The Ranter In November

Despite the wailing of soapbox Chicken Littles, we do not live in a "post-truth society." We've never been told any truth in any era. Politicians have always been bald-faced liars and promoters of historical fiction. Where we actually live is a post-literate society: a world of sound-bytes, out-of-context quotation, and the gamification of government. We can no longer read between the lines, which is admittedly difficult to do when the lines all converge into a meaningless scribble of platitudes and empty promises, but we don't try anymore. 

After so many centuries of bitter disappointment and profound frustration, we've finally given up hoping for integrity and honesty in our public figures and settled for simply taking sides, no matter how odious are the teams we choose. 'We won that round' is all that matters, even if it's the most Pyrrhic of Pyrrhic victories; even if the hustings and polling stations are reduced to a wasteland of fear and paranoia.

I've always believed politics to be a type of mental illness; an incurable disease that becomes a pandemic every four years or so, a disease that infects everything it touches. The little birdhouse-style borrowing library around the corner from my house, usually crammed with kids books and popular novels, is currently stuffed with the jingoistic election literature of our local mayoral candidates. Apparently, these shameless professional legislators even think it's necessary to stain Green Eggs And Ham with their red or blue bile. I imagine Draco the Lawgiver would be turning in his grave; that is, if he ever existed. 



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