250!! | NAT'S LETTER

This weekend marks the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, the moment when the founders of our country - the nation where I was born and live - informed the world that they would be foregoing the whole ‘King’ situation in favor of doing their own thing.

I’d like to talk about that. I don’t want to be talking about the reflecting pool.

But, like, how am I supposed to not talk about the reflecting pool? 

For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about… actually, who are we kidding? Of course you know what I’m talking about. Donald Trump drained the Washington DC reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial, painted it blue (as though we’d never know it was water otherwise), then forgot to do any of the things to keep it from becoming a giant petri dish and now we have functionally a swamp in the middle of our nation’s front yard.

The water is, in a word, unsafe. Here’s an image of the park service testing a sample.

There has, perhaps, never been a more perfect living metaphor. Our country’s greasy slumlord tried to do a slumlord job and it failed just about as spectacularly as any other slumlord job you’ve ever seen. You ever have a landlord who painted over black mold? This is the national equivalent. And now we’re going to have to pay yet more tax money, probably to some other shady contractor, to fix a vanity catastrophe at a time when people are unable to afford their healthcare, etc.

I mean, this situation begs to be talked about, right? It deserves to be the subject of every article you read or video you watch. People have consumed this content like candy. Combined with the absolutely disastrous attendance numbers for the Great American State Fair taking place on our national mall, there’s maybe no clearer evidence that no, you are not insane. Yes, everything is falling apart. No, the guy who said “I alone can fix it” cannot in fact fix it.

This sucks - not just from a ‘lived life’ standpoint, but also from the perspective of having pride in what we’ve made here.

Our forebears built that reflecting pool. It’s an iconic, beautiful reflecting pool. Just like our country, it has imperfections - it was built atop a literal swamp - but for over a hundred years it has acted as a mirror, allowing us to see our own reflections at critical moments in our history.

Turns out, it’s very easy for the right bonehead to come along and foul it up for the rest of us. But we built it before, and the work of the near future will be finding ways to make good things again - the sort of stuff that will benefit our children and make future generations proud.

Call me sentimental, but on this two hundred and fiftieth anniversary I confess that I still believe that we can do it.

And with that, we move on to some fictional whimsy! We begin with a harrowing account of hot dog-related hysteria….

FICTION: THE SPURGE

I guess this all began about a year ago. I must have been doing some backyard barbecuing - likely for some friends, because I very rarely barbecued just for myself - when I opened a package of hotdogs and threw them on the grill. I must not have liked them very much, and I must have said so somewhere on the internet. 

That’s about as much of that as I can remember.

~*~*~*~*~

Anyway, I’d just finished fishing a rotting tangerine out from between the refrigerator and the cabinets with my broom when my doorbell rang. I checked my Ring app, even though I could very easily have walked the twenty steps to the door to look. 

A woman in a plain navy wind jacket and sneakers stood on my stoop holding a clipboard.

My house had long ago become a target for canvassers, solicitors and evangelists, so I did what I always did, which was to wait for the woman to get bored and go away. After the fourth ring of the bell, though, I broke down. Clearly this woman needed something.

I cracked the door to see what she wanted. She asked if I was Brian McCormack. I told her I was. She asked if I was the Brian McCormack who lived on Chestnut Street, to which I said ‘you know the answer to that question - you came to Chestnut Street and knocked on my door.’

“Did you make a post about ten and a half months ago about an experience you had while cooking a package of Jackson-Thuringer brand Beef Franks? Did you say that the quality had…” she paused to flip a page on her clipboard, “quote, ‘really gone down hill’ and that the casings did not have the same snap as they used to have?”

I wracked my brain for a moment. I’d expected to be asked for money or for my vote to support some data center project or some other such nonsense. I’d long ago assumed that nobody ever read my posts, not even my closest family, and that I’d been shouting into the wind at least since 2016. 

But something about the complaint felt familiar. After all, I did feel like the quality had dropped and I did feel like the casings no longer had the same snap when you bite into them. I told her I supposed that might be me, but that I couldn’t possibly begin to wager a guess what all this was about. 

That’s when she informed me that I was under arrest.

By then, I’d figured I had struck up a conversation with a crazy person, so I made my excuses - after all, I still held in my hand a rotting tangerine in desperate need of a trash can - and shut my front door.

I did not expect four men, dressed head-to-toe in sausage branded SWAT gear, to break down my door using a summer sausage battering ram.

Nor did I expect to be clubbed over the head with a beef stick-branded blackjack.

I certainly didn’t expect to be thrown into the back of the Jackson-Thuringer-mobile. I’d always assumed the Jackson-Thuringer-mobile to be nothing more than a hotdog shaped novelty truck, in the vein of the Weinermobile, not an operational prison transport.

And yet, when I came to from my beef stick blackjacking, I found myself tied to a railing in the back compartment along with seven other people. I tried to communicate with them, to ask where we were and where we were going, but soon realized we’d all been gagged with neckerchiefs similar to the ones wrapped around famous spokesweiner Jackie the Jackson-Thuringer Hotdog’s neck.

~*~*~*~*~

I lost track of how long we spent in the back of that truck. The only sensation I can recall to this day is the smell of our combined sweat mixed with the all-pervading garlicky stench of hotdog water.

Finally, the Jackson-Thuringer-mobile came to a stop. The back end of the hot dog shaped truck lifted. My eyes struggled to adjust to the light. Once sight had returned, I could make out a massive converted warehouse - the sort you might use as a big box company’s fulfillment center.

A squad of camp guards, each in drab uniforms decorated with colorful sponsorship patches for various sausage companies, cut our zipties and herded us into the warehouse.

They placed me in a non-descript beige room, where I sat and waited. 

Finally, after what felt like one eternity had passed, a guards wheeled a computer terminal into the room.

I leapt up from my seat and demanded my phone call. After all, I was owed one phone call - those were my rights, according to any crime show I’d ever watched. The guard stared at me as though he hadn’t heard me, so I repeated my request with additional curse words to help punctuate certain words. 

He just pointed to the computer and said “lawr,” then left.

I shouted and shouted until my voice was hoarse, but the guard never returned, nor did anyone else evidently hear my desperate screeching. With nothing else to do and time to kill, I went ahead and pressed space bar on the computer terminal.

The main screen booted up - the home page read “LAWR - brought to you by the makers of Karm-AI” and prompted me to press ‘Enter’ when I was ready.

After some time questioning the machine and to make a long story short, I discovered that LAW-R represented my court-appointed LLM attorney. I had been removed from my home state and transported across the country to some random friendly (or, perhaps unfriendly) Texas jurisdiction to stand trial.

The machine then prompted me to select a voice for my representative and offered a slew of options like “Cousin Vinny from My Cousin Vinny” and “Jeffrey Feiger.” Ultimately, I selected “Generic Friendly Southern Lawyer.”

The computer terminal chimed, and then a voice as smooth as molasses came from the speakers.

“Howdy, Brian. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m just a simple southern lawyer. How’d you like to plead - guilty or something else?”

I tried asking the machine for my charges but only got some boilerplate nonsense about corporate slander before it asked me again for my plea. I selected ‘something else,’ then requested a plea of ‘not guilty.’

“Now, I’m just a simple southern lawyer,” drawled the machine. “On what grounds do you plead not guilty?”

After going back and forth with the LLM for a maddening amount of time, I eventually got it to enter my plea on Constitutional grounds - the only amendment you could cite from the menu of options was the second one, so I had to demand a special request to cite the first - after which LAWR informed me that my case would be reviewed and would proceed to trial as quickly as possible.

As the program was about to power down, I made one final plea - if it couldn’t explain my exact charges, could the program at least tell me how this all had happened?

“Oh sure, young fella,” said LAWR. “Now, I'm just a simple southern lawyer, but even I know that some folks at the Meat Processors Guild of Amurca got together and ponied up some election funds for our brothers and sisters up in the Capitol. The long and short of it is, they got given the right to go after folks who’ve demeaned or threatened their business. Sort of like a Purge for Sausage Makers if’n you like. Now, I’m just a simple southern lawyer, but that sure sounds like a right fine idea to me, gollee.

“Y’all done used up your tokens,” noted the LLM. “I’ll see ya at the trial. ‘Till then, enjoy your time in Sausage-tary Confinement.”

~*~*~*~*~

I knew my case was in trouble when I saw that the judge’s robes had the same sponsor patches as the guards.

Honestly, the prosecutor just looked annoyed to be there - possibly moreso than me. My annoyance stemmed from fear; his annoyance stemmed from obvious boredom. In fact, his opening statement seemed half-hearted at best - maybe even quarter-hearted. He read my offending social media post off of a projector - again, I barely remember writing it - and then sat down to do what looked like sports betting from his tablet.

Time came for the defense. A billions of dollars sunk into the AI industry - surely LAWR had my back. The computer terminal sitting next to me cleared its digital throat and began:

“Your honor,” it drawled, “distinguished members of the jury, this honorable court… Now, I’m just a simple large language model speaking in a syrupy southern accent, but it don’t take no hot-and-bothered hound dog to see that GLP-1 medication can make a huge impact on your life. By slowing digestion, suppressing appetite and regulating your blood sugar, these so-called miracle drugs…”

And it continued like this. For an hour and twenty minutes. Never once did I hear it reference my freedom of speech. Hell, never once did it reference sausages. I heard the name Wegovy plenty of times, but not once did it say ‘Brian McCormack.’

At the end of its sales pitch, I raised my hand and objected. I told the judge that LAWR had completely failed to represent me at all, that its long, rambling monologue about weight loss medication had been completely useless.

“I don’t know about that,” piped in the judge. “It reminded me to refill my prescription.”

And then I went off. I don’t want to blow my own horn, and I’m sure the stenographer’s account can be FOIA’d for anyone who wants the details and cares to jump through those hoops, but suffice it to say that I did my best to defend the rights of all citizens to criticize any sausage brand if they so choose, to remind people that our forebears gave their lives so that we could complain about flaccid hotdog casings, and to demand my trial be dismissed.

The judge seemed to really consider my words. “Tell you what,” they said. “I’m willing to throw out this entire case and set you free this very moment, on one condition: that you admit, before God and this court, that Jackson-Thuringer brand Beef Franks have the snappiest casings you’ve ever tasted.

“Say those words right now and you’ll go free.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Well, obviously I couldn’t do that, which is why I’m writing from prison.

It’s been quite tough here, although I have met a few stalwart individuals I’m now privileged to count as friends. We’ve gotten to know one another during our extremely limited hour of outdoor activity time. Our icebreaker here is a bit cliched- “what are you in for?”

One guy wrote a nasty email to complain about a razor blade in his bratwurst.

Another got thirty years for setting off firecrackers near a butcher's shop, making very loud noises.

A lady touched the scummy water in one of the fountains during a factory tour.

Most are in for things I never thought were crimes, but I suppose that only goes to show how little I know about the meat processing industry. Needless to say, morale here is low and the conditions are pretty bleak, with rampant disease and constant psychological torment. Plus, the food is terrible. Let’s just say that they’ve hired the maggots to serve themselves. 

The only thing worse would be for them to serve Jackson-Thuringer sausages.

…hey, we haven’t checked in on this running gag in a little while. Let's have look at the….

BIT: GROUNDHOG REPORT FOR JULY 2026

Another month means another check-in with our favorite little prognosticating rodent, whom we have dubbed Hormuz Hugh.

It took a good bit of coaxing to get ol’ Huey out of his hidey-hole this month. We did relay the good news to him, that the “war” had “ended” with a “ceasefire” and that this shadow viewing was merely a formality, a whimsical wrapping-up of an open-ended bit done for the sole entertainment of one newsletter and its handful of regular readers.

Our marmot matey, thus reassured, exited his hovel, lit a Virginia Slim and had a look around the yard. He squinted, then began muttering what can only be described as rodent obscenities and then, after making a very rude gesture, returned to his home and slammed the door.

So, we can say with some degree of certainty that the Straits of Hormuz may or may not be open, depending on whether anyone is shooting at anything at any given moment.

Hopefully, this information provides you with some level of comfort. It certainly didn’t for Hugh, but that’s hardly our fault is it?

…and now, let’s enjoy one last annual Fourth of July tradition with…

MONOLOGUE: A READING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE, REDACTED

Oh dear. Oh well. Okay. Uh. 

Let me adjust my reading glasses here.

As you regular attendees know, over the course of the past few decades I’ve had the privilege of opening the Wilkes County Library Independence Day Celebration-tacular with a reading of our country’s founding document, The Declaration of Independence.

This year, thanks to the semiquincentennial anniversary of our great nation, we’ve received a special copy - evidently generated in the spirit of ‘dewokifying’ our history - that is meant to be read all across this land of ours.

How shall I put this? The document is… well, there have been some changes.

‘Changes’ may not be the right word. ‘Redactions’ is perhaps the better word.

I’ve always prided myself on presenting this Declaration without much editorializing, allowing the Founders’ inspired words to speak for themselves. While the 250th might call for some special contextualization, especially given this lovingly ‘adjusted’ copy we’ve received, it might be safest for me from a legal perspective just to read what was given to me. 

And so, without further ado, I’ll begin: 

“In Congress, July 4th 1776.”

Ahem…

“The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one <redacted> to <redacted>, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and <redacted> station to which <redacted> God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to <redacted>.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are <redacted> endowed by their Creator with certain <redacted> Rights <redacted>.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted <redacted>, deriving their just powers from <redacted>, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of <redacted> to <redacted>. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their <redacted>.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to <redacted>. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated <redacted> and <redacted>, all having in direct object the establishment of <redacted>. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.”

…this is where all of the complaints about tyranny and the specific abuses of King George the Third usually go, but these have all been blacked out. 

Let me see…

Redacted…

Redacted…

Okay, here we are:

“In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered <redacted>. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act <redacted> is <redacted> the ruler of a free people.”

…this part just has ‘blah blah blah’ written in Sharpie over the whole paragraph.

And… okay, finally:

“We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, <redacted> And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our <redacted>, our<redacted> and our sacred <redacted>.”

And then I usually read all of the names of the signees but they’ve all been crossed out and replaced by one other name, also written in Sharpie. I imagine that I don’t need to read that one, since you’ll already know exactly which name it is.

So there you have it, folks. Some of the Declaration of Independence.

I promised no unnecessary editorializations or contextualizations, but I hope you will permit me a few final words that have absolutely nothing to do with what I’ve just read.

Again, this is completely coincidental and unrelated.

But might I recommend a visit to our lovely little library? We carry many volumes - at least, for now - that discuss in detail the cause, the events and the results of the American Revolution. One might find these tomes illuminating and instructive. I know that I personally have found this story - of a collection of imperfect people striving to live up to a set of aspirational ideals - to be most inspirational.

There’s also a very good Ken Burns docuseries on the subject, for those of you allergic to the written word.

Now please enjoy some delicious hotdogs, courtesy of our event sponsor, Jackson-Thuringer Fine Meats. ‘Processed with care, Jackson-Thuringer is always there.’

Thank you so much for reading!

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Hope you’ve enjoyed!  Love each other! Take care of each other!