I’m an American, and that means a few things.

It means I’m self-made. Everything in my life was crafted from three simple ingredients: my two hands and a lot of hard work. I won’t take any guff from a communist like you who relies on “big government” for sustenance. If you don’t like the way I live, then fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

My horses? Self-fucking-made, chief. I personally tracked down and bred two wild horses to create my own horse. Once my pony was old enough to ride, we galloped into town—which, incidentally, I built while waiting for my horse to grow up—and we gathered raw materials. God’s green earth provided its splendor in the form of wood, iron ore, naturally-occurring copper wires, and shag carpet. Oh, and six day laborers from Guatemala.

Then Jesus came to me in a dream and gave me the blueprints for a charming 3-2 bungalow. Jesus the Lord, not Jesús the Guatemalan day laborer, to be clear. How dare you question my religious experience!

With my bountiful harvest and divine schematics, I was able to singlehandedly craft my very own home. It was a lot of effort, I’ll grant you that, but it wasn’t all toil. For example, I used my precious downtime to educate myself about the Deep State and George Soros’s involvement in 9/11. My research has led me to videos on YouTube that would blow your mind.

Sure, I could have rested, but hustle is part of my badly-damaged DNA. I’ll rest when I’m dead, which should be several years sooner than my counterparts in lazy countries where they suckle on Big Brother’s teat for sustenance. You can keep your gender-confused surveillance state metaphors to yourself, Pinko.

While I was chiseling my life from a slab of granite, I intentionally avoided the crippling flaws lesser people possess: crap like self-reflection, humility, and empathy. If you’re going to survive in this world, there’s no time for that pansy-ass shit. Maybe if you’ve got the luxury of being born into a society that coddles you with luxuries like “public safety” and “healthcare” and “being a society,” you can spend your days in quiet contemplation.

Fuck that noise. Or lack of noise, I guess. But fuck it either way. We’re doers here. We didn’t build this apocalyptic hellscape to sit around, sip some chamomile, and philosophize. All we need in America is the slightest tickle of impulse, and we pull the trigger.

Disagree with our approach? Well, fruit cup, why don’t you march down to Walmart, buy yourself an assault rifle, and come do something about it?

What’s that? You can’t do that where you live? Ha. That figures. You probably can’t buy Kevlar or 3-D print your weapons either. Everyone knows: the only thing that stops an impulsive bad guy with a gun—other than making impulsive gun purchases difficult—is to arm everyone head to toe.  

Wait a second. Maybe you can clear something up for me.  Every few months, when you get shot due to your lack of ability to shoot back at active mass shooters, I suppose you’re just okay with accepting a handout of life-saving surgery from your Big Government overlords?

No, thank you. I’ll gladly pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to have my routine gunshot wounds stitched up. The self-made CEOs of the hospital corporations, pharmaceutical companies, and insurance groups, have multiple mansions and yachts they’ve each constructed themselves. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the reason they have to scale back on their hard-earned lifestyles, lest I find myself in the same situation someday when I’m a CEO.

That’s the beauty of this country, Ivan. Here, a man can do anything he puts his mind to. As long as he plays by an ever-changing set of rules, written and amended in secret by the ruling caste, he can succeed here in the Land of the Free, where all men are created equal.

And don’t give me that “what about women and minorities” bullshit. We eventually got around to giving them each the right to vote, didn’t we? I’m sure we’ll likewise eventually give them equal pay and equal rights and such. Be patient and wait your turn while I finish taking my turn, which happens to be an exceedingly long, all-of-human-history-length turn. That’s not my fault. Don’t blame me for my success, it makes me not want to share.

You may be asking, if anyone can achieve the dream, why hasn’t this red-blooded American become a CEO yet?

First of all, my dream is the simple freedom of working 75-80 hours a week between three part-time jobs and delivery gigs for just enough money to pay some of my bills and buy a few cases of Kirkland Signature Light Beer. I work hard and play hard, okay? It’s just that the “working hard” part takes up almost all of my time and energy, so the “playing hard” looks a little like “falling asleep drunk in a recliner.” But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if I had a choice.

Besides, to be a CEO, I would have probably needed to go to college. Who knows how they would have indoctrinated me there. These colleges each assemble hundreds of world-renowned subject matter experts and tens of thousands of America’s most intelligent, aspirational young people. Then, they all mysteriously brainwash each other with their “deeply researched scientific theories” and “thoroughly dissected economic models” and “respect for diversity of thought and experience.” Ridiculous. If I want to learn something new, I’ll just watch another History Channel show about the connection between aliens and the Third Reich. And I won’t go into student loan debt to do it, Poindexter.

Oh, I know a thing or two about student loan debt, ever since I went to a $20,000-a-year trucking school—Truck U—that I dropped out of halfway through. Why’d I drop out? Well, my aunt’s cousin’s boyfriend’s kid got sick, and goddammit, family comes first where I come from. There was just no other option.

Sure, some people will argue it just gave me a lifelong victim narrative upon which to blame my failures. But that just sounds like a bunch of psychobabble you’d hear from my ex-wife and/or a shrink. Listen: (A) Fuck her, she’s the crazy one, and (B) we don’t see psychiatrists around here. Mostly because mental health isn’t covered by our insurance.

Anyway, I’ll admit, $20k seemed a little steep for a 16-week vocational program, but Truck U helped me get the loan. I thought that was awfully kind of them. I’d thank them in person, but the school closed a few weeks after I dropped out, so I guess it was serendipity or something, right?

You know, I could have paid that high-interest private loan back in a few years with a commercial drivers’ license and a good over-the-road gig. Unfortunately—and it’s just the hand the Good Lord dealt me—I got neither. So, I’ve been paying on that loan for twelve years and now I somehow owe $23,000. You don’t see me complaining, other than here in this narrative complaint, and to my friends, family, and acquaintances. But if I had gone to your ivory tower college and dropped out halfway through, I’d owe even more. And I still wouldn’t know how to drive a truck. Typical liberal, thinking college solves everything.

I assure you: I didn’t need your so-called “formal education.” I am doing just fine with my vast knowledge of everything under the sun. I may lack ability and intelligence, but I make up for it with extreme confidence. I’d venture to say I’m smarter than anyone on the planet.

What were we talking about? Oh yes, me being an American and what that means.

It means I’m proud, because at least I know I’m free. It’s in the damned song for a reason.

I’m free to choose any doctor in the network my insurer covers—and hell, I’d be free to choose any doctor at all if Obama hadn’t made us all get insurance against our will. There’s an awesome doctor down at the free clinic that we’ve always liked, but of course, he isn’t in our plan. Go figure.

I’m free to walk around at night, armed with the knowledge that if anyone comes at me, I’ve got a fighting chance of shooting them before they shoot me. That’s namely because, in addition to knowledge, I’m also armed with a concealed handgun. And an open-carried long gun. And sometimes bear spray.

Best of all, I’m free to make a life for myself and my family without the intrusion of the government into my life. If Kamala wants to tell me what to do, she can just hop in her SUV with Secret Service, drive down the Interstate and all the paved backroads, past the police station, the fire station, the public school, and the army base, and come tell us to our faces.

It’s the 3-2 bungalow right next to the coal-fired power plant, you can’t miss it. You used to be able to see the black smoke rising for miles around, but they had to retrofit it to cut the pollution. It’s a lot harder to find us now, but I will admit it’s nice that my black lung is clearing up. Definitely saving on my coughing-fit-handkerchief budget.

Well, I better wrap this up. There’s a bad thunderstorm brewing. That almost always means we’re going to lose power. We’re in the shadow of the damned plant, but the power lines out here were built in like 1940 or something, I swear. I hope they get the electricity back on in less than a week this time. Last time, my cousin lost a month’s worth of insulin, and that shit is insanely expensive here.

All I know is they had better work quickly. It is getting hot earlier and earlier here in the Tennessee Valley.

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