Ryan Alexander-Tanner

We sit here, as a nation, delicately perched upon the precipice of unthinkable doom. The environment is tainted. Schools, movie theaters, and malls are all-too-regularly the target of white male terrorism. And Donald Trump has surged to an unshakable lead in the Republican polls by feeding idiots a slurry of scapegoats and revenge. We seem fucked. We seem hopelessly and forever fucked.

Nestled away in our plywood bastions of progressive comfort, the signals from the rest of the nation seem like scrambled field reports from wartime correspondents overseas. How could anyone want a gun more than a conversation? How could anyone favor Donald Trump, and even more confusingly, how could anyone prefer Ted Cruz?

There is a generation lost at sea, dear readers. The lame white dude is wandering the desert, dragging his useless aristocratic possessions behind him like an anchor, never to return to the estate he never deserved in the first place. He is wounded, but still dangerous, and so I have a modest proposal to preserve the safety of all who walk among us under the stars and stripes.

We need to bring nu metal back, dudes, and we need it back goddamn motherfucking yester-fucking-goddamn-day.

The lame white dude ego is a pile of tinder, kindling, and oily rags, and precautions need to be made to keep it from combusting. (Trust me, I know. I have one.) Actually, nah nah, fuck that. The lame white dude ego is a nuclear power plant, and there is a necessary system of coolants and pressure release mechanisms and failsafes that MUST be in place to prevent disaster. What are those safety measures? Thank you for asking.

Ultimate Fighting. We need to see fighting, and it needs to be ultimate. If I see giant beef men slamming their horribleness into each other, it lets me live vicariously through their violence. I throw a couple punches toward a mirror. I list back and forth like an aching ship on the balls of my feet. I fantasize about spitting on someone in a press conference. And then I am placid.

Truck commercials. THE ONLY DANCING I LIKE IS WHEN DENNIS LEARY DANCES AROUND STRAIGHT UP CALLING YOU GAY FOR NOT BUYING WHICHEVER TRUCK IT IS HE'S SELLING. DON'T YOU HAVE A WORK SITE TO GO TO? DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT SHEET ROCK IS? DON'T YOU WANT TO GET SCREAMED AT BY A TRAINED ACTOR AND COMEDIC ARTIST FOR NOT TRUCKING THE RIGHT WAY? I mean fuck, man. At least I know Dennis Leary is out here with me. A fellow alpha male resisting Priuses. Me and fucking Dennis, man. Driving trucks through the desert. Hell yeah, man. And I am placid.

Nu metal. Once I had a champion, and his name was Fred Durst. Once I had a hero, and his name was Jonathan Davis. Once I had a Puddle and it was of Mudd. I could see myself reflected in popular culture—the idiot who dressed poorly/confidently, screaming about NOTHING, mad as hell about the stupid shit that makes me mad. Now I have nothing, and so that anger bubbles over. Now I have no more guides. I have no poet telling my tale. Now I am nobody, but once my name was Kid. Kid Rock, baby. Nu metal. Bawitabring it back.