I saw it from across the parking lot: an American flag better suited to the skies over a car dealership than where it was, bolted to the back end of someone’s T-Rex/’murca Machine/Compensator 1000 or whatever the hell we call those side-by-side golf carts on steroids that all the wannabe cowboys and monster truck drivers tear around the neighborhood in.

For a moment, I had hope that this was just the usual American exceptionalism, that coming as the sighting did close on the heels of the celebration of the nation’s independence that this was just some overly enthusiastic light beer chugging proud owner of one of them nice doublewides getting provisions for their backyard barbecue and extemporaneous amputation fest courtesy of the fireworks they had purchased in sufficient quantities to lay siege to most structures in the Middle Ages.

Then I saw the 2nd flag.

The “don’t blame me, I voted for Trump”.

Fresh out of lighter fluid and my matches at home, rather than expressing myself in maladaptive but effective ways by burning the vehicle down to the rims, I shed a (metaphorical) tear for the death of patriotism, because here was the invasive species MAGAttus Nationalistes, aka ”nationalist” aka “cultist” aka “co-signer of a felon, misogynist, and pathological liar”, conflating a nation with a man.