It occurred to me that America these days is like the jock in high school all the girls wanted to date, but took up drink, put on 150 pounds, then showed up at the 25th class reunion with his fourth wife, thinking he was still a stud. Whatever appeal he once had is long gone, and everyone knows it but him. In his mind, he is still the greatest, still number one, still the object of envy, still worthy of veneration. I feel the same way whenever I hear a Republican refer to their party as the “Grand Old Party,” which it hasn’t been since Richard Nixon told so many whoppers he put Pinocchio to shame.
Along came Jimmy Carter, who promised never to lie but maybe would have won a second term if he had left some things unsaid. Admitting that he lusted after women cost him the Evangelical vote, who instead, in the words of Trump sycophant Pastor Robert Jeffress, “chose to support a twice-married Hollywood actor who was a known womanizer in Hollywood.” Not that Jeffress objected to that. He has a remarkable knack for overlooking the sexual shenanigans of Republican presidents so long as they swing by First Baptist Dallas every four years and pat his toady little head. When I began writing, I was published by the same publisher as Robert Jeffress and once spent a day with him at a book convention. It ranks as one of the most unpleasant days of my life, which includes four colonoscopy prep days and a Justin Bieber concert.
By the time Ronald Reagan had served two terms, the United States was starting to annoy me. It had put on fifty extra pounds, was on its second wife, had skipped a few child support payments, and was known to fly an American flag from the bed of its pickup while looping the courthouse square. In other words, America was becoming sort of an asshole.
George H.W. Bush restored a measure of dignity to the nation, I liked the thousand points of light, but then he tried to balance the budget by raising taxes on the top earners, which went over like a Baby Ruth in a swimming pool, and he was denounced as a closet liberal and sent packing to Texas, as if losing the election weren’t punishment enough. I’m looking for a bumper sticker that reads, “Indiana: At Least We’re Not Texas.”
After Bush I, Bill Clinton moved into the White House for two terms, bringing his wife, a capable, intelligent woman, which terrified Rush Limbaugh, who spent the next 28 years lying about her, and for his efforts was awarded America’s highest civilian award, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, which now has all the prestige of a Cracker Jack prize. Bill Clinton, regularly touted as a genius, proved to be little more than a trailer park Lothario by having sex with an intern during a government shutdown. Our nation added another twenty-five pounds and began wearing sweatpants on airplane trips.
After Clinton, came George Bush Jr., who, lacking his father’s intelligence, ignored rumors of a terrorist attack on New York City, then strutted, smirked, started illegal wars, in the process tanking the world’s greatest economy. But now, compared to Donald Trump he seems positively Lincolnesque. Nevertheless, America put on another thirty pounds during his presidency, began wearing wife-beater t-shirts, hit on his daughter-in-law, and watched every episode of Duck Dynasty. When traveling overseas, I began introducing myself as a Canadian.
Then came Barack Obama and it felt like 1945 all over again. We had kicked the Nazi’s butts, saved the world from Trump’s man-crush, Adolph, and could once again hold our heads high. We dropped a hundred pounds, worked out at the gym, read books, listened to opera, played nice, and awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom to Bob Dylan and Loretta Lynn, national treasures from working stiff families. It felt good to be an American.
Then the proverbial excrement hit the ventilator. Donald Trump, the King of Comb-Overs, moved into the White House. Just like that, we put on another hundred pounds, pounded down Pabst Blue Ribbon, while urging our daughter to wear Daisy Dukes. He told three billion lies in four years, was impeached twice, and made me want to take long showers to remove the stink. It was 1920 all over again, and the Grand Wizard of the KKK was holding court. He lost the election, so staged a coup, for which he should have been jailed but wasn’t, since he was rich and white. I flew my flag upside-down.
Joe Biden followed, and on his first week in office took his dogs for a walk on the White House lawn, where they went mad and bit people. Still, it was such a vast improvement over Trump, no one seemed to mind, not even the people who’d been bitten. He told people not to drink bleach, urged them to get vaccinated, and, what do you know, people stopped dying of Covid, and our economy soared to record heights. But then, like too many old, white guys, he got to thinking the world couldn’t live without him, so ran again and Trump returned, like diarrhea after a county fair corndog, and here we are, making America Great Again, by systematically destroying everything and everyone that once made us great.
So, you’ll forgive me for not flying my flag this past Fourth of July. What America is, and what she’s quickly becoming, is nothing I want to applaud. It’s like celebrating your marriage to an arrogant, gone-to-seed jock. There aren’t enough good memories to make up for the misery. Of course, that could change. If every person who voted for and enabled this National Embarrassment apologized to every person they deported without due process, every child they made cry, and every family they separated, that would be a good start. Then, if they storm the White House, grab Donny and his Fox News Cabinet, and pitches them in the Potomac, I will once again believe in American greatness. But until that happens, let’s knock off the number one talk. Those days are gone.
Philip Gulley is the author of the popular Harmony series and Unlearning God: How Unbelieving Helped Me Believe.
Discover my books, stories, and more by visiting Books by Philip Gulley
Contact Philip directly at philiphgulley@gmail.com
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