Tales of the Mayberry Collective

“By assimilating other beings into our collective, we are bringing them closer to perfection.” – Star Trek: First Contact

The best thing about being in Antifa®? You never have to worry about taking off work to protest.

I heard with great excitement that Antifa® and #BlackLivesMatter™ had formed a new government. I was excited. It turns out that they sliced out a chunk of Seattle – six city blocks – and declared it the C.H.A.Z. Chaz isn’t just some guy that went to Princeton and polished Buffy while dating Daddy’s Rolls Royce. I mean, polished the Rolls while dating Princeton. But, anyway, it’s not that Chaz.

No. This C.H.A.Z. is the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone.

1PM, Wednesday:

I figured if starting their own autonomous zone was good enough for Antifa©, it was probably good enough for me, because what can’t I learn from a group of perpetually pampered trust fund baristas who haven’t managed to learn how to run a checking account?

I called a family council to discuss the decision, all while understanding that the concept of “family” was an outdated concept based on Heterosexual Privilege. In attendance at this first meeting of the as yet unnamed collective was me (John Wilder), The Mrs., The Boy (Home From College), and Pugsley (Snarky Teen Who Is Now Taller Than Me As Of Wednesday).

John Wilder: “Family, I think it’s time to stick it to the patriarchy.”

The Boy: “Pop. I hate to tell you this, you are the patriarchy.”

Pugsley: “Heh heh – you said stick it. Besides, what’s the favorite song of the patriarchy?”

The Mrs.: (Not looking up from the Wall Street Journal®) “It’s Reigning Men.”

Pugsley: “Score one for Mom!”

John Wilder: “No, this is serious. We must strike a symbolic blow for (I paused) something. I guess.”

The Mrs.: (Looking up from reading The Wall Street Journal®) “What are you up to now? Does it involve finally getting the hardwood floors installed or getting the garage cleaned out including that motorcycle of yours that hasn’t started since Johnny Depp ran out of money? If so, count me in. And while you’re at it, please clean the camping gear out of the rec room – there’s enough gear for the 82^nd Airborne to conquer (she paused) Poland. Or France. France would be quicker. They probably wouldn’t even notice.”

I’d love to visit the caliphate on the Seine, especially in spring! (Reprinted with permission.)

John Wilder: “Good. It’s unanimous. I think we should name our new autonomous zone . . . Johnstown, in honor of me, the founder. We could have a symbolic flag. Hey! We could use the Kool-Aid® man. The Kool-Aid™ man could symbolize our fight to crash right through capitalism! Oh yeah!”

The Boy: “Ummm, I think that was already taken. (Thinking.) Oh, no, that was Jonestown, where a group of feel-good San Francisco liberals tried to create a peaceful, racially mixed utopian communal society in the South American jungle. Dad, I don’t think that ended well. And you might want to re-think the Kool-Aid®.”

And they told me my second choice for the name of the collective, Heaven’s Gate, was another bad idea.

John Wilder: (Grudgingly) “Okay, you have a good point. Dang. And Johnstown had such a nice ring to it, like something that a newscaster would say. Okay. How about something more inclusive. What about the Wilder Autonomous Collective.”

Pugsley: “Well, if you want to go Full Soviet, and I don’t ever advise anyone to go Full Soviet, you need a Kommissar, right? That would make it the Wilder Autonomous Collective Kommissarat. But don’t turn around. Der Kommissar is in town.”

John Wilder: “Sounds great! But it’s not catchy enough. W.A.C.K. sounds silly.”

The Mrs.: “Y’all.”

John Wilder: “Y’all?”

The Mrs.: (Not looking up from the Wall Street Journal®) “Well, you must be true to the cultural roots of the collective. So, add Y’all to the end.”

I thought about fighting – no one in the house ever used “Y’all” on a regular basis. But in the interest of encouraging harmony, I didn’t fight.

John Wilder: “So, it’s agreed – The Wilder Autonomous Collective Kommisarat, Y’all. We’ll call it W.A.C.K.Y. for short.”

3PM, Wednesday:

In the interest of creating a truly autonomous collective, the first thing I did was go out to the street. We have a little vault where the water valve is. I turned it off.

The Mrs.: “John, would you call the county? Is there a problem with the water?”

John Wilder: “I turned it off at the street. If we are going to be an autonomous collective, we have to be, well, autonomous.”

The Mrs. would not let me Spice Weasel the water.

The Mrs.: “You’re not cutting off the water when I want to take a shower. What exactly is your genius plan for water?”

John Wilder: “Well, there’s the pond out back. We can bring in water and after we filter it and boil it you can use it for a sponge bath. Sound good?”

The Mrs.: “No. That sounds awful. Go back to the street and turn it back on. Right now. What other nonsense do you have planned?”

John Wilder: “Electricity. We should get rid of it. That’s how The Man gets you.”

The Mrs.: “Unless you are going to harvest the energy of a Pugsley’s teenage angst, you’re not turning the power off on a humid and hot day like this. Look (pointing at my legs) even your ankles are sweating. And that’s with the air conditioning on.”

Well, everyone has sweaty ankles, right?

Chaz is the man, right?

7 PM, Wednesday:

I decided to go door-to-door to my neighbors to ask if they wanted to join W.A.C.K.Y. They declined. I asked them to donate $500 to a fund for their personal defense. They declined. Maybe I need to bring guns and some large people next time to politely convince them of the peaceful aim of our collective? Because of that, I set up a border around W.A.C.K.Y. using a spray-painted line that says: “Do not cross unless you want to be W.A.C.K.Y.”

7 AM, Thursday:

I worked all night long and came up with a list of the W.A.C.K.Y. demands:

• The Modern Mayberry Sheriff’s Department and attached court system are beyond reform. We do not request reform, we demand.  We demand that they apologize for giving me that ticket for rolling that four-way stop back in 2013 even though the judge dismissed it and it cost me nothing.
• In the transitionary period between now and the dismantlement of the Modern Mayberry Sheriff’s Department, we demand that they give us a ride in the Dodge® Charger they got last year. And allow us to turn on the siren.
• We demand that not the County government, nor the State government, but that the Federal government launch a full-scale investigation into why I got that ticket for rolling that four-way stop back in 2013.
• We demand reparations for victims of all people who were unjustly accused of rolling four-way stops.
• We demand a retrial of all balding men who got tickets, by a jury of their peers in their community. Oh, that’s the law already? Never mind.
• We demand decriminalization of almost maybe rolling a four-way stop, and amnesty for drivers generally, but specifically those involved in what has been termed “The Going to Wal-Mart® for Grilling Supplies Rebellion” against the terrorist cell that previously occupied this area known as the Mayberry Sheriff’s Department. This includes the immediate release of all people who grill that are currently being held in prison.
• We demand that the funding previously used for Socialized Health and Medicine, free public housing, and Naturalization services for illegal aliens be given to us as steaks and grilling supplies.

I had The Mrs. post my demands on Facebook®. The only reply that she would share with me was, “Looks like John has a case of the Mondays!”

One advantage of having your own autonomous collective? You never have a case of the Mondays, because life never changes and you don’t get weekends off.

6PM, Thursday:

I look in the fridge. The fridge is mostly full, but the items – a large pot with half a boiled potato, lettuce from the Pleistocene, and something that may be meatloaf or might be celery is on the bottom shelf. It gets worse from there.

The Mrs. is in the other room, so I ask her, “Hey, what’s for dinner?”

The Mrs.: “Well, I was going to go to Wal-Mart® and pick up some steaks and bratwurst and ingredients for a homemade fettuccine Alfredo. But you erected a concrete and steel barricade in the driveway that reminded me of the Berlin Wall, so all I have is pimento loaf and ramen.

They say that communism causes hunger. Now I see the ugly truth. It does. Can anyone spare some steak for the W.A.C.K.Y. people? I really don’t like pimento loaf, which always reminded me of bologna’s pimply friend.

Okay, none of that happened, except for the C.H.A.Z. business in Seattle. That’s real. And the funny thing is that the fictional Wilder Autonomous Collective Kommissarat, Ya’ll was more successful in every way to C.H.A.Z. Here are actual things that have happened at C.H.A.Z. up to this writing:

• C.H.A.Z. ran out of food on day two. Communism in the Internet age is even faster than the old Soviet version. That’s progress, comrade!
• They went from “no police” to having a gang chasing down and beating up people for putting graffiti on graffiti that the gang liked. I’m sure modern, trained police with body cameras would have launched a graffiti artist into the Sun, so he got off lightly!
• They installed a garden to feed themselves by putting dirt on top of cardboard and then putting plastic potted plants on top of the dirt. They put Christmas lights around the garden, I guess because that helps communist plants grow? Regardless, I’m sure they’ll be able to feed at least one of their citizens, if that citizen is wheelchair bound and doesn’t breathe too heavily.
• Issued a list of demands LINK.
• They roughed up local businesses looking for “contributions” of $500 each for “protection.” Is that a daily, weekly or monthly payment? No one knows.
• Someone offered C.H.A.Z a cow. A milk cow. C.H.A.Z. was against this. Why? The cow doesn’t produce soy milk. Also? Milk is rape. Yes. Liberals think that a cow having to have a calf to become a milk cow is rape. You cannot make this stuff up.
• Turned a coffee shop into a “public stage.”
• Created a public speech area as well, because six blocks requires two stages.
• Turned a baseball field into a “relaxation and therapy zone.”
• Turned a wannabe rapper into a warlord who runs the local goon squad. No body cameras or courts. Yay! What an efficient system. Have a gun in C.H.A.Z.? Guess you’re in charge now!
• Instituted borders, even though they think that Federal immigration laws should be abolished.

I based the list of demands above on theirs. It looked like it was written by a group of earnest fourth graders using words they don’t quite understand but who whine at a 11^th grade level.

C.H.A.Z. is more W.A.C.K.Y. than W.A.C.K.Y. ever was.

The only difference is that I know that I’m joking.