra5c83

Advertisements