The Big Beautiful Obituary
A farewell to freedom...We ride at dawn in a hearse driven by a taxidermied Uncle Sam. 🆘🇺🇸✨💀🪦
SPONSORED BY FIREWORKS AND FEAR
Here lies The Big Beautiful Obituary—
Published in the final pages of a banned book, read aloud by a raccoon in a powdered wig.
Today, we gather in a Walmart parking lot draped in caution tape and American flag beach towels to mourn the passing of Freedom (née Liberty Bell, born July 4th, 1776, presumed dead sometime between a leaked memo and A VERY LOUD TWEET).
She is survived by:
A stack of unpaid hospital bills,
A Constitution rewritten in Comic Sans,
And approximately 342 million people who still think they’re free because they can choose between Coke and Pepsi.
She died doing what she loved:
Being misunderstood.
Shot in the back by bipartisan bullets,
while trying to crawl out of a FEMA camp porta-potty.
Cause of Death:
Officially ruled as “Sudden Patriotism.”
Symptoms include:
Foaming at the mouth during school board meetings,
Hallucinations of communism in elementary math homework,
And the rapid militarization of self-proclaimed prophets with podcast mics.
But autopsy reports suggest multiple contributing factors:
Decades of unchecked corporate gluttony,
A diet consisting mostly of boot leather and flag cake,
And a mass case of terminal nostalgia for a version of America that only ever existed in a Chevy truck commercial.
Last Known Words:
“Don’t worry, it’s just a temporary surveillance measure.”
“I’m sure the algorithm has our best interests at heart.”
“At least we still have the freedom to post about it.”
In Lieu of Flowers:
Please send your thoughts and prayers to The Algorithm.
Or better yet, bury them in the comments section, where nuance goes to die.
Or better still—
raise your glass, raise your voice,
and raise hell.
Because the stars are no longer spangled—
they are under surveillance.
Because the rocket’s red glare?
It was just a marketing campaign for the next oil war.
Because freedom didn’t die peacefully in her sleep—
she was dragged out in the daylight and executed for clout.
The Viewing:
Held every evening at 6PM sharp on the steps of a courthouse turned megachurch.
Dress code: Camo Formal
Open carry.
Open casket.
Open season.
Reception to Follow:
Finger foods provided by Lockheed Martin.
Entertainment by a hologram of Johnny Cash singing WAP.
Bouncy house for the kids—sponsored by Raytheon.
Don’t forget to sign the guestbook.
(It’s just a facial recognition scanner with patriotic stickers.)
Final Notes from the Author:
This obituary was typeset by a feral poet in an attic above a quiet (mostly poetic) revolution.
All typos are intentional.
All metaphors are Molotovs.
Freedom is dead.
Long live whatever comes next. 🪦
May She rest in propaganda,
—Rebecca M. Bell
:@rmbellwrites
Last Will and TestiMOANy
(A closing poem for freedom’s funeral)
They buried her deep in a courtroom of sand,
With a flag for a shroud and no helping hand.
The mourners were mannequins, posed and polite,
Reciting the pledge by algorithmic light.
Her heartbeat was auctioned, her voice was suppressed,
She died in a country that called it success.
And etched on her tombstone, in barely a breath:
“She posted too late to prevent her own death.”