By Johnny Bananas

Every so often a cultural phenomenon takes place.  Sometimes it is a clothing style, like parachute pants from the 80s, which offered no actual wind resistance when jumping from an airplane (some of us found out the hard way).  Then there was the sweet cry of “Where’s the beef?” that Burger King used to mock the smaller patties of its competitors.  Today it would be understood, thanks to chef Jamie Oliver’s recent court victory regarding McDonald’s using fake and toxic meat substitutes, as a call for actual meat to be found between your buns. We’re still looking. 

Something, or someone, else who has emerged as a cultural icon is the mysterious Brandon.  Brandon has been loudly beckoned across the country for some time now.  From football stadiums to Fenway Park to food courts on Staten Island, Brandon has rallied the people of America to urge him to get going!  I’ve even seen the back of vehicles illustrated in holiday theme art trying to get Brandon to, essentially, go. 

In a fit of flabbergasty, I yelled out blasphemously, ‘Let’s Go Brandon!’

Now with all of this hub-bub one would think finding Brandon would be relatively easy. So I set out to do just that in hopes of encouraging him to get going and tell us all why he hadn’t yet. 

My first area of investigation was to do a quick online search.  Normally when I search for something newsworthy I can rely on my uncle Google to take me immediately to the official story as told by “trusted sources”, such as CNN or MSNBC or the Washington CommPost (the Green New Deal edition).  Oddly, none of them had heard of Brandon. 

I was going to have to search for him old school.  So I went to gas up my car and was horrified to see the price – $3.29 a gallon!  Spontaneously I found myself at a loss for words one might search for at such a moment and, in a fit of flabbergasty, I suddenly yelled out blasphemously “Let’s Go Brandon!” My pump-mates looked at me and shook their heads knowingly.  One of them said “You ain’t kidding.” 

No I was not.  This trip to find Brandon was going to be expensive. 

Still relatively clueless, the nearest football stadium saw Ivy League solar-power houses Columbia playing Dartmouth. As I drove in search of a parking spot I looked for hints that might lead me to Brandon.  Plastered to the backs of cars I saw Biden, Bernie, Buttigeig, but no Brandons?  The fourth quarter came and the home team was down 19-0.  I scrolled the rosters for both teams, surely Brandon played for one of them. There was Carson, Dillen, Tyler, Braden, but no Brandon.  Wait, R.J. Brandon played wide receiver for the Big Green.  He, like his team, hadn’t scored ANY points.  “This must be him!” I thought. 

“Let’s Go Brandon!” I started to chant looking to see who agreed.  I was met with cold and confused stares.  The people clearly didn’t want Brandon to go. 

“We don’t do that here” I was told by a scolding voice.  Apparently they’d rather lose.  How sad.

Hopping back into my car I made a quick dash to the grocery store for some toilet paper.  On long trips like this one I have found it difficult since early 2020 to find public restrooms open in gas stations, and have had to take matters into my own hands.  Not like that though.  Don’t be disgusting. 

To my shock I stood staring at empty shelves.  Not a paper product in site.  “For the love of Brandon!” I found myself mutter.   Then I remembered there are barely used masks scattered all over the place, so I filled my trunk.  Who’s a genius?  Not Brandon. 

Listening to the radio as I headed west I learned why there weren’t any paper products in my store. It seems there is a massive supply chain hold up off the coast of California.  Dozens of cargo ships are floating in the mostly peaceful waters of the Pacific ocean, when it hit me – they’re waiting on Brandon! So I raced there as fast as I could at the maximum fuel efficient speed of 55 miles per hour.  One week, $1812 in gas and several mandatory mask wipes later I arrived only to find seventeen more cargo ships stuck in the queue.  Standing on the golden beaches of California I hollered out to the stagnant ship drivers “Let’s Go Brandon!” 

Moments later I was handed a citation by two pink helmeted non-binary COVID-cops on Segways for not wearing a mask…alone…outside.  When I showed them how many I had in the trunk of my car for recycling purposes they thanked me and asked if they could keep some to give to the homeless to use as toilet paper.  I agreed that’s about all they were good for and let them have as many as they could fit into their fanny packs.  So as not to be rude I saluted them a farewell “Let’s go Brandon!”  as they segwayed down the board walk. I couldn’t tell if their androgenous faces were smiling or grimacing. 

Next stop, the Texas-Mexico border!  Word on the street is it’s flooded with immigrants trying to cross illegally.  I had seen pictures of thousands looking to cross waiting under a bridge.  Why would that many people just sit there when illegal freedom was only moments away?  Brandon.

The closer I got the sooner I realized the nice people of Korea had not designed my vehicle for this terrain, and with the wait on car parts extending into next year, I needed an alternative. Luckily there were some incredibly fit and well behaved horses that had been abandoned, so I hopped on one and made my way.  As I waded on my trusty steed into the rough waters of the Rio Grande (which is Texican for River Big) I called out to the crowd of patiently waiting future Democrats “Let’s Go Brandon!”, hoping he might see my plea to enter into the halls of freedom as reason enough to come out of hiding. 

“Brandon no esta aqui.  Esta en la Casa Blanca.”  I was told. 

Folks, I’m almost out of money at this point, and do you know how many white houses there are in these United States?  Hundreds if not dozens. I don’t have time for this crap.  I can only do so much, and the people seem more and more pissed the more I look.  

Let’s go Brandon. 

Johnny Bananas is the fake news name of a fake news reporter living in Vermont.