I won’t claim to be a historian like Mr. Justin Huft here. I’m no political scientist. I can’t tell you the date that Arizona became a state in our union, or claim to know much about the complex inner machinations of its political system.But what I can tell you is this: it’s a fucking wasteland.Look to the east, Californians. From the horizon rises a beautiful sun, streaming down its glorious UV radiation to the sexy, sun-soaked skins of the denizens of Huntington, Newport and Long Beach. But far from our Orange County oceans and unabashedly authentic Meximerican food, closer to the very sun itself, lies a lawless feudal society that might as well be run by the Mongolian Hordes of Old.
Certainly the people of this barren territory are absolutely insane, but I think it’s best we examine the root cause of their madness before we delve into some of their escapades. Namely, it is excruciatingly hot in Arizona. I do not know if my humble journalistic lexicon can adequately convey the sweltering temperatures rising from the choked earth of this hollow shell of a place, but I will try. It’s really, really hot. Like, imagine hell, and then change nothing. The locals have the audacity to defend this Hades with their characteristic adage: “It’s hot, but it’s a dry heat.” Implying the live-giving humidity of the Southern Atlantic States is anything but absolutely refreshing!
The soil is comprised of hard, gritty sand that devours moisture with a vampiric intensity and then yields nothing back. Well, nothing that doesn’t want to FUCKING MURDER YOU. For example, in California, our household pests consist of ants, mice, and the occasional daddy-long-legs. In Arizona, their common counterparts are rattlesnakes (deadly), mountain lions (deadly), and scorpions (yep, you guessed it, deadly). Not to mention what passes for flora is either the Yucca, a selfish, leaf-less stick of a thing which can provide no shade and barely can hold claim to the title, “Tree,” or the cactus. The cactus, which is less of a plant and more of Mother Nature’s upheld, spiky middle finger aimed toward all of humanity.
Of course, all of these assumptions just go right out the window once the sun sets, because then the desert transforms into a dry, chilly wasteland reaching temperatures around 0 degrees Kelvin, where again, the only things that can survive want to kill you.
So, naturally, the people that such a purgatory could produce would have to be absolutely bonkers. Well, just look at all of the celebrities that clawed their way out of the lifeless dirt that comprises this state: Frank Lloyd Wright, architect. That guy had absolutely no idea what he was doing. None of his houses look like houses. Joe Jonas, “musician.” A boy perhaps singlehandedly responsible for ruining the guitar. And, last but not least, David Spade. David-fucking-Spade, people. His origin enough should make the average American want to steer clear from The Copper State for the rest of their natural lives.
And look at the legacy of this friggin’ place. In the early 1800s, here is where every jackass with a trigger-finger and two guns stopped off to get drunk and kill each other. These weren’t cowboys; cows need grass and water, two things which Arizona has never seen. No, these were just douchebags in flannel and leather with gun-fetishes and personality disorders. Then, a few decades later, when we felt we hadn’t punished Native-Americans enough, we uprooted them from their crappy colonies and put them on reservations in the middle of Arizona, which, in this writer’s humble opinion, was tantamount to genocide via small-pox infected blankets.
But if that’s not enough to make you want to loop around through Utah on your way to the rest of the US, look at the place today. Everybody still carries a gun. They’re religious nutjobs. 7.9 percent of them are illegal immigrants, which the majority of the population would gladly evict, ignoring economic implications.
I’d say nuke ’em, but hell, it wouldn’t really change the place much.