America is in turmoil. It’s ungovernable. Order is fugitive. Dysfunction reigns. A comedy of Democratic dodos. The solution? Create more states.
But how? Annex Mexico? It’s too late. Done. Over. We’re talking mental states. Democracy for the mental demographic. Aggregate, collate, dominate. Divide and conquer. Perfect integrations, ideal for election campaign strategies. Easier for politicians to isolate, pimp and pander.
With technology it’s quick and easy. An online E-Meter assessment and registration process will assign citizens to virtual “states” coinciding with their particular mental proclivity. A seamless process, egalitarian, brilliant. Migration unnecessary.
It begins with the State of Confusion. It’s a wild, lawless state resembling an asylum. All rooms are padded. Lawn labyrinths are filled with disoriented lunatics who run helter-skelter in circles, looking for an exit. All citizens eventually pass through this state.
Then there’s the State of Illusion. It’s a vast landscape filled with strobe lights, magnifying mirrors, carnival masks and monopoly money. Aged Hollywood has-beens, down on their luck, advertise Reverse Mortgages on TV. Washed-up bankers and defrocked evangelists detox here.
There’s the state of Obfuscation. It resembles a cavernous library filled with legal codes and tax dictates. Lawyers and lobbyists live here. Legerdemain is practiced for proficiency from mahogany podiums positioned beside massive Corinthian columns. A certain green sleaze oozes from the walls.
The State of Manipulation is a lovely garden greenhouse where fruit from the Tree of Unbridled Ambition is not forbidden. Politicians, stockbrokers and all journalists enjoy a congenial atmosphere. A Masters Degree of Fabrication is available to further elevate earnings and prominence prior to moving to the State of Reinvention.
The State of Reinvention is an anomaly unique to America. It resembles a penal colony open to the public. It’s a colossal clothing, cosmetic and costume emporium. It distributes born-again tracts. Transients receive new identities after clinical psychiatrists administer shock treatments to cleanse their minds, eliminate empathy and blot out remembrance of all things past.
The State of Delusion resembles a derelict Sunday morning fraternity house. Mindless old men stagger in catatonic stupors, waiting for their financial ship to arrive, convinced that all women find them attractive. Tarnished trophies of former exploits feed the fantasy, affirming a life that once was.
Then there’s the State of Presumption, or the State of Perpetual Youth, where Medicare-for-all pays for all things cosmetic and artificial. Doctors skilled in the use of silicone, Botox and joint replacements proliferate. Beauty contests are held daily.
The State of Acquisition includes insecure young women looking for purses, and rich old men looking for nurses. The men are recent transferees from the State of Delusion. It resembles a giant mall. Cash registers chi-ching incessantly like the tolling of church bells. China subsidizes this state.
Ah, the State of Passion, a surreal scene modeled on the Hollywood set of Tarantino’s “From Dusk till Dawn.” Attar of roses and wisteria blossoms float on gentle breezes. The air is pregnant with amour fou…obsessive passion. Nighttime rules. Moon and stars set the scene. Lovers recoil in horror at daylight. It reveals reality. It extinguishes the fires of blind passion into rubbles of cold ashes. Loudspeakers blast, ad nauseam, Love me tender, love me true. At intervals screams of rejected lovers pierce the air like wailing hyenas when daylight dawns and infatuation flags.
The State of Unassuaged Dissatisfaction is the domain of sports addicts, including bridge players and golfers. They gnash over the State of Scorecards. Never satisfied. They torment others with lamentations of their obsessions. Who cares? They’re the apotheosis of boredom. The scarlet letter, “A,” is tattooed on their foreheads.
Yes, there’s the State of Redistribution. No one works here. Residents are fat and happy, happy. They shake hands palms up like politicians and teenagers. They’re related to the Biblical genus “Horseleech” whose two daughters cry daily, “Give, give.” They watch Duck Dynasty reruns.
There’s the State of Seclusion. It’s run by nuns, Our Ladies of Perpetual Humiliation. It’s a desolate landscape of rocky escarpments, pockmarked by dark caves. Want a roommate? Ok, try an ascetic monk. Clothed in sackcloth and ashes, the minutes creep slowly by. The air is thick with repentance. Residents renunciate all carnality and mutilate themselves with stones. Yogic oms and failed nirvanas reverberate from the canyon walls and die silently into the barren desert sands. It’s a solemn hell. Stays are short.
The last state is the State of Conclusion, or State of Eternal Bliss. It’s decorated with colorful silk flowers. Humans pass this way horizontally, lying “in state,” so to speak. They have stitched-on smiles that simulate relief. Organ music serenades with Nearer My God to Thee.
Moving? No problem. An Electropsychometer consultant will switch your ankle bracelet transponder and off you go. But where? Check out the State of Resignation…plenty of company there.
OK, just an idea. You have a better one? America…what a state we’re in!
Bud Hearn
March 28, 2019