Shouting into the Social-Media Ether

E very day, there’s someone new on social media detailing a fully furnished fantasy about the death of President Trump, and it’s always the same woman: absurd eyewear whose size and color somehow tell you there are 37 bumper stickers on her Subaru; a haircut that’s either the “I want to speak to the manager” cut or bohemian frizzy locks or spiky Kool-Aid hues; strenuously insincere sing-song speech with busy-finger gesturing and pointing; rude shifts to manufactured anger complete with wide-eyed psycho-killer smiles, and, of course, a lanyard with her work badge from a school or hospital. This genus and species, Americanus Tiktokus, is often found screaming in her car, explaining how she hopes it happens. And IT, of course, is the quietus of Trump.

I saw one the other day in which the woman was hoping that when IT happened, there weren’t too many trained medical people around. Tee hee! Another said she vacillated between hoping IT happened overnight, so she could wake up to the grand news, or hoping IT happened during the day so she could text all her friends and celebrate the . . . the ascension of JD Vance to the presidency, I guess.

There are two notable things about this trend. First, it is one thing to video your potted perorations, but it is another thing entirely to hit SEND. The cathartic and confessional nature of these rants ought to be confined to one’s own head, but it’s as if they think hitting SEND is the equivalent of clicking the lock on their dime-store diary. Well, got that off my chest!

Second, these folks are stunned when they actually have to face consequences for hitting SEND. “I hate this fascist regime where Libs of TikTok gets brave nurses fired for saying they would put a pillow over the face of MAGA patients, and I can’t wait for the revolution when nurses like me can freely put antifreeze into the saline drips of anyone whose family has an ICE agent.” Next day: “I can’t believe I’m being targeted by Libs of TikTok.”

Here’s the big question: What did these people do before the internet? Make Super-8 home movies and project them on a bedsheet in the front yard? Write out their fantasies and put them on the community bulletin board at the local Piggly Wiggly? Olden times: Weirdo loner with a grudge against the president writes out his assassination fantasies on a legal pad in the basement, shoving it into a drawer when the wife opens the door at the top of the stairs and says dinner’s ready. Flies into a rage when anyone opens the drawer, even if they’re just looking for a screwdriver. Now: Leigh Harleigh Oswaldo sits in her car and yells her plans into a magic mirror that uploads her daft animus to the entire planet.

If an electromagnetic pulse knocks out social media and automobile engines, they will still sit in their cars and yell at inert black-screen phones. As time passes and civilization devolves, they will find solace sitting in a horse-drawn carriage and yelling into a conch shell. When they are done, someone will throw a black cloth over their head and make the TikTok “blee-dee-beep” sound that signifies the end of the clip. Even then they won’t stop. It’s so liberating to wish death on your enemies. How else will everyone know you’re a good person?