High on the Plains: Sailors fighting in the dancehall


Chad Christensen, Columnist

Tonight has been strange. I had been doing some painting and the fumes were a bit strong which must have made me extra vulnerable to having some kind of religious experience. It all started when I thought I saw a star in the west getting brighter and brighter. I mean, the thing looked like a giant fireball coming right for me. I told myself, “Yes, this is it, this must be our salvation. An angel of God here to save us from eternal damnation.”

But alas, it wasn’t. My damn naivety (& probably the fumes) got the best of me. See, I live north of Eppley airport and this, my friends, was no angel. This was a Boeing 737 with its lights on coming in low for a landing. Tonight, a hundred or so people I do not know will get off that plane, collect their luggage, and wander off into the world doing tons of s*** I will never know or understand. And that’s how it is these days in the American political circus. An illusion of grand hope that inevitably turns into another turd sandwich cranking out gibberish for the sake of self-interest. It’s happened before and god knows it will happen again.

So what do we have here? Clinton vs. Trump? Yeah, that seems right. Makes me wanna stick pencils in my eyes.

And with Trump I’m not sure which is more horrifying: All his supporters coming out of the woodwork to join in on this gross gangbang of hatred or the possibility that we can’t or won’t stop him. Trump is everything that is not Sesame Street. You like Trump? Then you hate Sesame Street. Which is bad, kiddos. Very bad. Grover is in the bathroom slitting his wrists right now. Elmo has packed up and left for Argentina. I’m not sure how America is supposed to deal with something like this. Just suck it up, I guess. Enjoy your McTrump-death sandwich, America. You’ve earned it.

But I suppose, there’s not much else in this political town to choose from… The Sanders waffle, the Clinton taco, the classic Cruz tossed salad. No one wants your tossed salad, Cruz. It’s all over buddy.

Earlier tonight I was watching TV and one of the lady cult members of the Cruz machine was saying “Obama ruined Christmas.” Jesus, lady. If Obama ruined Christmas then you, the crazy child-beating evangelical, killed everything else fun. Her eyebrows said it all. This was the angriest old dried up husk I have ever heard speak. Her husband next to her was weeping. I wasn’t sure if it was because he supported her and was deeply moved by her words or if he was merely breaking down on live TV after 50 years of living with this haggard woman. The scene was unnerving.

But it doesn’t matter now does it? It’s too late Cruz. You’re no Trump. He’s a businessman “with balls.”

Years ago, my father and I once decided on a Sunday afternoon to buy a grill from a TV Info commercial. It was the Dick Butkus Qwik-Cook Grill. Good God, he made it look awesome. After we got it and tried it out, it took us about two minutes to realize we were basically cooking our hamburgers over a damn trash can. Dick Butkus had suckered us in. And no doubt he was off sitting in a hot tub somewhere laughing about it. See, Trump is Dick Butkus in this lame parable but his grill is much more evil and much more expensive.

Jesus, I just can’t imagine watching Trump and Putin on TV golfing, laughing with each other at how dumb their nations are. But I believe in you, America. Do the right thing. Let’s abort this fetus of hatred while you still have the right to, before it makes it into the 3rd trimester come November. Come on America, let’s get that coat hanger.