The Great American Demolition Derby (and We’re All the Same Car)

I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of my conservative friends and my liberal friends spiking the ball in each other’s end zones like we didn’t both drive here from the same cul‑de‑sac.

It’s bullshit.

Here’s the parable nobody wants because it ruins the costume party: you had a great idea with hybrids and EVs. Cleaner air, quieter mornings, fewer dollars evaporating at the pump. Folks in camo bought them. Folks in ranbows bought them.

Miracle of miracles, we agreed on something.

Then the bill arrived. “You’re not paying gas tax, so here’s an extra registration fee.” Translation: Congratulations on doing the right thing; here’s your receipt for being right. And yes, some owners sold their EVs because they were frustrated, not stupid.

You save them money at the pump and then pick their pocket at the courthouse counter; what did you think would happen, a group hug in the parking lot?

Meanwhile, the internet assigned everybody a jersey and a script.

If you only watch conservative media, liberals look like cartoon villains with tofu capes.

If you only watch liberal media, conservatives look like boot‑stomping supervillains who barbecue library cards for sport.

It’s on purpose.

The algorithm sells tickets to a war. (Remember: war‑addicts vs neighbors.)

We used to circle the wagons during a crisis. Covid hit and we circled each other’s throats. That’s the tell. That’s how you know the machine is working. Because when a real country is hurting, neighbors pull together. When a captured country is distracted, neighbors pull rank.

It isn’t the Tylenol. It’s the empty chair.

The same way it isn’t your neighbor; it’s the money vacuuming the room while we point at each other. You can feel it. Every time the news convinces you the guy down the street is the problem, someone you’ll never meet is measuring the week in billable outrage.

Let’s talk about why the EV bill landed where it did. In a functioning world, the revenue gap gets filled by those best able to pay and the corporations who built whole business models on roads we all fund. But we live in PAC‑land, where “best able to pay” somehow keeps losing to “best able to host a fundraiser.”

So instead of tapping the folks who won the game, the ones with the sky‑box seats and the naming rights to your senator’s calendar,

we invoice the people who actually switched to the cars we begged them to buy.

Beautiful.

Chef’s kiss.

And now we’re supposed to fight, again, about who’s dumb.

The conservative who sold the EV?

The liberal who wanted the fee?

The answer is neither.

The mark is anyone who can’t see the grift’s shape: squeeze the middle, distract with memes, call it policy. Don’t ask who the shooter voted for. Ask who profits when we forget we share a driveway.

Also: can we quit pretending the loudest men on the biggest stages sound like small‑town anything? A free country doesn’t call its people an “invasion from within.” A small town doesn’t say “training grounds.” That’s not sheriff‑at‑the‑diner talk; that’s 82nd Air Press Release talk. If your brand is “America First” but your sentence structure is “neighbors last,” something’s off.

While we’re roasting, here’s the line I keep hearing in every direction: “If my side wins, we’ll fix it.” No you won’t, not while the money pipeline runs hotter than the asphalt at the county fair. AI and automation are about to upend whole job ladders. If campaign cash still writes the maintenance manual, the repairs get done on yachts while the rest of us hold the flashlight.

Anyone on any stage who can’t say out loud, “We need to get money out of politics,” is stapling a flag to a fog machine. If they can’t say: “Compromise is how adults build lasting things,” they’re not leaders; they’re heat lamps.

We all feel the drift.

We just call it different things. One side says overreach. The other says injustice. Underneath both is the same ache: loss of control. So we grab at the nearest lever (punish the EV driver, dunk on the EV fee‑maker), and the real hands on the steering wheel never come into view.

Rodeo time: if the country is a bull, we’re not enemies in separate arenas; we’re two hands on the same rope, and the gate’s about to open. Demolition derby time: we are all the same car. You can smash the bumper that votes different, sure. Enjoy the sparks. The wall’s still coming. The only way the night ends with your radiator intact is if we decide the real show isn’t wrecking each other; it’s finishing the laps together.

So here’s the rant as a refrain, because you’ve heard it here all month and you’ll hear it again until it sticks:

• It isn’t the Tylenol. It’s the empty chair.
• Don’t ask who the shooter voted for. Ask who profits from the fight.
• War‑addicts vs neighbors. Choose your team.
• Small‑town peace doesn’t sound like “training grounds.”
• If they won’t say “money out of politics,” they’re a lying motherf… (you know the rest).

We need our country back.

We need our neighbors back.

We need the part of ourselves back that remembers how to break bread, not break each other. If you want to know where to start, look at the last person you blocked, the last meme you fired off, the last policy that picked your pocket while you cheered. Then ask the only question that matters at the fairgrounds: Does this sound like a free country to you, or like a loudspeaker trying to sell one more fight?

I’m sick of it. You’re sick of it.

The kids are definitely sick of it.

The next time somebody tells you the other half of this town is your enemy, remember the only scoreboard that matters is whether the people you love can still live a decent life right here. Everything else is just dents and decals.