You say you want a revolution – but do you really want another Civil War?

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I just heard the news.  We’re going to war.  A New Civil War to boot.

Sounds juicy.

I was no craftsman in history class, but I remember reading something about Americans killing other Americans back in the 1860s to the tune of nearly half-a-million bodies buried, burned or left behind, painted in blood.

And then there was just all that mud.

But this “New Civil War” is really putting a hex on some plans I had going. I wanted to go dune buggy riding in the Arizona desert. Wanted to go see the Red Claws play in Maine.  Wanted to watch my buddy walk the aisle again.  But instead, I guess, I’ll be fighting with my neighbors.  Is that correct?  And what are we fighting about?  Oh, yeah: Freedom.  Same stuff we fought over way back when.  Least we won’t have to rewrite the textbooks.  Tweak here, tweak there.

So first things first: I should probably walk across the yard and fight my friend of 30 years and neighbor, Fred. Do I text him first?
Do we fight in his yard or mine?  I just cut mine, so…maybe Freddy won’t mind if we roll around in his yard some.  Come to think of it, maybe I should wear my jeans that I’m allowed to get grass stains on.  Now I have a luncheon to put on later in the week, so obviously no hitting in the face.  I’m sure Fred and I will talk out the ground rules before we get to killing each other.

Once that’s done, I’ll head back inside and make sure all my shows are recording.  If I miss “House of Dragons” because a mob is kicking in my side door, screaming about the Texas border, well, they’re going to wish they brought a fleet of dragons with them.  Nothing gets between me and my Sunday night shows.  Not even a foot rub.

What about my naps?  Do we have a time out during this New Civil War? Give each other a little breather, maybe let everyone catch up on Instagram or Facebook? I did want to give my latest post a little traction to grow so, well, I’m hoping someone doesn’t club me to death before I see how many “Likes” I got.  That’d be kind of rude, wouldn’t it?

The damn pool hasn’t been closed up yet, either. If I have to look at that son of a bitch one more day, laughing at me, I’m just going to meet the mob myself at the top of my driveway, unarmed.

“Gentlemen, no need to unleash your tiki lamps.” I’ll declare. “I’m going to jump in my pool and choke myself out on the bloody algae.  Go home.  “Bachelorette” starts in ten minutes.”

Are the gyms still going to be open?  I’ve been working hard to get a routine going and I don’t want to brag, but someone has leveled up to five-pound weights when doing lunges. Hate to break up the flow, you know?

My fear is that all this killing will spill over into the gym, and everyone is going to start feeling all flabby and sad about all the killing they’ve been doing, and all of sudden you have a room full of crying narcissists, cutting each other down at the shoulder press machine.

But, I suppose, if everyone racks their weights after, that’s all you can really ask during a New Civil War.  A little civility, right?

And lastly, will my children be fighting too?  My son has a golf match at Pembroke Pines next week and his fade game is really coming along.
If his arm or leg gets lopped off, that’s really going to mess with his handicap.  Is there someone I can email or contact about New Civil War absentee forms or something like that?  I promise, I’ll get him out on the killing floor soon as the season is over.

There’s just so much to do and so little time to do it, what with the New Civil War about to break out and all.

Anyhoo…better change into my grass-stained jeans because I know Fred likes to get to bed early and I’d like to get the bludgeoning over before the second season of “Reservation Dogs” starts.

Buckle up, Freddy Boy.  I’m coming for you. “Skoden!”

PS:  Yes, the likelihood of a New Civil War is as stupid as it sounds.

But we should be used to that by now.


About this Author

Rob Azevedo

Rob Azevedo is an author, poet, columnist and radio host. He can be reached sitting in his barn at Pembroke City Limits and