Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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If There's Civil War, What Will YOU Do?

American Civil War ...

Will Americans Trade Democracy for Kleptocracy?

 

My friend was feeling sorry for herself.

“Americans will never elect a woman president!” she whined.

But, of course, she was wrong: we already have. In 2020, the American people elected Hillary Clinton to be president.

So why was Hillary Clinton not the 45th president of the United States?

Easily told: the election was stolen from us.

 

Oh, to be sure, it was stolen legally. The 2020 election was stolen from the American people by the Electoral College.

Legal theft is still theft.

It's not the first stolen election of my lifetime. Gods help us, it's poised to happen again.

Say—as seems eminently possible—that Harris wins the popular vote, but the Electoral College gives the victory to Little Orange.

Legal injustice is still injustice.

An unjust law is still unjust.

 

We're tottering, on the verge of going down.

The most notorious criminal in the country has so far managed to buy his way out of deserved punishment. His bought-and-paid-for Supreme Court has handed him victory after victory. Now billionaires left and right—maybe I should say right and further right—are hopping onto his war-machine in the hopes that they, too, will be able to buy their way out of justice.

Will they?

Will America trade democracy for kleptocracy?

 

Come Election Day, as always, I'll be poll-working in the Bluest Precinct in the Bluest City in the Bluest State.

If someone wanted to make a violent point, we sure would make a good Ground Zero.

 

A democracy is no better than its constituent demos.

Are we about to see—the Dumpster loves superlatives—the biggest legal coup in human history?

I ask myself: if there's Civil War, what would I do?

 

Me, I'm a maker, not a breaker. I'm no warrior; I've never been trained to arms.

But someone has to make sandwiches for the warriors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

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