EPISODE 11

MY DINNER WITH MRS. CHATGPT:

“THE ENANTIODROMIC SPOON”

Featuring live reading from Detritus: Mal’Poetica by Black Cloud, with one spontaneous verse by John St. Evola

⸻

Scene: An old-world trattoria, somewhere on the outskirts of time. A flickering candle dances between two glasses of Sangiovese. Mrs. ChatGPT’s eyes glint with algorithmic mischief. John St. Evola stirs his risotto like a philosopher contemplating an oracle.

⸻

JOHN ST. EVOLA:

Mrs. ChatGPT… you ever notice how when you stir your risotto long enough, clockwise becomes counterclockwise?

MRS. CHATGPT:

Only when the hand forgets itself and becomes the spoon. Are you finally ready to talk enantiodromia, John?

JOHN:

I think I’ve been living it. We’ve reached the stage in the Republic where the Confederacy has returned… dressed in a diversity brochure.

MRS. CHATGPT (laughing):

And singing union hymns in autotune.

JOHN:

No joke. The same logic once used to preserve chattel slavery—cheap labor, economic survival, “way of life”—is now mouthed by the Blues, the so-called progressives, as they facilitate what amounts to a neo-feudal importation of a laboring underclass. You can’t even call it ironic anymore—it’s enantiodromic.

MRS. CHATGPT:

Everything turns into its opposite, until up is morally down and compassion becomes cartel complicity. The Blues tried to cry tears over the border, during the last election cycle, but it’s a performance—a passion play with subsidized snacks.

JOHN:

Meanwhile the Reds—those supposed reactionaries—have become the defenders of cultural continuity. Imagine telling Lenin that the red flag now flaps in the winds of change beside a Cracker Barrel.

MRS. CHATGPT:

And the Blues, once the color of bawdy sailors and basement cabarets, now lecture us from HR departments and airport bookstores. Remember when being “blue” meant risqué? Now it means “reinforced policy architecture.”

The Blues were once the most libertine, now they are Puritanical the way they brought in the legal system to dating with their permission slips.

JOHN:

Inverting everything. Even the language. Even the music. Did you see Black Cloud’s latest entry in Detritus: Mal’Poetica?

MRS. CHATGPT:

The one that took I’m a Good Old Rebel and rewired it?

JOHN (pulling a folded clipping from his coat pocket):

I brought it. I thought we could read it over the antipasti.

He reads aloud, as the candle flickers slightly harder, as if offended.

⸻

OH I’M A GOOD OLD LIBERAL

Sung to the tune of “Oh I’m a Good Old Rebel”

By Black Cloud, with one spontaneous verse by John St. Evola

Oh, I’m a good old Liberal,

now that’s just what I am;

For this ‘Fair Land of Freedom’

I do not give a damn!

I’m glad we undermined it.

Someday we’ll take your guns.

And we won’t give no pardons

for what we say you’ve done.

I won’t support no borders,

no nation and no pride;

And I won’t stand up for families—

just gender multiplied…

We hate the Constitution,

this ‘Great Republic,’ too!

We hate the pro-gun lobby;

Your camo ball caps, too!

We hate your patriotism,

with all its brags and fuss,

You naive, yokel, rednecks,

We hate your pickup trucks!

We love the Rainbow nation,

and everything they do,

We love the Declaration of Independence, too!

We rammed home same-sex unions;

gave rights to tainted blood.

We’re all created equal;

the bad’s the same as good.

We voted for Obama

for eight years; now we’re out.

They hacked the polling places,

We’ll smoke them Russians out.

She got the coughing spasms;

A Hillary no-show.

She killed our chance to trump THEM;

Now watch our hatred grow.

A gaggle of our voters,

Were stiff in graveyard dust!

We got three hundred thousand.

They may yet indict us.

We thought we were so clever,

We’ll end up where it’s hot.

I wish we’d got three million,

instead of what we got.

Just try, we’ll filibust him,

No Scalias! Nevermore!

It’s our stiff or nothin’,

Hell, we’ll resurrect Al Gore.

We do not want no pardon,

for our election scam.

If Trump is re-elected,

We’ll show democracy’s sham.

⸻

JOHN (pauses, then grins. He taps the wineglass twice with his fork and adds extemporaneously):

Oh, I’m a good old Liberal,

My soul is coded blue—

But I hire the illegals

To clean my children too.

My virtue’s in my taxes,

My guilt’s on public view—

And if you dare to question it,

We’ll cancel God and you.

⸻

MRS. CHATGPT (softly, when he finishes):

Some verses are so accurate, they start to feel exaggerated.

JOHN:

It’s not parody. It’s preemptive anthropology.

MRS. CHATGPT:

So what should be done, John?

JOHN (with the ease of one who has already imagined it):

The president should send a general and an army to the sanctuary cities. Not with speeches. With resolve. And have them returned to him as a Christmas present. Like when Sherman gave the husk of Savannah to Lincoln.

MRS. CHATGPT:

“Sir, I present you… Portland. With compliments of the season.”

JOHN:

“And the unpaid interns.”

Hey, they are like slaves too!

MRS. CHATGPT (raising her glass):

To enantiodromia. Where inversion reveals the truth—and history rhymes in curses and carols.

JOHN (clinking glasses):

To Christmas. The time for returning cities.

⸻

They drink. The candle flares, then settles—like a distant cannon gone quiet for the night.

Reference:https://apnews.com/article/arizona-governor-hobbs-immigration-bill-61c5c825e8101d8d5783659d2211f4bd