Author: Dennard Dayle

Categories
PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Sandman vs. Sabu 🌭

Is this a tool, a weapon, or an entire medium?

The elect know the answer. With the race and gender wars settled, only wrestle war remains. I’m unearthing Sandman vs. Sabu at November to Remember, final proof that stimulants are healthier than hallucinogens. Even in wrestling, where sobriety makes you a generational genius.

As a writer, this cause is close to my heart. Coffee and nostril Stevia dominate workshops, yet mushrooms and LSD get all the mass media representation. Granted, I abstained from everything out of lingering Baptist fear of joy. But the insult matters.

I should specify pro wrestling. Wrestling also refers to a real martial art without side flips. I’m told Hercules invented it to make Zeus appreciate his only consensual son, a legend worthy of a pro wrestling storyline. The kind ECW founder Paul Heyman would hear out, reject, and steal on primetime television next week.

Today’s wrestling duopolists, Vince McMahon and Tony Khan, are respectively accused of treating wrestlers like old racehorses and new action figures. This is progress. Paul Heyman treated wrestlers like fireworks: objects burned for crowds and then forgotten.

Mostly literally.

Paul Heyman saw the myth holding wrestling back: paying people. Cutting out that excess let him bring underground wrestling styles to a national audience. ECW stood for Extreme Championship Wrestling, and it’s the only product to live up to nineties marketing.

It had everything. Fire. Staple guns. Models that loved awkward loners. Fire again. Attempted murder by a former bounty hunter before a live crowd.

Boldness earned ECW a following. It wasn’t cult-like: cults were ECW-like. Wrestling that delivered on blood and sleaze was like a banner ad sending real widows to your dorm room: an illegal miracle. That’s harder to televise today, when Roman only inhales with FCC approval.

ECW opened November to Remember by celebrating their biggest crowd yet, which is how you tempt the Fates. The winged sisters cursed the pay-per-view with three generations of CTE, an audience sweatier than the athletes, and a match six percent crazier than intended.

Said match begins with chaos from another match. Transitions anchor every medium, and post-match brawls are wrestling’s shot-reverse shot. In this tortured metaphor, Paul Heyman is Robert Rodriguez, The Rock is The Rock, and Vince McMahon is simultaneously James Cameron and Tommy Wiseau.

That’s a double nutshot, on referees, because ECW is this blessed world’s highest art. But let he who strikes first also weather the lash:

Perfection.

Nothing’s gone off the rails yet–this is ECW on clockwork time. The revenge killing of Beulah McGillicutty (the testicle assassin above) goes off without a hitch. Beaulah’s a woman in ECW, putting her somewhere between a Greek Chorus, stripper, and stuntwoman.

More the latter, today.

The testicle avenger’s called Sabu. His own match is in moments, but he makes time to torment the weak with his friends. A display of the brotherhood and esprit de corps missing from the judgemental masses. So who really clotheslined an unarmed woman? We did.

Player 2, a junkyard boxer named Sandman, comes to the rescue. He uses the power of evil stepfathers for good. Our hero’s ready to drink, bash cans against his forehead, and probably wrestle too.

Sandman is one of the most distinct, popular, and beloved wrestlers of the era. He’s mostly bad at it.

You see, Sandman’s not into clean moves or unslurred sentences. But he comes out to “Enter Sandman,” will die for a stunt, and looks like your favorite uncle before AA ruined Thanksgiving. Sandman simply stands out in his environment. After spending Princeton’s “breathing black human” scholarship, I can confirm that it’s a superpower.

His opponent’s an omega mutant as well: Sabu reinvented acrobatic self-harm. He didn’t come out to pop-era Metallica, but agility and redneck-agitating headwear made him a fan favorite anyway. For example, here’s Sabu doing a basic chair strike:

That’s years after his prime, for an audience of “the guy holding the camera.” Today’s match is peak Sabu, who’s much more concerned with killing you than surviving the match. He wielded the rare threat of going to the hospital with you.

It looks tough for our hero. But Sabu attacked a bottle blonde during the Attitude Era, a debt to be paid in blood and ruined furniture. Seeing red, Sandman rushes in to dispense justice.

And rushes.

Give him a sec.

…It’s been three minutes. Something’s off.

Here, we move into the world of myth and conjecture, which I normally embrace like a WSJ editor. But searching “Hotdog Lawyer” only returns a gripping Nickelodeon pilot, so I’ll tone down the libel.

The widely circulated story is that Sandman allegedly took acid before the match. It isn’t necessarily true: he method acted an addict, and enjoyed a range of exciting chemicals. Sandman was an icon to everyone that produced, purchased, or confiscated gas station drugs. What matters is that today, he’s not entirely there.

Okay, he’s on acid.

It’s a tables and ladders match, which lets both competitors wield half a construction site. While Sandman poses on a ladder and contemplates infinity, Sabu decides to start the match. A flashy mistake.

At first, it looks like a normal match for both. Sabu does premium flips, and Sandman flails. I’d call it a metaphor for immigrant and domestic work ethic, but Sabu’s from Michigan.

A few minutes in, things break down. Sandman slows down (more), and the objects hitting Sabu in the face look less and less intentional. Sandman’s face is stuck in the blank, stupefied wonder of an adult paying for a palm reading. It’s debatable when the mescaline overtook the adrenaline, but I’m fond of this moment:

The crowd reviews the new tempo with the chant “Sandman sucks dick.” I disagree. Even as he converses with his ancestors, Sandman makes a compelling target for ladders to the skull. Or so a pissed Sabu decides.

At least some part of Sandman remembers the match. He successfully gets in place for an air-mailed ladder to the stomach:

A few other stunts kinda-sorta-almost work. They’re just eclipsed by Mr. Bean pratfalls like this:

That’s when I fell in love with this match. None of the near-obituaries can compete with an adult tripping over a stationary ladder. It’s a visual metaphor for every lockdown relationship. Sabu passing it off as his nefarious plan only makes it better.

Then again, there are some excellent near-obituaries. Here’s Sandman unleashing the ultimate attack:

Some trivia about me: I used to breakdance, because hip kids hung out at the hospital. There’s a genre of flip called a “suicide” where you fake a crash landing for effect, only to resume spinning unharmed. This isn’t a b-boy suicide. It’s a normal one.

By now, it’s clear Sandman’s mind is out exploring new planets. But Sabu finishes the match anyway, stunts and all. For my money, that puts at least a third of the blame on him.

Half. Sabu gets half.

Here’s the issue: behind all the exploding barbed wire and vascular ghosts, wrestling is driven by rigid professionalism. Wrestlers jump from ballroom balconies because they trust the tack-covered man below can and will catch them.

Not today.

If you pulled this on Jackass Forever, Johnny Knoxville would jam his hand into your chest and absorb your youth. Stunts aren’t just about attaching a car battery to your loins. They’re about doing it safely enough to shoot four sequels with bigger cars. I guarantee Steve-O knows what voltage ignites pubic hair.

Alright, so catching’s hard on acid. At least Sandman’s not jumping from–

No.

Desist.

Goodbye.

The crowd couldn’t love it more. It’s a Barrabas situation: given the choice between fake blood and a real addict falling off a ladder, the hospital wins every time. Nineties wrestling could be simulated grappling or authentic Bumfights.

Alternatively, Street Fighter. Sabu nails Sandman in the face with a fireball. It’s not pitched as magic (that’s Lucha Underground’s beautiful contribution to human culture), but the rule of the streets. Clearly I missed out on Gun Hill Road, where they just threw boring bricks.

The match ends with another ladder spot, or as commentary calls it, an “atomic Arabian facebuster with a lateral press.” I’ll accept “jumping with a ladder” on tomorrow’s test. Here’s the last shot before insurance premiums went up.

At this point, I’ve circled back around to admiring the match. Consider Sandman’s distorted point of view. He’s trapped in South Mordor, and the only thing more terrifying than a beheading is a beheading on a bad trip. We don’t have words for that courage in the square world.

Luckily, we don’t need to stretch our dying imaginations. Feeding AI art generators the sentence “Sabu jumping from the top rope with a ladder” provides a convenient window into wrestling-themed hell. I’ve taken the liberty of naming the results.

I prefer reality. No watercolors of a dying universe, just simple, grounded, and familiar pain. Give Sandman some credit for navigating The Ladder Over Innsmouth on Pay-Per-View.

Sidebar: If you’re wondering why NFTs died, generating these took three minutes.

This is my favorite installment of Paul Heyman’s Wonderland. It’s not representative—for all the manic vision and rebel posturing, wrestlers usually saved acid for the afterparty. But it couldn’t have happened anywhere else.

As humiliarious as this incident was, it didn’t define the competitors. Today Sandman’s sober, and Sabu probably can’t enter Singapore. They had a few (better) rematches, and both occupy the long list of people underpaid for WWE’s sugar-free version of ECW:

You’re not on acid: nobody’s bleeding and Sandman’s touched a gym. If you told me that in 1998, I’d say “Are you the new babysitter? I put a frog in the microwave.” I didn’t watch any of this until lockdown, long after I’d run out of frogs. Time flows on.

“Drugs make great art” is the two-time world champion of creative cliches, and it’s nonsense. My best writing on drugs is the word “Ascend” 200 times in red ink. I maintain that drugs simply steal credit for glorious ignorance of consequences. With the right mindset, you can do moonsaults and blow up frogs far, far longer than you should.

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Hambone, who first taught wrestling to the AIs and is responsible for the upcoming Flying Elbow Robot Apocalypse.

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: An All-Book Breakup 🌭

These two books discuss love. I recommend avoiding love.

Love is for gamblers, and thus easy to find on cruise ships. You might meet your spiritual match. You also might lose your time, dog, and smile. And that’s if you’re on the side with serial killers. Serial kill-ees risk everything.

If you insist on trying, learn to read odds. The one that got away? A smart bet, and rare. Bad bets, however, are abundant. Otherwise the casino wouldn’t exist. You’re much more likely to meet someone with a secret family than a sense of humor. Because despite the slogan, investors don’t like apps designed to be deleted. That’s like a landmine designed to spare civilians.

There’s one bad bet every sane adult should avoid: writers. Drug dealers can be nice. Murderers can be reformed. Dictators can treat you like royalty. Just don’t date writers.

Today’s books explain why. Chad Kultgen and Hilary Winston wrote about each other, and then published it worldwide. Every English department mixer for the rest of history is now a War Games scenario. We’re used to hacks and lunatics here, but that’s not today’s main event. It’s two creatives ensuring neither can walk in sunshine with normals again.

We’ll start with the novelist Chad Kultgen. It’s fitting that his debut book, The Average American Male, is mostly known for its commercial. Here’s CNBC talking about it while Iraq burns:

Okay, she’s actually saying “It’s the book everyone is talking about, whether you’re the average American male or not. And it has spurred viral marketing genius.” But I’m an adjunct writing professor. I deal in subtext and food stamps.

They used a cash-register sound effect, by the way. TV journalism can be profitable or dignified, but never both.

That said, I like money. Let’s learn how to make money. One kaching!-worthy ad for The Average American Male features a restaurant date. The following captions are real:

Yes! Stop resurrecting Triassic sound effects and tell me how to make money! I’m selling 300 page bricks in a 280-character world.

Ah. The secret to making money is trolling. Specifically, Troll Strategy 17: antagonize half of the culture war, harvest ire, and sell to the other half. This works for anything. You could bottle the tears of caged children, call it “White Power Juice,” and sell it at CPAC.

It’s standard Barstool fare now. But Kultgen deserves some credit for acting out in 2007. Back then, people posted like there were consequences.

Like many ads, this spot’s provocative by design. Unlike many ads, it reflects the product. Chad writes in a bored, bitter, and horny stream of consciousness. “What guys are really thinking,” to quote the book jacket. Which made me expect sex, food, and constant awareness of death. Instead, just sex.

Before I quote it, a disclaimer for 2022. I did not write this book. I did not edit this book. I did not roll the author on his side after a long night of drinking Jagermeister alone. If I wrote this book, it would be about robots objectifying wizards. Cool? Cool. Here’s a chapter opening:

Classy.

To the young/elderly/mentally well: my age bracket called this style “fratire.” That’s a portmanteau between “fraternity” and “tire fire.” Something that sounds cool to step into, but you immediately regret.

I’m surprised mainstream fratire died out. The audience still exists, based on the fact that Sam Hyde can afford food. And the culture war lives on, based on the fact that Sam Hyde can afford food. You could pitch this at Warner today, get two seasons of breathless Vulture headlines, and retire. I guess Elliot Rodgers took the fun out of counting money.

Two plot threads unfold, but I only care about one. The narrator’s zombie relationship with his girlfriend, Casey. Casey’s a loose collection of coastal stereotypes, sprinkled with insecurity. I’ve slapped Chad around a bit so far, so I’ll sample some stronger prose:

The sex politics are middle school, but he has a point about improv. While improv comedy is less disturbing than killing cats, it’s equally attractive. And stealing jokes is worse. At least rogue taxidermists produce original flesh dolls.

The subsequent story involves cheating on Casey, dumping Casey, and replacing her with a younger Casey. Imagine Eric Cartman as Don Juan and you have the gist.

Eventually, Chad’s narrator dumps Casey in front of her parents. The scene elegantly demonstrates the merits of dueling:

Inventive. I think that’s why this book outlived its genre. Most Tucker Max types tried to pass off this fantasy as reality. Chad was smart enough to call it fiction.

Lest we correctly judge Chad for incorrect reasons, this book came out before prosecutors explained “last minute resistance” to judges from sane eras. His gorilla thoughts are his own, and have a defeated mordancy missing from “Spotting Damaged Prey 201.”

So why’s this matter? Kultgen wanted young men to see themselves in the book. Instead, one young woman did. Namely Hilary Winston, his ex. She took depiction as a vapid sexual cadaver as well as one could, by typing, spell-checking, and trademarking the breakdown.

My cyberstalking says that Hilary Winston’s written for TV since 2003. She’s got diverse credits, from the merchandising vehicle Community to the cult favorite Lego Ninjago Movie. Or maybe it’s the other way around, I did grad school drugs at the time. As Roland Barthes once wrote, drugs are a hell of a cocaine.

She also has this book, called My Boyfriend Wrote a Book About Me. It’s about her boyfriend writing a book about her.

Enter Player Two. Nonfiction, so no dumping anyone in front of their parents without getting shot.

If Chad’s an explosive striker in the humiliation octagon, Hilary’s a pure wrestler. She takes her time and wears him down. She’ll risk a hit to the chin (identifying as “fat-ass girlfriend”) to get the armbar (incel jokes). She even dedicates much of the book to other romances, which we’re skipping because my target word count was five pages ago.

Her general portrait of Chad is a short, 69-obsessed child. His gaming habit catches strays as well. Note that Chad is “Kyle” the way Hilary was “Casey,” because lawyers save countless careers every day.

I can’t pretend I didn’t immediately identify Star Wars Galaxies. I suspect Chad was “NineInchSaberstaff,” scourge of virtual Dathomir. I assumed my rival merely neglected his education, like myself, rather than his partner. Perhaps that’s why I lost.

One interesting tidbit amid the jabs at hobbies and fetishes: Hilary maintains that Chad has OCD. I have my own diagnosis, but I majored in “liking books” and don’t plan on getting sued this year. In any case, she lists her evidence:

Seems harml—

I have no idea. I’m recovering from Twitter, so every time I guess at mental health a chip inside my spine shocks me unconscious. But the list aims for embarrassment, and succeeds.

Hilary gives space to the good times as well. This tender moment comes between a pregnancy scare and Chad’s inability to say “I love you:”

From here, “The Kyle & Hilary Show” sounds like her friends wanted Tony Jaa to kick them into heaven. But she co-wrote For a Few Paintballs More, so benefit of the doubt. Besides, I imagine true balance between his blowjob jokes and her navel-gazing is comedy zen.

Her friends do want Chad to get Jaa’d. They gently suggest that marrying a man with fourteen different insults for her ass would have gone poorly. But with their funny and his ticket to Tatooine or something like that, she felt unstoppable. And if we understood love, we’d replace Bumble with joy.

They meet one last time at the original Olive Garden. I’m pretty sure every joke I’m considering here is the true form of reverse racism. I’ve had some rough breakups, but I never dumped anyone at a Golden Krust. Then Hilary ends her book with emotional growth. This, like love, is a mistake.

This is my Super Bowl XXV. Football’s not my sport: I specifically polled ten fans and two search engines about the worst late-game screwups. My brother said XXV, and to stop calling before dawn.

Sure it’s fine writing. But the grudge match comes first. Never show mercy a second before the bell. That leads to a starring role in Surprise Knockout Reactions 14. Who knows what slander Chad is cooking up while–

Weak.

A natural question: who won? As a black MFA survivor, I’m a federally licensed diss track judge. You can see me in most King of the Dot videos, scoring slurs on a clipboard. I sat behind Jeff Ross on Roast Battle, noting the best punchlines and potential alibis. I shouted “he’s choking” in 8 Mile.

Consider it official when I say that Chad Kultgen loses for quitting in the first round. The riposte is harder than the opening attack, and skipping it is as good as rolling on your back, neck exposed, and tweeting “I’m sorry you were offended.”

This should be his greatest shame. Not Hilary’s book. Not his 8chan Bukowski prose. Not trading love for a dead MMO. The fact that he didn’t publish My Girlfriend Wrote a Book About Me Writing a Book About Her.

In fact, open invitation to everyone I’ve dated: let’s embarrass each other. We could retire off of this. Imagine writing My Boyfriend Wrote a Book About Me Writing A Book About Him Writing a Book About Me Writing A Book About Him Writing a Book About Me. Then imagine the movie deal.

After reading both books, let me guarantee: you can write one in a week. In fact, I’ll write both sides. Just let me put your name on a few bestsellers.

What do you say, Jess? Kyung? XxSniperGurl_GanjaSquad? Let me make up for all the forgotten birthdays and names with cash. I’ll work with any of you, even [Name Removed By Request of Blexit Foundation Legal Team].

There are lessons here about conflict resolution, the nascent antifeminist backlash, and moving on. Forget them. Just remember to never date writers. If you can’t absorb that simple lesson, let’s grab lunch at La Fontaine Duchamp this Saturday. Ignore the laptop, I’m just taking some notes.

Dennard Dayle wrote the book Everything Abridged and some New Yorker stuff but really just hopes you like Everything Abridged. His exes selfishly refuse to write about him.

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Insurrection! 🌭

What if a race war could be fun?

Wait! I don’t mean the real, sad one with a two century winning streak. This is a purely fictional black uprising through a Robert Ludlum filter. The book Insurrection! is the most fun you’ll have with white anxiety short of dating in Florida. 

Insurrection! is a novel (or novella, if you have grad school debt) about the black conspiracy to take over the country. Or at least I wish it was. It’s really about taking over three states, reflecting the tyranny of low expectations. If the white insurrection can breach Congress, I’d like the black one to at least shoot for the Supreme Court. We’ve feuded with the bench since 1857.

Before I dive in, I’ll confront two fair concerns. First, I’m not a white nationalist. I applied for a few groups, but they wanted someone “less simian.” I’m also not a hotep, since I have trouble believing black people created the Parthenon, Shaolin Temples, and Good Will Hunting. I simply love human madness and stupidity, two forces stronger in Insurrection! than man’s inhumanity to nearly identical man.

Author Dan Brennan starts things off slowly, with the secret cabal ruling Black America. All of it. The masterminds behind those damn marches interrupting Bewitched reruns have a simple plan:

I said simple, not sane. They’re seizing control of Minnesota by attacking a country club. If this sounds like Hideo Kojima rebooting The Boondocks, then your name is Dennard Dayle and you’re writing this article. Hi Dennard! You’ll find love eventually.

Maybe that’s not fair. Let’s see how Insurrection! summarizes its own plot.

Finally. A lifetime of Jean-Claude Van Damme, tabloids, and Greek incest plays trained me for this. The ultimate exploitation story. I’ve waited for an action thriller about Tucker Carlson’s subconscious since my thesis advisor asked if I was there to clean her office.

Sadly, we can’t start at the Country Club Kumite. Half the book follows a skirmish between the white nationalist “Minutemen” and the “black military underground.” The intent’s something along the lines of “extremists on both sides ruined the racial harmony America enjoyed before 1970.” Judge that for yourself. The black team gives us gems like Corp. Gasson:

Keep in mind: Gasson’s a willing front-line recruit in the war foretold by Anne Coulter. And this is how we meet him. His main motivation for taking up arms against the American Empire less than two years after King’s death is ass. He’s pro “big bottoms” and anti “bony bottoms.” You may be smarter than Corp. Gasson. You’ll definitely live longer (spoilers). But you’ll never have a more committed Hinge answer to “What are you looking for?” Gasson has transcended mortal stereotype and become the avatar of ass men.

Gasson’s teammates are more focused. Take Larry Johnson:

A little less fun than the ultimate ass man. I’ll give Dan Brennan points for efficiency. This character’s smoothly tagged with “likes books” and “KILLWHITEY.EXE.” Killbot Larry represents Brennan’s general thesis on humanity: we’re more than our race. We’re our race and a hobby.

It’d be tough to relate to this guy’s brother, wouldn’t it? Especially if he had the same bias, with poetry swapped for tennis? Keep that in mind later.

On the other team, enjoy the first conversation between white characters:

Here, we have a perfect snapshot of how dullards across the political spectrum imagine racism: robots waking up every morning, throwing the window open, and singing “What a Fine Day for Lynching.” Not normals like you and I, writing timely thrillers. It’s also worth noting they’re talking about Larry/the black Dylan Kleibold, so Brennan felt compelled to make them at least a little right.

The weirdest thing in this book? There’s a chapter that’s good. Not irony-good. Not so-bad-it’s good. Straightforward, semi-literary, junior year writer’s workshop good. The most schizophrenic move a book like this can make.

First, meet Smoke Johnson (I know), black tennis player and asshole.

He’s also KillBot Larry’s brother, implying Larry somehow isn’t a Terminator sent after Kid Rock. Smoke is less racist, e.g. the level of racist found outside of hate crime sentencing hearings. He’s got a game against Bob Volkund, white tennis player and double asshole.

Civility declines. Smoke takes out a few dozen pages of “black in 1970” on Bob’s life, through an exhibition game in a zero-contact sport. It comes off as cooler than all the conspiracy word salad that precedes and follows it.

The hospital treatment, perfectly suited for the amount of sunlight, worked:

I don’t know what this chapter’s doing in this book. It’s off-tone, off-topic, and wholly lacking in cougar fights. My operating theory: the Ghost of Writers Future visited Dan Brennan. It left a cryptic message in graveyard dust:

“Fifty years from now, a Jamaican—No, that is not in Africa—a Jamaican-American nerd will find your book. If you want the future to know you could put two words together, add something of substance. After that, find and slay Edward Zuckerberg. His spawn kills hope. In fact, forget the book.”

The country club also features this veteran, who keeps a vigilant eye open for unannounced jazz-Americans:

I can relate. This is how I felt when I spotted Vlad Tepes, immortal lord of Dracula’s Castle in my neighborhood. Something unnatural was afoot, and a whip was the answer.

Col. Davidson assumes the first black guy he sees in his country club is the angel of death. In every book printed after Insurrection!, this would spark a ponderous speech about tolerance and therapy. Here? I left out Larry’s name. Col. Davidson is totally right. He’s like racist Batman. If you thought Batman is racist Batman, please find a second thought and/or brain cell. Your friends hate you, either quietly or loudly after you leave the room. You are the Chicken Little of prejudice. The author of this racist fever dream from 1970 has a better grasp of literature, race relations, and silence than you.

Anyway, Insurrection!

The glue for this lunacy? The author actually knows things about guns, knives, and tennis. Not so much people. The fight between the black Illuminati and klan benchwarmers unfolds with Tom Clancy efficiency, and none of his awareness of how other people think. And yes, I mean by Tom Clancy standards. 

In this plot thread, Brennan also takes the time to caricature indigenous people. The character’s a bit like Tonto, plus forced labor, minus the indignity of Johnny Depp.

If it helps, Smith doesn’t have a good time. Despite his confidence in John Wayne’s Guide to Native American Magic, he gets captured. Earning a role in the book’s best action set piece.

Think of the long, fun history of black guys captured by patriotic vigilantes. Then imagine the race war’s taken a literal turn. What happens to a black soldier captured by the klan’s sister school? Place your bets. Options include “megalynching,” “a week in the Wisconsin court system,” and “forced marriage to a lesser Jenner.”

Did you guess “arena cougar knife-fight?” No. No you didn’t. History’s cruelest slave-owners only got as creative as pitting slaves against each other. Only the mad genius Dan Brennan thought to bring back the coliseum.

Sidebar: while writing the above, I googled “Did mandingos fight cougars?” The results weren’t informative.

Writer’s rooms around the country have an adage. “How do we get paid like the pretty people? Why do cameras turn away from our blighted, twisted forms?” After the wailing dies down, they also say “Always come through on genre.” It’s important to fulfill the promise the audience sat down for. Insurrection! does this with verve, dedicating thirty unforgettable pages to the military siege of a country club.

I’d like to call for unity. Whoever you are, wherever you live, whatever you think about crosses and kerosene, you should be laughing. This is a cartoon. A mescaline-fueled one from the 70’s alt comics scene, but a hilarious cartoon nonetheless. The image of the mega-Panthers calling in artillery strikes on Norman Rockwell families is hilarious. At this moment, I’m less of a commentator and more of a medium.

The finely-trimmed hedges burn. To what end? Build-up for the best threat in fiction. The black military underground sends a national ransom note to the leader of an atomic superpower. One with nukes, and a button that shoots nukes at the nukeless. Nuclear bombs, nuclear rockets, and for some benighted reason nuclear landmines. And yet:

That’s 1970s money, when one million dollars made you a baron. And let’s be clear: the White House would firebomb every golf cart in the nation before giving up half a Virgin Island. The president responds the way 45 out of 46 commanders-in-chief would: resegregating the country and shooting everyone in decent shoes.

In comedy, some words are crutches. Overusing them can lead to people misinterpreting you. This, in turn, leads to fleeing Comedy Central and agreeing with Joe Rogan about who is and isn’t human. I’m going to risk it here, because I can’t, in good conscience, refer to this scheme and its outcome as anything but the niggapocalypse.

Anyway, I hope you got something from this. Sleep well, knowing there’s no plot against your declining empire. I’m late for the meeting.

Dennard Dayle is the author of Everything Abridged and can be seen in The New Yorker, Clarkesworld, and never conspiring against country clubs.