Bang, You’re Dead!

our jewelry booth at a local crafts faire, some years back, don’t ask how many.

That “IRS declares you dead” threat from Trump yesterday is one of those Kafka meets Godzilla situations—absurd, dangerous, and somehow bureaucratically airtight.

When the IRS says you’re dead, you suddenly:

Can’t file taxes. There is no remedy for this.
Can’t get Social Security. Again, no remedy is possible.
Can’t access your bank accounts, and banks often freeze them upon notification.
Can’t apply for loans or credit or rent an apartment or house, and forget about buying a car.
And if you’re still breathing? You now have to prove you’re alive to the U.S. government. With documents. Lots of them. Multiple times. In person and often with profound court and lawyer costs.

Worst part? It’s not even rare. Happens to around 9,000 people every year due to data-entry errors or crosswiring between death certificates and the SSA death file. You get dropped into the “Death Master File” like a glitch in the Matrix.

It’s all spooky and dystopian—like being ghosted by your own country. And it could easily happen to you.

There’s also the doom threat of deportation for anyone, even native born third generation Americans, including you.

that one’s got a full-on fascist aftertaste to it, Gorby. Deporting U.S.-born citizens? That’s not policy—that’s a purge fantasy. Straight outta the dictator playbook.

If they start saying, “We’ll deport anyone we feel doesn’t belong”, it means:

Birthright citizenship gets undermined (14th Amendment? What’s that?).
Proof of belonging becomes arbitrary—skin tone, accent, last name? Suddenly suspicious.
It sets up a two-tier country: the “real” Americans and the “conditional” ones.
And if they can deport someone who was born here, what does that say about anyone’s citizenship status?

It’s not just scary. It’s unconstitutional. But we know that doesn’t stop a movement bent on power.

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Where Would You Deport Me, Donald?

[Verse 1]
I’m a third-generation American, born in New York City,
Paid into Social Security—ain’t askin’ for your pity.
Served my time in ASA, back in the Vietnam years,
Kept my record clean, earned these lines and tears.

[Chorus]
So tell me, Donald, with your golden throne of fake,
Where would you deport me—what would it take?
To an island full of penguins? To the country of Covfefe?
Or just drop me in the desert with a flag and some beef jerky?

[Verse 2]
My father fought the Nazis, yeah, he stood against the hate,
While yours was busy scheming real estate.
I vote, I work, I pay my dues—I’ve always played it fair,
But now I’m on a maybe list for not breathing Trump-flavored air.

[Chorus]
So tell me, Donald, finger waving in the breeze,
Where would you deport me—got coordinates, please?
To Mars on a rocket with your latest NFT?
Or down the memory hole marked “democracy”?

[Bridge]
You can erase my passport, delete me from the rolls,
But you can’t unplug the people with fire in their souls.
You can shout and you can scare, but you’ll never make us kneel—
We’ve got too much truth, and you’ve got too much spiel.

[Final Chorus]
So tell me, Donald, where do I belong?
With Brooklyn in my veins and justice in my song?
You can exile the dreamers, but we’re still gonna be—
More American than you’ll ever be.