J’Accuse: Where Is MY Rocket-Powered Jet Pack, Mr. Gingrich?!!!

elroyWell, haven’t we all been treated to quite the show lately?  Of course I’m talking about the debates for the Republican Party’s primary in Florida, which have degenerated into an unseemly picking over the corpse of Reagan-era optimism, each candidate trying to prize from Zombie Ronnie’s rigor mortised grasp the famed Talisman of Americana.  Shameful and disgusting.

The mind readily grasps the allure of laying claim to the mantle of the august Uncle Dutch (i.e., being the only legitimate basis of rule, the “One Meme to Rule Them All”).  Therefore it is hardly surprising that its power should attract the devious lust of unsavory creatures from beneath even the dankest rocks in the even the darkest corners of America’s mushroom garden.  That is merely natural and expected, actually a necessary function of narrative causality, being all the better to highlight by means of contrast the enlightened munificence and nobility of the True Heir of the king who single-handedly defeated the corrosive and perverse troglodytes of The Evil Empire. What is unbearable is to see how far you have fallen from thine birthright, oh Padawan.  Woefully are we disappointed in thee, Newt Skywalker!

Where is my rock-powered jet pack, Mr. Gingrich?!!!

I and millions of others just like me came of age in the waning days of the Soviet Union and were raised on the promise of unlimited horizons in the new frontier that was supposed to supplant the forces of monolithic evil.  Loyal soldiers of the Cold War we were, instilled daily with the knowledge that our daily confrontations with wily machinations of pencil-pushing bureaucrats must necessarily be crowned with eventual success, our manly revolutionary virtues being altogether unstoppable by the feeble, crippled imaginations of pallid, apparatchik eunuchs hiding behind the skirt of an effeminate and decadent Socialism.  It was a heady, romantic time of dreams and ambition, all fuelled by the unique vision that only you and Ronald Reagan could conjure in the American imagination.  Don’t pretend that it wasn’t you who inspired Moonraker, Mr. Gingrich, my generation’s Beowulf.  It’s no use in pretending otherwise.

This screed continued at Dystopia Diaries.

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11 Comments on "J’Accuse: Where Is MY Rocket-Powered Jet Pack, Mr. Gingrich?!!!"

  1. Calypso_1 | Jan 31, 2012 at 12:36 pm |

    Here you go Liam – DIY
    so much cooler than a go-cart

  2. Anarchy Pony | Jan 31, 2012 at 12:37 pm |

    Self contained jet packs are incredibly fuel intensive, and cannot usually remain aloft for longer than a few minutes at a time, the only real way to make it more effective would be to use a much more energy dense fuel, of course then you might as well be a human bomb flying around.

    All part of the cultural myth of ever expanding technological sophistication and the notion that it would somehow overcome all physical barriers.

    • Liquidself | Jan 31, 2012 at 12:51 pm |


      as much as I like that tired old cliche,  doesen’t stop it from sounding more and more tired every year.  We could just as well talk about the cultural myth that technological sophistication won’t overcome all “physical barriers”.

      • Anarchy Pony | Jan 31, 2012 at 12:56 pm |

        Jet man’s setup is nothing like the popularized concept of the jet pack, or like the original versions. What he has is little more than a jet assisted glider, he has to start off by jumping out of a plane for fuck’s sake.   

  3. Liam_McGonagle | Jan 31, 2012 at 2:58 pm |

    Thanks for the responses, folks.

    This was a weird one, one of my more far-out experiments–though I didn’t want to jinx it by tagging it too obviously.

    I was going for that nearly subliminal level of communication that touches upon the unspoken assumptions of the social contract.  Specifically, the comically naive ideas bandied about in the Reaganaut era about bullsh*t cartoon cowboys defeating a socialist Snidley Whiplash in a space-opera.

    I knew I was taking my chances here, but I thought it was worth it.  Though I know it can be tough to sort out all the ridiculous ideas here.  Especially when they’re phrased in such over-the-top melodramatic language. 

    Still, I thought that language was appropriate for the persona I needed to write this in as a first-person vehicle.  Callow, jingoistic, unreliable narrator being crushed under the weight of his own ludicrous hopes.

    I’d be really interested in knowing the extent to which anyone’s generational cohort may have affected their interpretation of this piece.  Most of these references are fairly Gen-X specific.

    • That was an impressive mixture of Gonzo narrative and semantic manipulation. Kudos.

  4. I think I only recognized about 6 words!

    Imagine how much trouble the average Fluoride drinker will have.

    • Liam_McGonagle | Feb 1, 2012 at 12:12 pm |

      Well, this was one of my weirder experiments.

      Just wondering if you’re a millenial.  I’m throwing around the idea that this “Cold War Social Contract” is strictly a Gen-X and pre- phenom, and that Millenials may not get it at all.

      If there can be said to be a “generational myth”, a rough narrative that describes an age cohort’s outlook on the world, I’d love to hear what the Myth of the Millenials is.  If there is one.  Or a single one.

  5. Simiantongue | Feb 1, 2012 at 6:28 am |

    “I and millions of others just like me came of age in the waning days of
    the Soviet Union and were raised on the promise of unlimited horizons in
    the new frontier that was supposed to supplant the forces of monolithic

    I was a little before that time. Oh boy do I remember that rhetoric. That takes me back. If the cold war were over the US could build a veritable utopia according to some. The money we would save on our military and nuclear arsenal alone would mean a new age of space, medical and technological investment never before seen. So when did the cold war officially end, 91?

    *looks around* Is it too early to start doubting that? lol

    Always enjoy your writing Mr McGonagle.

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