The Cult of Constant Outrage
By Brian R. Wilson Guitars & Cigars, The Bipartisan Patriot
Every morning now
the nation wakes up foaming at the mouth
like a broken police dog chewing electrical wire
behind a condemned Radio Shack
somewhere off Route 1.
Coffee ain’t coffee anymore.
It’s ideological lighter fluid.
People don’t sip it.
They weaponize it.
The phones begin screaming before sunrise.
Tiny glowing rectangles
buzzing like demonic cicadas
inside kitchens full of unpaid bills, stale donuts,
and marriages hanging together
with expired Cialis and shared streaming passwords.
Everybody’s furious.
Nobody remembers why.
That’s the beautiful part.
The machine figured out years ago
that outrage burns cleaner than coal
and lasts longer than patriotism.
Fear fades.
Love takes effort.
Hope requires sleep.
But anger?
Jesus Christ...
anger runs on gas station burritos
and four hours of sleep.
You can keep a whole civilization alive on outrage alone.
Like Rome feeding Christians to lions
while the crowd argued over parking.
Now every idiot with Wi-Fi
walks around believing themselves
to be a digital Che Guevara
because they reposted a meme
between bites of Applebee’s bourbon chicken.
The old radicals at least got tear-gassed.
Modern revolutionaries
need ergonomic chairs
and a ring light.
Somewhere along the line
the country stopped talking
and started performing.
Nobody says:
“I disagree.”
Now it’s:
“This man is literally Hitler.”
“This woman is destroying civilization.”
“This sandwich shop hates America.”
“This toaster supports communism.”
Every damn inconvenience
arrives dressed like apocalypse.
I watched two grown men nearly fistfight
inside a Florida cigar lounge
over a politician
who wouldn’t piss on either one of them
if they were on fire in the parking lot.
That’s the trick of it.
The powerful no longer need chains.
They just hand people tribal jerseys
and let them destroy each other voluntarily.
Cable news figured this out first.
Then social media turned it into methamphetamine.
Now outrage arrives algorithmically tailored,
custom-built like a Burger King combo meal.
Would sir like:
racial panic,
economic panic,
cultural panic,
or the seasonal transgender hysteria combo
with medium fries?
Maybe all four.
Supersize it.
Hell, throw in an asteroid and bird flu while you’re at it.
The republic’s already vibrating like a washing machine
full of bowling balls.
Meanwhile real life keeps happening quietly
outside the circus tent.
Old men still die alone in hospitals.
Kids still need fathers.
Mothers still work double shifts.
Neighbors still mow lawns.
The moon still hangs there
above the wreckage
like God’s exhausted porch light.
But nobody sees it anymore.
They’re too busy screaming into phones
about strangers they’ve never met
for points that convert into absolutely nothing.
No money.
No peace.
No meaning.
Just dopamine confetti.
That’s the saddest part.
Most people aren’t even angry anymore.
They’re addicted to anger.
Without outrage
they’d have to sit quietly
with the terrifying possibility
that maybe their lives are smaller,
lonelier,
and more ordinary
than they were promised.
So they stay plugged in.
Doomscrolling at 1:13 AM
like raccoons digging through ideological garbage cans
searching for one more rotten thing
to hiss at.
And the machine keeps feeding them.
Because a calm population
might start asking dangerous questions.
Like:
Why are groceries $400?
Why can’t anyone afford a house?
Why does every town look abandoned?
Why are we working more
and living less?
But outrage keeps the peasants occupied.
A nation screaming at itself
can’t hear the sound
of its pockets being picked.
So the digital carnival rolls onward.
Red hats screaming at blue hair.
Blue hair screaming at red hats.
Everybody convinced they’re freedom fighters
while billionaires harvest engagement metrics
like wheat.
Beautiful system, really.
Elegant in its sickness.
A civilization collapsing not with jackboots,
but with hashtags,
reaction videos,
and middle-aged women threatening each other
inside Target over seasonal decorations.
And somewhere beneath all the noise,
under the static,
under the slogans,
under the sponsored rage-bait and political pornography,
you can still faintly hear America breathing.
Tired.
Overweight.
Confused.
Lonely.
Still hoping somebody,
somewhere,
remembers how to talk like human beings again.
But hope’s a quiet thing.
Outrage has a microphone
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