It’s all kabuki theater and we’re the dummies in the cheap seats

Any time the hu­man equiv­a­lent of stage IV col­orec­tal can­cer (like Gra­ham or Mc­Connell) fi­nal­ly shuf­fles off this mor­tal coil and rids us of their in­suf­fer­able pres­ence for­ev­er, sim­per­ing shitlibs who moon­light as con­ser­v­a­tive apol­o­gists come out of the wood­work and do every­thing from pay trib­ute to said ex­cised rot­ting tu­mor all the way up to harsh­ly ad­mon­ish those who ex­press any de­gree of ju­bi­la­tion that the tu­mor has fi­nal­ly been re­moved and is gone. 

Well,

all I have to say about that is, any­one who acts like that should nev­er get to en­joy any fran­chise like Mar­vel, In­di­ana Jones, Star Wars, etc. ever again. 

The over­ar­ch­ing plot of every one of those is “the good guys de­feat the bad guys and save the day” and “de­feat” al­ways means “the bad guys die.”

So any time some­one who is noth­ing but a fes­ter­ing pus­tule of ha­tred and ob­struc­tion fi­nal­ly pops off into the ether, you don’t have to cel­e­brate, but shut the fuck up about those who do. You don’t get to tell the op­pressed how to feel about fi­nal­ly be­ing rid of their oppressors.

To quote George Car­lin, “They don’t give a fuck about [us].”

Also,

I sud­den­ly re­mem­bered that last night I had a dream I was ar­gu­ing with a friend about the com­pet­i­tive­ness of the mar­ket and I said, “We don’t fuck­ing need thir­ty god­damn dif­fer­ent brands and types of toi­let paper!”

This is such a stu­pid time to be alive that I’m an­gry about it even when I’m asleep for chrissakes.

 

—emi­ly duchaine

Flom­mist Emi­ly Duchaine lives in the Pa­cif­ic North­west. She likes to drink mead, learn about sharks, and lis­ten to the Talk­ing Heads. She pre­tends to be a pro­fes­sion­al busi­ness­woman most days. Copy­right © 2026 Emi­ly Duchaine.

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