A Message From the Terrible American ‘ID’

by Rich Herschlag

You think you have me figured out, but you’re not even close You send pollsters to my owner’s phone and compile statistics on likely voters, but you’ve never bothered to interview me directly. Here I sit buried deep inside my host, yet I control both his life and yours.

Of course, you know a little something about me. For instance, I don’t wear a mask during a pandemic. Do you know what else I don’t do? I don’t wear a helmet when I ride my motorcycle. Like the mask, the helmet is a shackle that infringes upon my inalienable right to complete freedom and autonomy at all times. So-called law and public pressure only make me more resolute. But one day when I flip my Harley, my head hits a curb, and I lie comatose in an ICU on a ventilator paralyzed from the neck down, you will pay my multimillion-dollar medical bills. Hillary Clinton runs a pedophile ring.

Running red lights and blowing by your four-cylinder Prius on a side street is what I call breathing. All rules are made to be broken, especially traffic rules. When my GPS gives me a 2.4-mile as-the-crow-flies distance between the beer distributor and the firing range, I am the crow. The notion of abiding by countless lights, stop signs, and dainty turns at intersections is an insult to my God-given liberty. It is my innate righteous desire to drive my Ford F-250 straight over fences and through yards to negotiate the shortest distance between two points. Jews eat babies.

Speaking of guns, I’ve never seen anything I didn’t want to shoot, preferably dozens of times. Life for me is a game of Mortal Kombat with Nancy Pelosi in my crosshairs. I am Rambo without the remains of a conscience. Every shell not used is a deep wound to my pure spirit. Ideally, I fire these rounds while riding helmetless through courtyards. Gravity is a hoax.

As far as the environment is concerned, mine does not extend beyond the length of my arm. My bodily fluids are all precious, and so they may be ejected anytime, anywhere. In fact, nothing that emanates from me or from any product I might use must be restricted from waterways, airways, causeways or driveways. This is natural law. My never-ending joyride over shrubs—shouting, spewing, wind in my unprotected face—is an American prayer. The earth is flat.

There is no greater good. There is only my good, and I am insatiable. I was granted a president—a viral shedding, pussy-grabbing, fearmongering, threat issuing tower of a man—who outwardly embodies all that I am. He gives license to my basest urges and validates my deepest primal yearnings. I am he as you are me and we are all together. I am the walrus. Coo Coo Kachu!

Now I’m told evil, freedom-hating forces of the ego and superego are poised to remove my president from his throne, leaving me to flounder alone in the primordial soup of my man cave as part of some inevitable psychopolitical correction. But as I shelter in place in my lair of crystal meth, paintball, and masturbation, know this one thing: I’ll be back.

Originally published in The Banter.

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