I'm JM Fisher, Writer & Host Of The Weekly Cynic Podcast.

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Behold! A Military Parade!



My love, are you not impressed with the gallant pageantry? Look at these men: stoic and steadfast, dapper in their military tunics! Yes, we enlisted the finest designer in the region, her entire shop of artisans, tailors and seamstresses commandeered, their fingers blistered, their backs hunched, all performed to the glory of our God, all for this day of grandeur! 

Ah, look below you, my love, do you see that squirming, vile, malodorous horde of humanity! This! This day! This is all these peasants have! Their lone tonic, a reprieve from their incestuous squalor! Oh, my dear, stare at their swollen glands, their scoliotic postures! Behold the protuberant loins of the village women, these rutted breeders defecating in the fields! 

What! I shall not halt! They exist to be ridiculed! Scoundrels! Oh, do you see how they laud our presence! Their muddied hands thumping like gorillas, their jellied and grease smeared lips smiling! Horrific all of them! Yes, I know, I should be forgiving as they toil in our factories and fields. Oh, I know, what a wretched means of survival, forever birthing and dying in servitude!

But, look at you, my love! Genetic supremacy! Svelte and luminous! Your blonde hair splendiferous honeysuckle! Your sumptuous mammaries! Oh, hush! You’re something of a haute couture archetype! Do you see that quagmire below us? Look into those avarice eyes, oh how they wish to defile your lush orifices! Stop, my love! Those girlish swats of your hand! You’re a gilded treasure! You will be worshipped for a thousand years like a deity! 

Yes, yes, back to the ceremonies… 

Oh, look at them! Emboldened by youth and nationalism! Fine and fit in their military garments bestowed with honors! Yes, I see your own desirous smiles, how you imagine those young men bare, gamboling about their shower stalls, glistening with water, cleansed from their calisthenics! Yes, compared to my own receding musculature, I’m a bitter figure. 

But, soon, no matter their prowess and vigor, they shall fall to the fields among their bloodied brethren. While I, my dear, for all my perceived antiquity, shall remain prosperous and enlivened by your silken skin! 

Ah, you blush! 

You will be preserved, my love! Away from the perils and melancholy of war, forever exalted and regaled!

Soon—look at that sterling apparatus, my love! A behemoth of imperialism!—you shall be endowed with a most magnificent progeny! HE shall inherit my acumen and be lavished with your divine beauty! How formidable! How distinct! How revered He shall be, my love!

What? What is it, my loyal guards? No! No! An enemy squadron approaches! My love, we must evacuate before the bombs descend! Oh, the bombs! By the glory of my Heavenly creator I shall persevere! 

The Dying American Farmer

Men, Just Stop...