…or the Quarter Millennial, or whatever we’re calling it.
As I write this, the 250th anniversary of the Battle of Lexington and Concord, the Shot Heard Round the World, and the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere (and William Dawes, for the sake of historical completeness) has just passed. Next year, supposedly, we’ll be celebrating the same anniversary for the Declaration of Independence.
I say supposedly because I’m no longer convinced the Republic we’ve all (probably) pledged allegiance to at least once will still exist by then.
The Supreme Court has ruled that states cannot keep insurrectionists off the presidential ballot—despite the Constitution’s plain language to the contrary. They’ve also decided the President is now something like a king: unprosecutable for crimes committed “under color” of constitutional authority. Which, in practical terms, means it’s now legal—at least in spirit—for the President to auction off pardons, direct military assassinations on demand, or rewrite the Constitution by executive order.
We’ll see if Roberts and the Robberettes bless that last one too. And if they do, what’s left to stop a second-term president from declaring the 22nd Amendment void and running for a third term? Failing all else, I suppose I’ll be left to resort to Thoughts and Prayers—assuming I can afford the license fee to use that particular GOP intellectual property.
I remember the Bicentennial in 1976. Back then, I did some quick math and figured it wasn’t impossible I’d live to see the Tricentennial. At 57 now, the odds of me making it to 108 seem slim. But it never once occurred to me that the United States itself might not make it. Until now.
It’s heartbreaking to think there might be no Tricentennial.
Don’t get me wrong—250 years is a hell of a run. Especially when you remember we almost split after just eighty-seven years, and had to fight off the British again after only thirty-six. Hell, the French are already on their Fifth Republic since 1792, and their first one barely lasted a dozen years. Still, I had hoped we could give the Roman Republic’s 536-year record a real chase.
Some friends have been talking about fleeing to Canada. It’s tempting. But the thought of crawling back under the skirts of a monarchy feels like a betrayal of everything Washington, Hamilton, Jefferson, and Franklin fought for. Leaving would be admitting that the Declaration of Independence was just a big mistake.
Our ancestors—literal and philosophical—would be so disappointed in what we’ve allowed ourselves to become.
And yet here we are: with some of the loudest, most flag-waving “patriots” actively supporting a man who tried to overthrow the government, who sent his lackeys to install him as an unelected ruler, and who now insists that hunting down dissenters is perfectly fine behavior for a “democracy.”
I’m sure the reign of Donald II will be a real shitshow once DJT Prime finally expires. Maybe Queen Kai can piece together something better than her grandfather and father did?
Oh wait—what am I thinking? Of course the House of Burnt Orange would institute male-preference primogeniture for succession. It wouldn’t be Queen Kai—it’d be King Don III.
My mistake.
