You remember college: where you pay $250,000 to learn life lessons you could’ve gotten for free at a dive bar, but with way worse beer. That college?
Back in the 80s and 90s, do you remember those godawful knob-slurping bots who majored in “Political Science?” Inspired by some adolescent wet dream they had where they were spooning James T. Hart and Alex P. Keaton, those idealistic future baristas with a minor in Marxist memes and a PhD in protesting Starbucks cups went on to completely hose any sort of hope we had for civil discourse and self-governance.
They spent four years pretending to solve world peace from the comfort of a campus beanbag, fueled by quinoa bowls and righteous indignation. Armed with The Communist Manifesto in one hand and a reusable water bottle in the other, they leave school ready to critique capitalism—while asking if you’d like oat milk in your latte (Fuck that. I take my coffee in a cup, bitter and black as my soul). By graduation, they’ve racked up more tweets than job prospects and can recite Foucault, but god help them if they ever have to calculate a mortgage rate.
Apparently, I had to get that off my chest…
Those incessant pukes would readily and eagerly offer that they were “majoring in Poli-Sci,” like that was some sort of panty dropper for CU sorority girls, who were expertly balancing White Claws, fake tans, and daddy’s credit card while pursuing a degree in “OMG, I’m so stressed.” Well, Poli-Sci Chad never popped a sorority sister, but he polluted my beloved state with his Marxist ideologies, and it pisses me off.
Thus, PoliSnark.com…
Get it? I used to enjoy politics (until the aforementioned khaki-panted, blue sport coat wearing pukes). All this destruction has turned me into a snarky sum’ bitch. Thus, PoliSnark.com, home of Snarkvark.
I tried. I really did. I volunteered for the party. Cheered for the team. Wrote the checks. Talked to my neighbors. Walked the doors with the latest incarnation of a candidate clad in hiking boots and Patagonia fleece, trying to look like she/he’s for the people. Bullshit. All that work for an endless chain of aimlessly ambitioned fools who wouldn’t know a sound policy idea if it hit them along side their beanie-wearing head. And my state is still fucked.
I’m done. Hiding safely behind an alter-ego attitudinal aardvark for fear of losing my job, my home, my spouse, and the small little skid mark of a social life I do have (that alone should be a barometer of “free speech” in this boomer-ravaged nation), I am taking to these pages to vent and spew and say the things you poor bastards only wish you could say in public. Because it needs to be said.
The parties and the political process (mail-in ballots, filthy voter rolls, and all) are a shit show, and Colorado is a wolf and pothead infested dumpster fire. Let’s warm our collective asses by the flames before we complete the mass exodus to Wyoming. And then fuck that state up, too.
