My unironic non-embrace of Yang’s Thousand-dollars-of-fame.

Don’t think for a second that I don’t realize how unfashionably unironic I was being in yesterday’s anti-Andrew Yang post.

Yang’s thousand dollars of fame has astoundingly become the fulcrum by which many in the new Right have cynically and direly chosen to extricate themselves from the pragmatic shitfest that politics, and collective Western endeavor, have reached at this point in history.



I betray my boomer roots by assiduously criticizing the outlandish Yangian-Marxist agenda with nary a tinge of bitter or despondent showmanship.

But the Right.  In seeking to throw in the towel and increasingly refusing to play this recursive political game of delusion called “Trump” by dressing up Andrew Yang’s infantile candidacy in such faux, cash-me-out legitimacy, are showing themselves to be the impetuous, immature and low-attention-span millennial children that we mock stereotypically.

I personally have no problem with the ironic, scorched earth motif of saying “fuck it” to all politics and politicians (for they serve only themselves), but damn well I’m not going to harness the soul-controlling tools of Socialism to do that.

The politics of despondency will seek monetary and emotional hand-outs.  The danger lies therein.