Thoughts on the Veeps of the Apocalypse

Opinion by Beretta Nova
reprinted with permission

Now begins the terrible season of politics, made rough with the discontent of the masses as we slide headlong into the intestinal maze of the American body politic. No matter how many turns we make between now and November, voters can take comfort in the certainty that we will find ourselves, once again, at the bottom of the latrine.
Our entire political class seems bored of the process; Not even bothering to give a wrinkled, flabby peek-a-boo to excite the native idiocracy. Instead we are given loud and poorly performed recitations of the gift registry the men behind candidates will grab once this shotgun wedding is over.

At the political bachelor’s parties known as the Republican and Democratic conventions, they paraded the same worn-out strippers, dancing to the warped, faded tunes of an ancient 8-track. They halfheartedly tugged on the stripper pole to generate an applause line and the programmed faithful cried as if they’d achieved Nirvana.
One of the central rituals of this charade is the Choosing of the Veep. This is Big News, as if, somehow, the choice of watch-me-give-a-speech manikin will grant mystic insight into the cheesecloth ghost that passes for the presidential candidate’s soul.

We were treated to the almost-aborted stillbirth of Republican VP nominee Mike Pence. A sure choice to mollify conservatives that when the angry mobs come for Trump, the nation will once again be under the hand of an uninspiring imitation Reagan as God intended.

Charged by lefty insurgents that she is too conservative and corrupt, Hillary responded as only a monarch would. She named corrupt, conservative Democrat Tim Kaine as her running mate. She drank their all-organic, grass-fed kombucha milkshake and then sold the recipe to a multinational conglomerate. True royalty.

And that’s just the sideshow.

The deep desires of the American Citizen aren’t soothed by the badly written script produced by the media. Months of TV Bobbleheads proclaiming “Trump is Hitler!” with a constant stream of semi-conscious, self-defeating Trump tweets is more than enough to drive True Patriots into a clear-headed rage.

The only choice for the Red-Blooded All-American is Apocalypse.

It’s a sentiment most have kept to themselves out of courtesy to the tin foil industry. But the slow-motion disaster that is the Elect Hillary Show has production values so abysmal that it is safe to emerge from the shadows.

Don’t mistake these Heroes of Liberty for the precious voters of novelty third-party candidates engaged in political masturbation every year. A full 13 percent of the population have the clarity of mind to short out decades of programming to arrive at the only rational thing to do: end it all.

The answer isn’t Satan (he doesn’t exist).

The answer isn’t an asteroid strike (a long shot 1 in 10 thousand chance).

The one surety of doom is summoning Cthulhu.

The star of countless millennial diversions — from plush toys to video games — betrays a terrible truth: It really waits for us.

The old books say Cthulhu will emerge from the acidic muck we’ve made of the oceans “when the stars are right.” Pure bunk. It waits for us to cry out It’s name in unison.

A mass ritual of End It Already. Not a surrender, but a Warcry of Defiance to the uncaring universe to end ourselves awake and aware with the voting booth as the sacred altar of fate delivering our sacrifice not to Diebold, but the demon god out of time.

Or we can continue pretending the paper-thin reality of civilization will protect us from certain fate.
Cthulhu waits for us on election day.

If rumors are true, he will also choose a running mate. Not to give insight into his eldritch contempt for humanity (that has not changed in eons), but as a display of dominance.

Nyarlathotep the Crawling Chaos, has let it be known he is once again interested in Earthly affairs — drawn, no doubt, by humanity’s embrace of its violent nature.

Ghroth the Harbinger, the eponymous Meteor of Death, may be the smart move for Cthulhu; a play for those begging for an undeserved and unearned “quick death.”

Or perhaps it will be Native American Yig, the snake god. How appropriate would it be that the god of those sacrificed to make this nation be the one to help evict humanity from the globe?

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what entity Cthulhu chooses. Doom will come to humanity regardless.

Cthulhu waits for us on election day.

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