Hillbilly Renaissance

We thought Trump was talking to us. But he was talking at us. There’s no fury like a hillbilly scorned. Ask Mrs. Clinton. She understands now. Or she would if she could get her head out of her ass for a moment.

Anyway, we’ve ditched politicians and phony friends. We’re doing what we know how to do—work with our hands, make things. Things that work. Beautiful things.

I started it. I got tired of explaining the world to libtards and that fat ass president lied about bringing back coal.

I’m Ed. Pleased to meet you.

Just keep writing in that pad, lady. This is the story. I can’t understand why you didn’t listen to us years ago. At least you’re writing now with an actual pen in an actual notebook. It’s like you’re a real person.

So, anyway, I went into the big city to pick up some supplies for the farm and walked down the Main Street into this shop I’d never set foot in before. And this young guy, maybe twenty with a silly trimmed beard and a pressed plaid shirt comes out and talks to me. No, at me. Like all those city folks.

“We make things here,” he over explained. “Like real artisans. Right here in America.” He invited me to look around and I did.

The stuff wasn’t bad. Not great, but not bad. A hand made bicycle. Looked nice but wooden spokes on the wheels? What were they thinking?

The clothing was sturdy but the fit too tight. Impractical for people who actually move around and do things. Probably just about right for self important morons who sit on their asses all day and pretend to work in those glass towers. Useless to me.

Anyhow, I looked at the stuff, just out of curiosity. But the prices! I mean, what the hell! The damn bicycle was THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS! I didn’t need a bicycle, but that price really got me thinking.

I could make a bicycle. I could make clothing. So could most of my friends. We could make all this stuff, make it better, and make it here in America. And we could charge only $2000. How about that.

So instead of farming supplies I bought cloth and bicycle parts, actually old rusty bicycles. And some other stuff. I talked to my family and a few neighbors and we got started.

We weren’t selling our crops anyway because, well, you know about the tariff wars. So, we had time on our hands. Instead of farming, we did this.

Look around the store, but be careful. You break it and you bought it. And you probably can’t afford anything here. Not on a reporter’s salary.