The following article, Black America’s Brush with the Fake Apocalypse, was first published on The Black Sphere.
I have to confess: On September 30, 2025, I was legit sweating bullets for Black folks.
Not because of some existential threat like systemic racism or killer cops—no, this was the big one. The government shutdown.
According to the Democratic echo chamber, that’s when we hit peak vulnerability; like gazelles sensing a lion pride on the savanna.
We’re talking furloughs, frozen paychecks, and food stamps flickering out like a bad rom-com ending. And don’t get me started on how they’d convinced the Black Left that a cackling madman was piloting the White House, twirling his mustache while plotting our demise.
Picture this: Orange-hued villain in the Oval Office, rubbing his tiny hands together, muttering, “Mwahahaha, time to starve the minorities!” You’d think my group chat would erupt like Vesuvius.
Texts flying faster than reparations promises: “Kevin, you got canned goods? Water? MREs?”
I expected calls from cousins I haven’t seen since the last family reunion, “Bro, stock up on jerky—it’s gonna be Mad Max out here!”
Crickets. Not a single ping. No welfare checks from well-meaning white liberals (you know the type: “I saw your tweet about equity—here’s a GoFundMe for your ‘shutdown survival fund’”).
No emergency soul food drop-offs from the church ladies, armed with Tupperware full of collards and cornbread, whispering prayers over the mac ‘n’ cheese.
The president? Stone-cold unbothered.
But hey, Democrats have branded him “racist incarnate,” so why would he lift a finger? This shutdown was his golden ticket, right? The perfect storm to cull the herd—starting with us, the usual suspects. Bonus points if a few brown folks or the trans community caught stray bullets in the fiscal frenzy. Collateral damage in the war on wokeness.
I could almost hear the evil laughter echoing from Mar-a-Lago.
Fast-forward to the news ticker: “T-minus two hours till shutdown Armageddon.”
I’m pacing my living room like a death row inmate eyeing the gurney. Heart pounding, palms sweaty.
CNN’s got the drama dialed to eleven, with Anderson Cooper in a turtleneck, counting down like it’s Y2K meets New Year’s Eve in Times Square. “Three… two… one… Happy freakin’ Shutdown, America!
Ball drop… or should we say, budget drop?”
Exhaustion hit harder than the hysteria.
I conked out on the couch, visions of empty EBT cards dancing in my head. While I snoozed, the axe fell—silent as a ninja, slicker than a politician’s promise. It crept in like that uncle who shows up uninvited to Thanksgiving, eats all the turkey, and ghosts before dishes.
Morning light filters in. I stir, groggy, cursing under my breath because—plot twist—Salma Hayek’s villa next door is throwing another beach bash. Bikinis, bronzer, the works. Jealousy surges, but hey, priorities. I shuffle to the kitchen, brew some coffee strong enough to wake the dead (or at least me), and fire up my phone. No alerts. No “RIP Black America” headlines. No frantic voicemails from Joy Reid demanding I march on D.C. with a pitchfork and a protest sign.
As my grandma used to chide, “Black folks gon’ be late to they own damn funerals.”
Was I already six feet under? Had the reaper skipped my house? Because, I’m alive!
We did it, y’all—Black America survived the Shutdown Passover. Did some unsung hero daub lamb’s blood on my doorframe overnight? Or was it the sheer audacity of our existence that warded off the plague?
Buoyed by this miracle, I launch a reconnaissance mission. Time to poll the tribe. Starting low-stakes: the folks I wouldn’t mind the reaper harvesting.
Al Sharpton? Still preaching from his pulpit of perpetual grievance—check. Joy Reid? Tweeting up a storm about “white supremacy’s latest hit job”—alive and annoying. Whoopi Goldberg? Dropping hot takes on The View like confetti at a pity party—damn it, woman, even you made it? The undefeated trio of outrage intact.
Trump’s master plan had been foiled harder than a heist in a Scooby-Doo episode.
Hopeful, I scan my inner circle.
Beautiful white wife? Check. Mulatto 18-year-old spawn? Burrowed in his pigsty of a bedroom, headphones blasting drill beats, dreaming of TikTok fame—check. Zero disruptions.
My 401(k) isn’t hemorrhaging; the fridge is stocked with beyond Vienna sausages and pimento cheese. Hell, even the dog’s still getting fed on the regular.
But wait—weren’t we promised biblical fallout? The Left’s doomsayers swore 100,000 federal drones would quit en masse if the continuing resolution tanked. As Maury Povich would boom after strapping Democrats to a polygraph, “That was a lie!” The results are in!” Not a single resignation.
Imagine the glow-up: Bureaucrats vanishing like vampires at dawn, unleashing a productivity tsunami. No more red-tape wizards burying innovation under 500-page regs. We’d have bridges built, not just studied to death. Instead, these pension-padded zombies shamble on, a eternal threat to efficiency.
Pundits wailed that 750,000 bureaucrats in total would feel the squeeze. I chuckled into my coffee. “Let’s hope!”
Scrolling deeper, the patterns emerge like a bad tattoo. Every Chicken Little cluck from the blue brigade? Busted.
No mass exodus of civil servants. No breadlines snaking through Harlem. No viral videos of grandmas bartering dentures for diapers. Just… normalcy. Boring, blessed normalcy. The stock market yawned. Uber Eats delivered on time. Even my Amazon Prime subscription didn’t glitch—though, in retrospect, maybe Bezos had a secret bunker for the packages.
So here I am, alive and kicking, toasting to the farce. Grateful doesn’t cover it; I’m downright giddy. This anxiety rollercoaster? Last ride, hopefully.
No more midnight sweats over fiscal cliffs. No more doom-scrolling MSNBC marathons. Just the quiet thrill of being right—again—about the hype machine grinding its gears for nothing.
All this manufactured meltdown, mind you, because Democrats drew their line in the sand not for us, not for veterans or vets’ hospitals, but for extra perks for illegals. Billions in backdoor bailouts, disguised as “humanity.” While American families—Black, white, every shade—hold the bag. Priorities, am I right? In the end, the shutdown wasn’t a scythe; it was a snooze button on the outrage alarm. We survived not by divine intervention, but by the simple truth: Sometimes, the sky doesn’t fall. It just… hangs there, mocking the forecasters.
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